DIALOGUE 1.0

Since I've cornered the market in the bubble-bursting department, I might as well sharpen my ice-pick and address the very important/not at all important issue of writing dialogue.

In my previous rants, I've committed the heresy of putting forward the humble proposition that you must have talent to write a good screenplay (operative words there, "talent" and "good.") 

An example of this is the writing of dialogue.

Having an ear for dialogue is analagous to having natural rhythm. Either you can dance, or you can't dance.  You can't "learn" how to write good dialogue any more than you can "learn" to tap your toe in beat with a song. It's either comes naturally, or it doesn't come at all.

Sure, even if you're a spaz on the dance floor, it's possible to sit down, one eye on a metronome, and, after hours of patient practice, learn to tap your foot along with one song. But you're screwed the moment the next tune comes up.

It's like the drunk who steps up to the bar. "Iwannashnwad," he says. The bartender refuses, "Listen up, pal, if you're too blotto to order the cocktail, you're too blotto to drink it.

The drunk staggers outside, stands in an alley for an hour and practices. "I wannashodgenwad. I wanna shcodgenwad. I wanna scotchenwadder..."  

He goes back into the bar, orders his drink. A regular Laurence Olivier: "I want a scotch and water."

The bartender gives him a look, says, "You want that straight-up or on the rocks?"

The drunk thinks about it. 

"Iwannashnwad," he says.  

I guess that what I'm getting at is you can "learn" to craft one good line. Unfortunately a piece of dramatic writing usually has a shitload of good lines, all coming from different characters, with different backgrounds and different ways of speaking.  

If you can't "hear" what they're saying naturally—automatically—and you have to intellectually ponder each and every line, you're not just at a disadvantage.  

You're totally screwed.

If you do have an ear for dialogue, congratulations. But that's just an admission ticket to hone your talent. Knowing how "real people talk" is handy, but it doesn't have a whole lot to do with written dialogue. Just listen to those two “real people” in the next booth at Denny's. 

NO! Not them, numbnuts! The other booth. Listen...

                REAL PERSON #1
    So I go down to the Sears an'...
             (takes a big bite of
             French toast)... 

    mish guy, ya know—

                REAL PERSON #2

    Which guy?

                REAL PERSON #1

    The guy, you know. That one with the 

    eye.

                REAL PERSON #2

    Oh yeah. I know that guy. Ricky somethin, 

    right? He's a dick.

                REAL PERSON #1

    Fuggin-A. So I'm standing there, waiting, 

    and, like, there's this music, you know, 

    like playing. You know that song...
             (sings)

    Dee-deet-du-dee-dee-dee—

                REAL PERSON #2

    They always play that in there! I was 

    there, shit, I dunno, I was there and 

    they were playin that then, too. I swear 

    to God. It's like, what do they got? One 

    tape? Jeez...

Had enough?

Sure, it sounds "real." That's the way real people talk. The only problem is that real people don't say anything!

Then there's the other end of the spectrum: Characters who say exactly what they are thinking or feeling at any given time. Just turn on the television. It's like a pox.

                JOHN

    You're empty inside, Debra. You're 

    incapable of love.

                DEBRA

    That's not true, John.  I do love you. 

    I do! But you're too blind to see it. 

    It's not easy to open up to a man after 

    you've been repeatedly sodomized by a 

    satanic cult of outlaw bikers!

             (sobs)

    But I'm trying, John.  You must know that!

                JOHN

    I do, Debra. I do! But a man has needs.

         Can't you see this is tearing me apart?!

OH MY GOD!!! Stop! My head's about to implode!

People are simply a.) not that self-aware and b.) even if they were, they don't just blurt out their deepest feelings, darkest secrets and greatest fears. Except, of course, in hack screenplays. 

(Oh, and by the way?  The only place where John calls Debra “Debra” and Debra calls John “John” in every other line is on bad television.  In real life, we rarely use a friend’s name while speaking to him in a conversation.)

A close corollary to this brand of bullshit is "THE BUTTON."

The Button is a BIG LINE that one character says at the close of a scene that is so powerful— so absolutely right—that it leaves the other character(s) speechless.

                DEBRA

    Tearing you apart. You, John. That's

    what this relationship is all about,

    isn't it? That's what it's always been 

    about! YOU!!!

John stares at her, the bitter truth of her words sinking in. She coolly regards him, then turns and exits.

When was the last time an argument ever ended that way for you?

As for me, I've dropped some absolute atom-bombs on my wife in the course of arguments, yet none of them have ever rendered her speechless. Why? Because she has her own thermonuclear arsenal. Everyone does. The truth is, in real life, John would look at Debra and say:

                JOHN

    Really? You really think so? Well, 

    you wanna know what I think? I think 

    you liked being sodomized by those 

    outlaw bikers!

It's called Mutual Assured Destruction.

