Spotlight on: Mistah Pete!

That really was a classic job interview. Much as I need a straight job right now, with insurance and a regular check, I'm glad I didn't get it. Saturday, August 05, 2006

There's been a lot going on, so I'll forego any pretense of modesty and just say it -- this blog is about me. Here's what's going on.

First, I went to Nightmare on Grayson Street and worked on Dar's production for Short Ends. It's entitled "Las Rolleras Contra El Doctor Satanico," and that's a great title because I came up with it. I wrote the thing. Nothing short of stupid, but it should be fun. Dar did a bang-up job on the set (graciously provided by Gordon and his Grayson Street crew), and I can't wait to see what it looks like. My fondest hope is that Crystal's Spanglish ad-libs are understandable (at least to lip-readers -- you'll know what I'm talking about when you see it) because they're a damned sight funnier than anything I wrote. I also put together a little bit of "animation" for the project. I'll use two words which older readers may recognize, and younger readers can Google, then I'll say no more -- "Clutch Cargo."

I'm supposed to be working on not one but two different screenplays right now. (That is to say, of course, those are projects for which I've accepted an assignment. There are more I'm supposed to be working on of my own devising, but I can no longer manage to work up guilt about missing my own deadlines, just those imposed by others.) I'm not doing them. I will eventually, but not right now. Both are rewrites, which means they're both pretty easy (the hard work of writing has already been done). But I just can't concentrate. It's been a problem for awhile. I'll walk into rooms and forget what I walked in for. I'd call the senior moments, the quaint term the old folks use for the onset of Alzheimer's, but I'm damned if I'll be old while my parents are still alive. Those people are old, I'm the son of old people.

But it's not really any brain degeneration, far as I can tell. Maybe the rum punch, but other than that, no. It's stress. Money. Great Shiva, but I hate the filthy stuff. Love of it may be the root of all evil, but need of it ain't much better. Looks a lot like things may be improving, a home equity loan coming through. It'll take away the most immediate debt (while of course adding more of a less immediate nature). It'll get me out from under that godawful feature, at least. That was a hell of a lot more expensive than the budget will ever show.

Still, I'm looking for work. Even (gulp) a J-O-B, the real thing, reporting to an office, getting checks signed by The Man. Been a decade or so since I've done that. But I went in for an interview yesterday, a company who wants a permanent camera on staff for training videos. Ruined my whole day. I put on clothes for this. A stained jacket (damn, when did I last wear this...? Oh, yeah, Mark's party...) Shoes, even. I shaved. There was a brief moment when I was having trouble getting the earring out, and I thought, hey, what the hell, I wear it, they'll know what they're getting! But I managed to get it out.

Good thing. I did the interview with the very young woman (who kept mentioning how "entry level" the position was, all the while casting a gimlet eye at the gray in my hair and beard). I answered all the questions right (she had a checklist, for crying out loud!), my best qualities, my greatest weakness (never answer "kryptonite," my advice to you, the sober-minded job-seeker). Then I asked about the corporate atmosphere (and any time you need to group those two words together, you already know you're in trouble). She told me it was a very conservative company, every man wears a white shirt and tie (and this time I'm pretty sure it was disapproval in her eye as she gazed upon my denim shirt). She specifically mentioned my hair.

Now, I thought I was doing good for putting on socks. I did wear a tie. But hair? I wear my hair fairly short, but I'll admit, it's unruly. And that's not a matter of choice, so much. It's just unruly. It has been compared, without rancor, to that of a wildebeest. To get it to behave, I'd have to go all Dracula with it, slicked down. Not something you ever want to see, my friends. I look like a mobster. Or a basketball coach. Sad.

Here's the thing. I'm a pretty straight arrow, probably the most conservative of my circle of friends. I've got a wife and child. I have house payments. I haven't multiple piercings or long hair or tattoos or a shaved head. My facial hair is fairly well maintained, and not trimmed into any style that could be termed especially outré. I'm pretty much the only person I know over the age of thirty who doesn't smoke pot. (Have I managed to offend all of my friends yet?) And yet, they look at me as if Charlie Manson's just sat down for an interview. Good gravy. What hope has the rest of the world?

And here's the part that tickled me most. The woman interviewing me, who tells me that it's a conservative company? She's wearing a tight white pantsuit with a bright pink top, the neckline scooped very low to show off décolletage enhanced by pushup bra and fake tan. Surgery's not impossible. I put a lot of effort into maintaining eye contact. It would seem that they are conservative only about the men on the staff. The women are there to provide decoration, perhaps? It's like I had a meeting with the Human Resources department of Hooters.

The Rollergirls are ignoring my emails. I need original music for their video, and they don't want to hear about it. I tell them that they can't sell the thing if it has music by, say, the Beastie Boys and Led Zeppelin on it. They say that the Rollercade has permission to play music, so they can use it, too. I need to get an intellectual rights attorney on this. This has potential to get crazy.

In a moment of weakness, I agreed to teach a screenwriting class for Northside ISD. Wednesday nights in October. We'll see. I'd pretty much given that up, I thought, but what the hell. I'll get the word out, closer it comes.

The boy's school starts next week. I'll be free for a few precious hours each day. Maybe I'll start getting things done then. There was a time when I was organized and motivated and even had some semblance of self-discipline. That was before children. I could use it again. Anybody got a good book to read? Or maybe some special vitamin? I eat a lot of fish, that's supposed to be good for the brain, right? Amino acids, something like that?

The boy had a fit last night. Kept me from hitting Andy's party. I'll save my gift until the next one... hope you like six-packs of Black Label and used Jimmy Buffett "Best of" CDs, Andy!