UPDATE: 'on the front lines: three generations of soldiers' voices'

'On The Front Lines:  Three Generations of Soldiers' Voices will be held at the USVAA Theater on Saturday, July 11th at 2pm. --On The Front Linesfeatures the stories of a diverse group of California veterans from World War II through Iraq: gathered from interviews by Los Angeles actors/writers and told in a dramatic narrative to be shared with the veterans themselves and with us, the citizens they served. Their experiences touch on issues of civil rights, self-identity, and the long-lasting consequences of war in the hearts and minds of the soldiers who fought in them. This project was generated by a California Council for the Humanities “California Stories” grant and matching support from Loyola Marymount University.'

-Judith Royer, director

a night in hollyweird

you know, i've lived in LA most of my life, but i've yet to do the whole hollyweird thing. 

so we did, tina and me. mann's chinese; the walk of fame; the famous wax musem; and one of my personal must-eat's : miceli's italian restaurante.

in the process we found Jesus.

and Charles Bronson - two of my faves.

uniforms

took out my old uniform and the creases were still there. 

hadn't ironed them, or starched them, just took them right out of the closet to check for some old rank insignias.

and they were there.

the creases, not the chevrons.

so i folded them up and stacked them on my shelf, next to Joyce and Bukowski. 

then i started to write. 

began the regimen: 

blast the ipod; skim through unfinished work that looks conducive to the screenplay i'm working on, and smoke a padron.

but it wasn't happening. the words weren't coming and i wasn't writing.

went outside.

watering the tomatoes and such. - a new approach.

but i wandered back in, the sun beating down mercilously.

sought out the uniform.

as the orchestra was lightly tapping away, i came closer.  right up to the faded thread and gleaming buttons. 

yes, they had faded well. the greens now pastels and the browns and blacks very muted. 

aged.

several small tears from field operations - these were my greens, never seeing combat. 

Africa and Hawaii and Singapore, yes.

Iraq, no. never Iraq.

i put my uniform to my face.

inhale deep: crisp canvas and a hint of starch.

in the mirror i can see myself and something tells me to put them on. 

not a voice or command, just something. 

so i do.

they don't fit well. they hang on my gaunt body, two sizes too big.

as if a different man wore this uniform.

not me, chris.

and that's what's so funny.

because i find myself in the same situation as i did before.

a different man.

pre-enlistment civilian fuck.

devolved.

unemployed and broke.

ahh, with a fine accouterment: 50K in debt.

now this is what happens when you buy into the myth of college. get your degree, bust yer ass to graduate with honors, and guess what?

you get a nice piece of parchment to hang on your wall that says you have a bachelors degree. 

so what's next?

teach? 

finish up my masters?

finally to be greeted by the real world with 100,000 dollars worth of debt and usc 'connections?'

that's just not smart.

so i put the old uniform away, nice and neat and put on my new one.

my v-neck and sweats.

then i had a drink and deleted every single email from usc - suddenly the boot raised from my neck.

and now i'm writing. 

pandora productions 3rd annual new works festival

june 26, 27, 28
all new works @ pandora productions
-and an 'honorable mention' for yours truly.

pandora productions

it's glandular...

'outside the wire'

a little snippet from the feature i wrote @ usc last semester. i like it for the most part, although i doubt i'll re-write it. my practice script, if you will...


[scrippet]
EXT. BLUE SKY
A lollipop sun burns a hole through an expanse of blue.
We’re GLIDING HIGH above a grid-like patchwork of rooftops peppered with debris, DESCENDING SLOWLY.
SINKING LOWER, individual buildings come into focus.

ROOFTOP LEVEL, a CHILD points skyward as a PREDATOR DRONE silently cuts through the air.

PREDATOR POV: Ghostly images of a SPRAWLING CROWD on the move.
We FOLLOW them as they reach a LARGE INTERSECTION.

CUT TO:
A TATTOOED FOREARM. It holds a CHAIN secured about a BRONZE PYLON.

CUT TO:
A HAND. It traces the chain, as it’s owner marches past CANDY WRAPPERS; CIGARETTE BUTTS; BULLET CASINGS; a CAN OF PEPSI WITH ARABIC LETTERING.

With every step, dust EXPLODES around MUD-ENCRUSTED DESERT BOOTS. The hand SMACKS the rear of a TAN VEHICLE.

VOICE (O.S.)
Hit it Jonesy!

The vehicle ROARS to life, revealing - a grizzled US MARINE in DESERT CAMMI’S, tattooed forearms and mud-encrusted boots.
Tattooed Marine turns to see the sprawling crowd halted in place - staring at him.

A sound. METAL TEARING. EEE-EEE!

CUT TO:
EXT. CROWDED INTERSECTION - DAY
A SQUAD OF MOBILIZED INFANTRY MARINES atop a HUMVEE - stare at Tattooed Marine.
Except for one. He dry shaves with a STRAIGHT RAZOR in the Humvee’s rearview mirror. This is SGT MIKE “HUFF” HUFFMAN (25). A hard eyed, hard edged MARINE CORPS GRUNT. It’s difficult to tell if Huffman’s pissed off at you or just being himself.

FREEZE FRAME: Huffman and his glinting steel.
SUPER: SGT MIKE HUFFMAN. SQUAD LEADER.

A SHADOW falls over Huffman. Strain in his eyes as he looks over his shoulder.

HUFFMAN
(Sotto voce)
Cradle of civilization, my ass.

And we see it: the BRONZE STATUE OF SADDAM HUSSEIN being torn down in WALABI SQUARE - Tattooed Marine mans the chain attached to the metal despot.
It falters for a moment, then tomahawks towards the pavement.
THUD! Saddam smacks the ground HARD - reverberating throughout the teeming intersection.

IRAQI’S rush the effigy - Tattooed Marine darts away to safety.
They pelt Saddam with shoes, rocks, whatever they can get their hands on - the barrage of noise surges up towards the sky.

CUT TO:
PREDATOR DRONE as it disappears into the troposphere.
EXT. IRAQ - WALABI SQUARE - VEHICLE STAGING AREA - DAY
The Mobilized Infantry Squad aka REAPER ONE watch the Iraqi’s defile Saddam with a smile, sans Huffman.
He splashes aftershave on his face.
MARINE # 1, (20). A nerdy boy in oversized cammi’s and black-framed glasses, gives Huff a dirty look as he walks towards the sprawling crowd.

SUPER: CPL. MANNY “ROD” RODRIGUES. GUNNER.

ROD sneaks a drink from a FLASK as he disappears into the mass of bodies.

CLOSE ON - SADDAM. As shoes pummel his bronze bust.

HUFFMAN (O.S.)
Don’t know about you gents...

An IRAQI arrives with a CHAIN-SAW.

HUFFMAN (CONT’D)
...but I think it’s about time...

BRRRR! The chain-saw ROARS to life.

HUFFMAN (O.S.) (CONT’D)
...we ricky tick the fuck outa here.

The chain-saw RIPS into metal, showering the crowd with SPARKS.

IRAQIS shriek.

DOGS howl.

HELICOPTERS WHOOP, WHOOP, WHOOP overhead.

Gunfire rips the air.

RADIOS chatter.

It. Is. A. Madhouse.

SUPER: Baghdad, 2003.

FADE OUT.
[/scrippet]

so, she wanted some tattoos...

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