If you really want to see how people behave in a toxic relationship, check out WHO'S AFRAID OF VIRGINIA WOOLF? Burton and Taylor are like a binary star system, each locked in orbit, feeding on each other in this beautiful, ghastly, absolutely brilliant death-dance. You can't take your eyes off it.

Of course, we can't all be Edward Albee. But we don't have to be hacks, either. And believe me, using "THE BUTTON" is a hallmark of hack-writing.  In real life, human beings simply do not relate to each other this way. 

Ever.

And they shouldn't in your scripts, either. So next time you write a nice, pat little scene that deftly steps down to a pithy little button, do yourself a favor and write the next line. Because, as in the JOHN and DEBRA example above, that's where things will begin to come alive and get interesting.

Characters are a bit like dogs. You can snap the leash and make them heel or cut them loose and watch them run down rabbits. The former may be nice and safe and satisfying to the person walking the dog, but the latter is far more entertaining for the rest of us.

HOW TO BE A SCREENWRITER IN THREE EASY STEPS

Anybody can learn to write a script, and there are a number of books and sites and seminars that will teach you how. What the the books and the sites and the seminars don't tell you is that you'll probably never be much good at it, no matter how slavishly you follow their rules.

You'll notice I said "anybody can learn to write a script."  This is analogous to saying "anybody can sing." Unfortunately, simply because one has the ability to execute a task, it doesn't necessarily follow that one will excel at said task. 

Sure, if you really practice, work long and hard at any given undertaking, you may become fairly competent.  That said, blowing them away at Applebees on Karaoki Night doesn't make you some kind of Sinatra.

Any artistic endeavor requires craft and talent. The more you have of one, the less you need of the other.  It's sort of like state college entrance requirements.  If your SATs are great, your GPA can kinda suck (and vice versa) and you can still get in. 

However, if you want to go to Harvard or Yale, more people are competing for fewer spots, which means both your GPA and your SATs have to be pretty damn good.  Real damn good.  Plus, having a relative who's a big wheel in the Alumni Society doesn't hurt either.

(Hey, this is turning out to be a better analogy for the movie business than I thought!)

So if you want to make it as a screenwriter, the sad fact is: 

• You must have talent.

There, I said it.  The ugly truth.  And it gets uglier: 

• Talent, no matter what anybody tells you, cannot be learned.

When I say "learned," I mean it in the normal sense, as in out of a book or in a classroom.  I can't teach you how to be a great writer.  

Nobody can.

But I can tell you how to be a good screenwriter—or at least better than you are now—in three easy steps.

Step One:

Stop writing screenplays.

Step Two:

·        Start reading poetry;

·        Read more poetry;

·        Write poetry;

·        Lots of poetry;

·        Stop talking;

·        Listen;

·        Read;

·        Masturbate like a doomed lab-monkey;

·        Write more poetry;

·        Shoplift food;

·        Work at a series of meaningless jobs;

·        Get betrayed by someone you cherish;

·        Be afraid;

·        Watch THE SEVEN SAMURAI without reading the subtitles;

·        Pray for forgiveness.  Mean it;

·        Read your poetry out loud to an unappreciative audience;

·        Get stoned;

·        Contemplate suicide;

·        Help someone for no reason;

·        Hitch-hike;

·        Get angry;

·        Read Bukowski, Fante, Vonnegut and Ellison;

·        Drink coffee all night;

·        Be true;

·        Fall in love (at least twice);

·        Observe;

·        Get fired for hitting your supervisor;

·        Doubt yourself;

·        Flip back and forth from A&E Biography and The History Channel until you're sure Tammy Wynette built the pyramids;

·        Drop acid;

·        Throw an ashtray through the television set;

·        Have kids;

·        Quit a job without giving notice.   At lunchtime;

·        Fail;

·        Listen to music.  Very loud;

·        Toss and turn;

·        Understand nobility and treachery, practice both, favor the former;

·        Make passionate love to someone you don't even like;

·        Tilt windmills;

·        Get evicted;

·        Suffer pointlessly;

·        Pay attention;

·        Be foolish;

·        Go to jail (at least once);

·        Survive all the above, but imperfectly.

Incidentally, the entire laundry-list of tasks I've listed above can be boiled down to one word: LIVE! Live as greedily and aggressively as you can. Make every heartbeat count for something. Surrender yourself to as wide a range of human experience and emotions as you can without ending up in jail or a rubber-room.  

Why?  

Because no matter what they tell you in film-school, nobody wants to see a movie about a movie written by somebody who's only seen movies.

Once you have lived a decade or so past your teens, you may move on to...

Step Three: 

·        Write a screenplay;

·        Write another screenplay;

·        Rewrite the first one;

·        Write a third screenplay;

·        Rewrite the second one;

·        Burn the first one;

·        Repeat the above instructions indefinitely.

Because here's the deal: Writers write. They don't talk about writing. They don't strike poses in front of open laptops at Starbucks. They don't whine about being blocked. They don't piddle around in workshops. They don't argue about the comparative virtues of Final Draft 5 versus Final Draft 8.

Writers. Fucking. Write.

So go for it. If you're lucky and you have talent, you just might make it. But even if you don't, know this: Trying is its own reward. The very fact that you are willing to chase a dream makes you better than 99.9% of the humans on planet Earth.  

Even if you're not very good at it.

"It's alive! It's ALIVE!!!"

On April 11, at 5:00PM Pacific Time, all the passwords come down and the first box-narrative ever produced, Bxx: HAUNTED, will be available to The World.  Check us out at http://bxxweb.com

First, from everyone at Bxx, a huge thank all our pre-Launch registrants for their patience with the current site.  Your feedback and suggestions have been invaluable, and you guys have really helped us track down the bugs in the machine.

Despite the technical issues, the Twitter feedback and emails we’ve received indicate that you’re having a good time burrowing into our nasty little pile’o’narrative.  According to our stats, about 18% of you guys have spent an hour or more exploring Bxx: Haunted.

Second, we’ve decided that Bxx: HAUNTED will remain 100% free to anyone who wants to explore it. 

Third, we’ve added some very cool upgrades to our interface controls which will soon be available (April 11) by toggling your dashboard into ADVANCED MODE:

• Set Viewer Default Size - Oh my gosh, these viewers are opening too big/small for my teeny-tiny/monster-ass monitor and I keep having to manually adjust them after they open! Gaaah!  Gaaaahhh!  Every nerve-cell in my carpal tunnel has torn open a mouth and is shrieking in agony!  Wait… what’s this button marked “SIZE?”  Oh, hey, look… now all my monitors are opening as big or as small as I want!  Cool!
• Default AutoPlay - Oh my gosh, every time I select a clip, I’ve got to click “Play” to get it started!  Gaaah!  Gaaaahhh!  The sheer stress and redundancy of the excess clicking is eating a hole in my stomach-lining!  Wait… what’s this button marked “AUTOPLAY?”  Oh, hey, look… now all my viewers automatically start playing as soon as I open them!  Cool!
• Improved Timeline Interface - Oh my gosh, this timeline won’t behave!  Why can’t I just enter a day, an hour and a segment number?  Gaaah!  Gaaaahhh!  Massive carbuncles are erupting all over my body!  Oh, hey, look… they fixed that!  And even though the slider doesn’t work (yet) on my tablet’s touch-screen interface, I can control it by entering the info in the fields above it!  Cool!
• Twitter Feed – Man, I just found an awesome clip that totally explains who stole the coroner’s report, but I have to leave Bxx to lay claim to the find and lord it over all my tweeps!  Gaaah!  Gaaaahhh!  I’m having a gran-mal seizure!  Oh, hey, look… a Twitter feed right there on my Haunted dash running a stream of Tweets hashtagged #bxx.  Cool!
• Stack – Oh my gosh, I’ve got all these damn monitors open and they’re all over the screen.  I can’t see the video or get to the controls!  Gaaah!  Gaaaahhh!  Steaming cerebral fluid is leaking from my ears!  Wait… what’s this button marked “STACK?”  Oh, hey, look… it just stacked all my viewers nice and neat down the right side of my monitor screen!  Cool!
• Overlap - Oh my gosh, now I’ve got all these damn monitors stacked up and I’ve got to scroll down into the Ninth Ring of Hell to see the one on the bottom!  Gaaah!  Gaaaahhh!  My eyeballs are bleeding!  Wait… what’s this button marked “OVERLAP?”  Oh, hey, look… it just overlapped them lust like mama does with my French toast and all I have to do is click on their headers to bring the picture up to the top!  Cool! 

And, by very, very popular demand…

• SyncStart - once you’ve opened multiple viewers and lined them up all pretty-like using the Stack or Overlap buttons, you will be able to simultaneously start them all with one lovely little button.  Ta-da!

Keep in mind, SyncStart only synchronizes the initiation of multiple clips.  Maintaining synchronous video play is dependent on a variety of factors beyond our control, primarily your internet connection, your system configuration and the vagaries of your ISP’s performance at any given time.

Now onto the coolest news of all..

Since the pre-launch, we’ve been slaving over final touches on the transmedia component of the Bxx experience—hours of hand-held video and dozens of digital stills captured by our cast during the investigation, audio files featuring EVPs, diaries, journals, newspaper clippings, police reports, autopsy findings, videotaped interrogations...

You get the idea.

If you’ve checked out the BACKGROUND section, you’ve even had a taste of the material and how it deepens the overall Bxx experience.  For instance, the incident logs have helped some of you find some pretty dramatic incidents.

Once the passwords come down and we go public, this enhanced content will be locked to Guests. Their access will be strictly limited to the clips on the Dashboard and a few files in the BACKGROUND section.  Nor will they be able to activate any of the Advanced Mode controls outlined above.

Once registered, however the freshly-minted Bxxr will receive instant access to the MY EVIDENCE file and the Advanced Mode controls.  However, much of the enhanced content will remain locked, and may only be accessed by opening specific clips. 

For instance, if registered Bxxrs view a clip that features, say, a character discussing a document, they will receive on-screen notifications that they have “unlocked” the video and it’s been copied to their MY EVIDENCE file.

(Incidentally, Did I mention Bxx registration will be free?  I did?  Sorry…)

If you decide to join us, you may find the concept of experiencing the first non-linear narrative a little odd.  Daunting, even.  Like a toddler who's no longer being spoon-fed, the best way to deal with it is to play with your food.  Get messy with it.  Gobble it up.  Choke on it and spit it out.  Rub it in your hair.  Throw it at your brother, Frankie.  Spill it on the cat.  In almost no time, you'll get the hang of it.  

Just remember, there is NO WRONG WAY to experience a box-narrative.  Just pick a moment, find a scene and take it from there.  Backward, forward or sideways—it's all good.  All that said, the box-narrative isn't once-size-fits-all.  Some people just don't connect with it.  And that's good, too.  

But beware, those that do connect with it do so in a big way, so don't open the Bxx unless you're prepared for a whole new kind of addiction.  And all this giddy fun, by the way, is completely free.  You don't even have to deal with banners, pop-ups, roll-ins, roll-outs or any other damn -in thing advertising booshwah. 

We only ask one favor in return:

Tell your friends.

Twitter it, Facebook it, embed it, shout it from the highest roof-tops.

Bxx: HAUNTED is, in many ways, a crude prototype. 

We have plans.  Big plans.  Lots more stories; bigger, better and more complex; captured by more cameras in HD.  Plus, we’ve learned gobs about the technical hurdles incumbent in capturing a drama in the box-narrative format, and look forward to tackling each and every one the next time around. 

But the only way we’ll be able to raise the budget necessary to put wheels on Bxx is to demonstrate to the bankers that we can deliver eyeballs.  And as you know, Bxx is not a big Hollywood studio. 

Bxx isn’t even a small Hollywood studio. 

We’re just a dozen or so scrappy artists working in a garage in Pasadena.

So please help us out.  Be our P.R. department.  Send us eyeballs!  Lots and lots and lots of pretty, juicy eyeballs.

Yum!

6% of the Package

The last three or four days have been a blur. Suffice it to say, my little howl kicked up a lot of internet activity, much due to the "man bites dog" nature of the whole thing, but an even greater measure attributable to the profound sorrow Andrew's passing has engendered on the political blogosphere, left and right.

Though he was beloved and respected by conservatives, I think the true measure of his integrity and generous, irrepressibly charming and feckless spirit is evidenced by the vast number of "I-didn't-agree-with-him-but" posts I've read on all but the most vile Left Wing sites.

The overwhelming majority of the responses I've received have been positive--a huge, collective embrace that I never expected, the memory of which, I'll always cherish. You folks really helped me through a dark moment.

Meanwhile, there has been an all-but-complete absence of haters.

While this has been encouraging, it's also been a source of anxiety analogous to those tense moments when the drumming suddenly stops, and the jungle goes very...

very...

quiet.

Everyone knows what happens then: The twitchy guy in the unit--usually a dude with a nickname like "Shakes" or "Motormouth," loses his nerve, suddenly bolts up from his foxhole and, white-knuckling his rifle, the cords standing out on his neck, shrieks, "I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE, GODDAMNIT! COME ON OUT, YA YELLA BASTIDS! SHOW YASELVES AND FIGHT!"

That scene usually concludes with the crack of a sniper-rifle.

Final score: Shakes - 0; Darwin - 1.

The winner? The audience. Because Shakes was a pain in the ass, a complainer, a braggart, and he was always writing checks the rest of the boys in the unit had to cash.

Fuckin Shakes... poor, dumb, date-stamped Shakes.

Anyhow, I had my Shakes-moment the other night. Fear writhing in my belly, unable to take the silence any longer, I went on Twitter and started kicking the wasp-nest.

Luckily, before I made too gigantic an ass of myself, a grizzled Sergeant tweeped the equivalent of "Get back in the hole, Shakes. That's no way for a soldier to conduct himself!" (I can't reproduce his tweet here; alas, I didn't screen-cap it in time but, whoever you are, thanks.)

And so I just chilled and did the usual stuff I do on Twitter, which is reaching out and having silly conversations 140 characters at a time with people I've never met, usually about pop-culture, film, and random stuff.

We were in the middle of a running stream over our favorite John Hughes movies, when the first hater popped in, calling me a "fucktard" and a "nationalist." I got my jollies RTing him Breitbart-style, though I should add that, as both, a patriot and a card-carrying fucktard, I could hardly quibble with his assessment of me.

Plus, I remembered how unutterably boring politics are, and how futile it is to argue issues. Plus, I'm not terribly good at it.

We moved on to the music in Hughes films and a number of other subjects when another tweet popped up, its tone a good deal less judgmental than the first:

Now this, as Monty Python might say, was something completely different. What do I do with that? RT it? I tweeped back:

But something still nagged at my gut. This guy was slapping a political label on me for doing something that had nothing to do with politics. Oppression and bullying are just plan wrong, no matter what side of the ideological fence they come from. 

So I added in a DM:

Which led to the following exchange:

This was followed by the folowing public tweep:

So there. 

There it is.

"6% of the package, and we agree on most of that stuff, too."

That takes the differences between your average Liberal and your average Conservative down to the range of the difference between human and chimp DNA. 

And when I say "average," I mean, like, 90% of us.

As for the other 10%, they're just assholes.

Yes, politics are important. Yes, there are some folks whose beliefs and opinions are downright stupid and toxic. Yes, if you believe in liberty, you must fight for it. 

I'm not advocating a let's-just-get-along-and-keep-it-civil-at-all-costs (which, apparently, to many Liberals, is synonymous for "shut the fuck up"), and I certainly don't think it's a good idea to seek "compromise" as if it's some kind of Holy Grail; there is no acceptable "compromise" for instance, between liberty and oppression, only a slippery, increasingly steep slope from the former to the latter, and a torturous, incomprehensibly arduous and mortally dangerous climb from the latter to the former.

All I'm saying is that it doesn't hurt, every once in a while, to give a passing nod to the humanity of one's ideological opponents; to at least attempt to talk with rather than at one another--something, by the way, no one did with more style, honesty and aplomb than Andrew Breitbart.

On roller-blades, no less.

One last quick note:

A number of individuals have asked me if I'm going to "encourage" other Hollywood conservatives to step out into the light. 

I am in a unique position. I came to the party very late in life, and the decades I spent toiling in "real" business rather than "show" business (or, more accurately, show "business," as most of the entertainment executives I've met wouldn't survive five minutes working in the corporate world) enabled me to develop a very broad entrepreneurial skill-set.

I also have worked hard over the last year building my company, Bxx.

So, unlike my peers, I not only have alternative means by which I can make a living, but a place to land after the dust settles from this brouhaha and the Hollywood jobs dry up (and they will, of that I am fully confident--the mean kids are just biding their time at the moment. Then I'll be labelled "difficult" and pfft).

So, to all my brothers and sisters in the business, hang tight. It'll only get safer as more of us break cover.

And when your time comes, and you can follow me without depriving your children, I will not welcome you into the sunlight asking "What took you so long?" but "So soon? Are you sure?"

God bless all of you.

Chasing Andrew

In 2000, something astonishing happened to me.

I was running an insurance brokerage by day, setting up and servicing health, dental and disability plans for a book of clients in the private and public sectors, from around 5 to 5,000 employees. Off hours, I was writing screenplays.

For a hobby, I was doing okay. I'd sold a couple scripts, even seeing one, Blind Justice, go into production in 1992. As my very droll brother, Paul, once put it, "Not bad. Nobody's paid me a dime for playing a round of golf." (Now, to get an idea of just how droll Paul is, you need to imagine Robert Wagner in his prime, only an octave lower in his delivery)

I'd promised myself when I started writing that if I didn't achieve a very specific level of success with writing screenplays by the time I was 40, I'd hang it up and try something else. Novels, maybe. After all, everyone knows that show-business is is a young man's game, and nobody (except for Charles Durning, maybe) breaks in after 40.

In any case, things had dried up on the writing front, and I was coming up on four decades, so my promise to call it quits and hang up my spurs was fast-changing from an oh-yeah-whenever kind of thing into an uh-oh-looks-like-I'm-really-gonna-have-to-admit-I-failed thing.

Now here's the thing you need to know about us Knaufs. We are sore losers. We are tennis-racket-smashed-on-the-clay losers. We are take-all-my-fucking-chips-I'm-outta-here losers. We are fuck-you-and-your-stupid-hotel-on-Boardwalk-I'm-flipping-this-fucking-board losers.

Or, as my brother Paul puts it, "Show me a good loser, and I'll show you a loser."

In any case, I decided to give myself a reprieve. Though I had spent literally thousands of hours honing my craft over the prior ten years, I'd spent maybe ten minutes marketing it. Rather than throwing in the towel, I decided to give it one more big shot. I decided to create a website on which to post all the first acts of all my unsold babies--sort of an online clearing house for writing samples.

When prompted to name it, I decided to go with "unmovies.com." That was, after all, what all my work was--well, at least most of it.

So up went the scripts and, cutting quickly to the chase, about a year later, I was meeting with a young producer, Robert Keghobad,  to discuss developing Carnivale as the next TV project for his boss, director (and all-around terrific guy) Scott Winant.

I was now officially in The Belly of the Beast.

I should state right here that when I first started off on my Grand Hollywood Adventure, I was a socially left leaning, moderate fiscal conservative, proudly independent, ignoring party affiliations and casting my ballot for whoever I thought was best for--or, in any case, would do the least damage to--my beloved country.

Had I been born a generation earlier, I would have described myself as a Kennedy Democrat. As it was, I suppose the Libertarian tag might fit, but I've always borne a healthy suspicion of anything that smacks of an "ideology."

All that said, I was pretty much apolitical. The closest I came to studying issues was to pick up one of P.J. O'Rourke's books for a giggle or two. But then, I also got a kick out of Michael Moore's first film, Roger and Me. Politically, I was the proverbial wise-ass kid with a permanent seat in the rear of the classroom where I could safely heckle the nuns without collecting too many stripes across the back of my knuckles.

Then, on September 11th, 2001, everything changed.

I remember watching the collapse of the first tower and feeling--literally feeling the breath just leave my lungs, my chest filling with a terrible, ghastly void; a sense of distant screams in a windswept wasteland and loss loss loss oh my God all those people all those people they murdered all those thousands of people...

Though it was but seconds, it seemed minutes, many long minutes before I could draw a breath. I quietly excused myself and hurried to the bedroom to spare my young children the memory of seeing Daddy collapse helplessly into a series of horrified, aching, gut-wrenching sobs.

As soon as I'd composed myself, I rejoined my family.  I really have no memory of the ensuing hours, only that my wife and I decided I should go to work, that we'd try to keep the kids calm by maintaining our normal schedules. Only God knew what the future held...

I was working my first network series gig as a staff writer on a show called Wolf Lake while Carnivale was in development at HBO.

Like every American that morning, I was greeted by coworkers in various states of shock, portable TVs turned to the news in all the offices. Over the days following the attack, like every American, I was approached by a number of colleagues who wished to vent and commiserate.

But unlike every American,  my coworkers expressed little or no anger toward the terrorists who had committed this atrocity. Rather, they directed their vitriol towards American Imperialism, American foreign policy, American arrogance, American warmongering, American racism and, most of all, our American President, the evil, unfathomably stupid, idiot-Christian, bumbling Texan oaf, George W. Bush.

And what did I say?

Nothing.

Not a damn thing.

I was just shocked silent. I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

Were these people crazy?

At one point, one of my fellow writers must've noticed that I wasn't expressing my state-mandated, required ration of Bush-hatred, and confronted me like some rabid Dominican at the height of the Spanish Inquisition,

"So what do you think?" she hissed, eyes narrowed, scrutinizing me, as if vetting me for any possible variance from the accepted party ideology, "What would you do if you were the President?"

"If I was President, I would make a speech before a joint session of Congress, demanding that Bin Laden be delivered within 48 hours to the steps of the White House--alive, dead or just his fucking head in a burlap bag, I don't care. If not, then I suggest that all you assholes in Kabul lather up with some SPF 5,000, strap on some welding goggles and take a gander to the East, because we're gonna fire a little 400 kiloton shot over the bow, so to speak. And that's where the sun's gonna rise--out there just East of your capitol, in a relatively uninhabited patch of shit you call a country. Let's call that a preview of coming attractions, shall we? Because if another 24 hours passes after the deployment of our first missile, and I'm not trading bon-mots with your boy's head here in the Oval Office, we will fire another, and this time it will be targeted to explode, oh, about 200 meters above the center of the rat-hole you call a capitol. Which is why I'm really, really glad that I'm not the President, because I'm pissed-off crazy as Hell."

Actually, I didn't say that.

Well... not all of it.

What I actually said, after a bit of hemming and hawing and averting of the eyes, was, "I'm just really, really glad that I'm not the President, because I don't know what I'd do."

(NOTE: Deliver the above in a Goofy uh-huh-yuk-yuk dopey-aww-shucks drawl to appreciate the full "Who, Me? No Ma'am!" gutlessness inherent in the speaker.)

She glared at me for a moment, as if attempting to x-ray my soul to determine whether I was a fellow-traveler, or something... else. Finally, she walked out to go write a check to PETA or shit herself over Global Warming or something. I was, for the moment anyway, safe.

Over the ensuing years, I continued to remain silent whenever confronted by the toxic, batshit-crazy, knee-jerk, anti-intellectual, when-in-doubt-blame-America Leftism that pervades Hollywood. I saw what happened to others if they spoke up or disagreed with the party line. I actually witnessed one writer, who foolishly expressed his support for the war in Iraq, set-upon and viciously berated by no less than six crew-members for almost 20 minutes straight.

That night, he found his car had been keyed in our secure lot.

Hmm... must've been a random vandal.

Incidentally, though he had a storied career, an amazing list of credits and is one of the most versatile, talented writer-producers I know, the jobs gradually dried up for him and now he can't, as they say, get arrested in this town.

Toadies in the MSM assert that there is no Blacklist in Hollywood.

And they're right.

It's not necessary because Hollywood is a very, very small, very, very ruthless town, where a few key words spoken in the right ears can absolutely wreck a career--code-words like "difficult," "high-maintenance" and "uneven."  When you can obliterate a fellow professional with a few well-chosen phrases, why maintain something as crude and inelegant as a Blacklist?

How dare anyone even suggest that there's a Blacklist against conservative artists and performers?

Blacklists are for mouth-breathers.

Blacklists are for knuckle-draggers.

Blacklists are so... so... Republican.

And so I kept my mouth shut. And a funny thing happened: The longer I was forced to withhold my opinions and beliefs, the brighter they burned in me. Funny. Oppression has a way of doing that to the oppressed.

Ask any Soviet defector...

For years, I bit my tongue, nodding and making non-committal sounds while listening to the most virulently noxious Leftist spew imaginable: Explicit rape-murder fantasies directed toward Palin, Coulter, Malkin and Ingraham; blithely expressed wishes of cancer, assassination and mutilation of Bush, Cheney and Limbaugh; the snide denigration of "civilians" (i.e. anyone not in the entertainment business) in the "flyover states" (i.e. everywhere except New York and east of the Golden State Freeway--Pasadena, for instance is a "flyover state"); and, of course, the endless venomous, profanity-laced screeds against the Tea Party.

Even more shocking was the rampant hypocrisy, the endemic corruption, the casual thievery--from producers ordering custom built doors and windows for their homes from the construction department, to having their Beemers and Benzos topped daily with gas by transpo. All on the studio dime.

Meanwhile, any actress, female writer or exec can tell you that the Casting Couch is alive and well in contemporary Hollywood. And it's absolutely fascinating just how many male producers and execs time their set-visits to coincide with nude-scenes...

And forget about "diversity."

Visit a set, and you can't help but notice that the overwhelming majority of the crew is male and white. It's even worse above the line. Any bank, chain restaurant or box-store that exercised such brazenly monochromatic patterns of hire would have been sued and fined into oblivion decades ago.

And, by the way, it helps to be under 40. Or look under 40. Or at least affect the breathlessly chatty verbal affect of a 17 year old, Ritalin-amped high-school kid.

And through it all, I kept my head down. Every day, I grew more disgusted by my cowardice.  But the most intolerable aspect of living under a self-imposed gag order by far was the loneliness, alienation and isolation.

Then I met Andrew Breitbart.

Andrew introduced me to others--lots of others--in the industry who shared my belief in the exquisite beauty of the American Constitution, my love for this country and my firm conviction in its exceptionalism.

Not dozens of people, mind you. Not even hundreds.

There are thousands of us.

But there are tens of thousands of them.

So we keep a low profile, quietly taking heart when the Gary Sinises, the Patricia Heatons, the Lionel Chetwynds, the Adam Baldwins achieve a degree of success so solid, so bulletproof, that they can step out into the light and openly express their opinions without fear of crippling reprisal from the Trolls. Not that they don't pay a price--imagine how much more famous and wealthy each would be if they were strident Liberals.

And God help them if they stumble in their personal lives. Safety-nets and PR shields are strictly reserved for the Obama-Loving-Fur-Is-Murder-Christians-Are-Evil-Bush-Lied-Truther-OWS-Fuck-the-Teabaggers set (if you don't believe me, compare and contrast: Charlie Sheen and Mel Gibson).

I only met Andrew three or four times.

The last time we communicated, it was through Twitter. I publicly wished him a Happy Birthday. In subsequent DMs, I joked about him "dragging another Hollywood guy out of the closet." Misunderstanding me, his reply was one of concern for my professional welfare. I assured him that I was just kidding and signed off.

When he died, my first thought was, "Oh my God. What're we gonna do now?"

We are in the middle of a War of Ideas. At stake is nothing less than the principles of inalienable rights and freedom upon which the United States was founded.

And Andrew Breitbart is dead.

Since the Wilson Administration, the Socialist Left has sustained a slow, inexorable push toward a Big Government, by the Government, for the Government, by transforming a once-free people into a whining, needy nation of suckling dependents.

And Andrew Breitbart is dead.

Corrupt European and Canadian socialism is touted as a shining exemplar. Hustlers, gold-brickers, union thugs and corporate moochers have hijacked the system. Half of us pay no tax at all. The other half pays more onerous rates than those levied by Medieval Lords on their serfs.

And Andrew Breitbart is dead.

A seated President is openly demonizing our best and brightest, stoking the embers of class-envy, courting mob violence and racial animus, ruling by fiat, bypassing Congress, brazenly defying court orders, and publicly expressing admiration for the "efficiency" of totalitarianism.

And Andrew Breitbart is dead.

Such were my thoughts last night as I was having a quiet drink at the Huntington Langham Hotel.  I saw the hashtag thread #IAmAndrewBreitbart and drew some cheer from it. I mentally debated whether to add to the thread and thought, "Ahh, to hell with it. One tweet. Nobody'll even notice."

Besides, I had no choice. The tag was a play on the signature line from Spartacus, and I was a writer-producer on the first season of Sparatcus: Blood and Sand. It seemed preordained.

And thusly I tweeped:

"I wrote Spartacus, and #IAmAndrewBreitbart"

I got a response. Clever stuff. Typically mindless Leftist-style zombie-chant:

"HE LIED AND HE DIED HE LIED AND HE DIED HE LIED AND HE DIED HE LIED AND HE DIED HE LIED AND HE DIED HE LIED AND HE DIED HE LIED AND HE DIED HE LIED AND HE DIED HE LIED AND HE DIED HE LIED AND HE DIEDHE LIED AND HE DIED"

Stupid stuff. A bullshit schoolyard taunt designed to get a rise out of me. Wouldn't have phased me any other night.

But last night, something snapped.

12 years of silence. 12 years of cowardice. 12 years of humiliating self-censorship. 12 years of hiding what I think, who I am and what I believe in order to protect my livelihood.

And Andrew Breitbart is dead.

It all just started bleeding out of me, white hot, 140 characters at a time. All my rage. All my indignation. Like the jetting pulse from a slashed carotid, for the whole world to see.

Then came the emails. And the Follows. 1,000 in about an hour. My jaws clenched, tears blurred my vision as I typed (as they blur them now as I type): My hero is dead. Andrew Breitbart is dead.

Long live Andrew Breitbart.

#IAmAndrewBreitbart.

The 1 Thing

There's that one thing. You know the one; that thing that triggers a change. The wafer-thin-mint-moment in Monty Python's "The Meaning of Life" that detonates Mr. Creosote. 

Mine occurred this last pitch-season.

I've been working on this series-project, 1, for the last four years or so.  That's right.  1.  As in the numeral "1."  It's the story of Stella Carter, a very smart, resourceful, imaginative 17 year-old girl who has survived a pandemic that has wiped out 99.9999999999% of everybody. 

As far as Stella knows, she is the only person left on earth.  She survives the crushing loneliness by creating a complex community of imaginary friends. In the pilot, however, she realizes she's playing with fire, that this psychological life-preserver is a potential mill-stone that could very well plunge her into a state of utter delusion and, inevitably, death. 

You see, in Stella's world, where the difference between life and death can be as small as an infected toenail, the delusional don't do terribly well.

In "1," I put it all out there. It was my answer to all the grim, unimaginative crap on that passes for series television these days--the soulless CSIs, the everything-but-scary vampire/zombie/ghost shows, the instantly forgettable pablum designed not to succeed, but merely not to fail. 

1 was my love-note to anyone who has driven down a dark, dark tunnel and emerged on the other end; sometimes bloodied, sometimes beaten to a pulp, but alive.

In other words, 1 was my love-note to everyone.

I brought Scott Winant, a brilliant director/showrunner, onto the team. Scott Winant, the guy who discovered Claire Danes and ran MY SO-CALLED LIFE. Then we roped in Wyck Godfrey, the brilliant producer of the TWILIGHT movies. 

Sounds like a fairly attractive package, no? Let's check with the marketing department...

From the creative minds behind CARNIVÁLE, MY SO-CALLED LIFE and TWILIGHT:

And even better, heavy-hitters like Wyck and Scott would have the juice to watch my back and defend me when the notes came in.

Going out with 1 was scary. The material was fragile. It walked a very thin highwire between working and not working. One mistep in its execution would tip it into serious shit. If it was going to survive development, I would have to fight like a bastard.

And I even knew what the fights would be over. Does she have to be a 17 year-old girl? Does she have to be by herself? Wouldn't it be cooler with zombies? Blah blah blah.
So I girded for battle and Scott, Wyck and I went out and pitched.

And guess what?

1 was a non-starter.

Not one market we approached was willing to even go so far as set up a development deal, much less commission a story...

Or a script...

Or the production of a pilot. 

So my fears were unfounded: Not only wouldn't there be a baby for the useless fuckers to strangle in its crib, but the useless fuckers didn't even want to fuck. 

In other words, my little show had not only failed, but failed beyond my wildest dreams.

Too dark, they said. We don't get it, they said. Not right for our network, they said. Too much other stuff in the development pipe, they said.

So here it is, folks. Next time you waste an hour watching a piece of unengaging eyeball-wash on the tube and think, "Wow. That was shitty. I can't even imagine how shitty the stuff must be that doesn't make air."

This is what isn't on T.V.

It will never be on T.V.

And even if it somehow made it on T.V., you wouldn't recognize it by the time the fuckers got finished with it. That is, unless there's someone out there with 20 to 30 million burning a hole in his/her pocket/pocketbook who, just for giggles, wants to deficit-finance the first season. 

If so, feel free to write me.

And that, boys and girls, was the wafer-thin mint that made this Mr. Creosote explode. I just can't do this anymore. Not this way. These children do not play well with others, and they're playing a game I cannot win.

And so I will make my own game. 

It's called Bxxhttp://bxxweb.com.