The Life and Times of Elliot Pike

Whilst I list great writers, I realize that my last post’s list of “three great writers” was incomplete.

This weekend my man has been away on a trip. We’ve been together for two months, and this trip was only the second time that we we’ve been apart. As much as we’ve struggled with some serious difficulties, I miss him incredibly, and at 11:30pm tonight I’ll be at the airport to welcome him home. In the meantime, to keep me company at home while I get paperwork and cleaning done and while I stave off a small cold (note: Zine Lozenges really do work wonders!) I broke down and bought the entire first season of The West Wing via the iTunes Music store.

It has been so comforting to be in the company of these fictional characters whom I love so much. The fantasy of having the White House filled with intelligent, moral, conscientious people is an indulgence. The cast of this show was incredible, with very few actors being anything but spectacular; but none of it would have been possible without the vision and writing of Aaron Sorkin. I loved his more recent experiment, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, and I was saddened that the network didn’t give it more support.

So again, I write to tip my hat to the great storytellers of television. May they weather the personal financial impact of their strike, and may the executives of the Media Industry be reasonable and compassionate so that this strike can be short.

So the Writer’s Strike has begun. I remember the last strike, just because I’d had the theory that it was why the first season of Star Trek: The Next Generation was so lame. (Doubtful. As it turns out, TNG’s first season was the year before.) But all the news outlets are suggesting that we are in for a lot of reruns and Reality Television.

So be it. I am in complete support and solidarity of the Writers Guild of America. (And that’s not just because I’m a member of the Screen Actors Guild.) I don’t think enough Americans appreciate the value of a good writer. I can name my favorite three TV writers before I can name a single noteworthy television director. (Joss Whedon, creator of Buffy the Vampire Slayer; J. Michael Straczynski, creator of Babylon 5; and Russell T. Davies, creator of the original (british) Queer as Folk and the man who reinvented and saved Doctor Who.

The world of television has had some really good, innovative writing lately. I used to think it was all drivel not too many years ago, but I’m been impressed. And its the story arc and the character development that creates the foundation on top of which all those stars we love create their characters and their performances.

I hope the WGA is able to negotiate a good contract that will serve television writers for the next couple decades. These people are not spoiled rich fat-cats; they are people who love television and put their souls into it. They write the material that comforts and intrigues and challenges us. So if we have to live with months of reruns and crappy shows, that’s okay by me.

I was running through my iTunes library looking for something to play while I cleaned the apartment and crossed an old, obscure, strange album I once bought by The Residents called “Hell”. Just for fun I played what I think is the strangest song I’ve ever heard in my life, “Lizard Lady”. (M3U preview link) (I wish I could find a link so you could hear it. It’s seriously psychedelic.

It occurred to me to write here a quick blog note to ask my readers (both of you) what you think the weirdest song is you’ve ever heard. (The only other candidate I can think of right now is “Stop Eating my Brain” by Scratch Acid.)

Any candidates?

Ack! Spending so much time doing computer work my spirit’s bungie-cord in snapping back and my artistic side is screaming for attention. I woke this morning from a dream where an old friend (who I haven’t spoken to in about fifteen years) was singing a sad, Cheryl Crow style song about motherhood and childbirth and regrets.

No, I’m aware that’s not typical subject matter for my inner psyche, but that’s dreamland for you. (Actually, I’d just seen a rerun of the Sci Fi program Farscape and one of the main characters was newly “with child” so the theme isn’t quite so random.) I woke up remembering only a few of the words (which weren’t enough to really write down) and a fragment of the melody (which is hard to “write down” per se) and within a couple minutes it was lost.

Then I remembered another dream I’d had last night where I was composing a parody of Gilbert & Sullivan’s song “Modern Major-General” start started “I am the Very Model of a Presidential Candidate” and went on to joke about the 2008 Presidential primary season. (The only other line I can recall is “…anecdotal stories crafted for a sample audience.”) Come to think of it, I know where my subconscious dug that one up: the second episode of the NBC show Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. (lyrics, video clip)
(more…)

Dream time. Last night was a little strange. Actually it was downright creepy. On some wall—I have no good details about the exact location; I think it was some hallway—about waist-heigh (3 feet from the ground) there was a hole in the plaster revealing an eye.

The eye was wide, looking perpetually terrified. It seemed to tremble a little bit, the pupil was always very small. It would look at me or anyone nearby, darting around nervously. The skin around the eye and the eyelid was a strange dark olive color—not any typical (human) hue you ever saw. (Actually, the movie poster for The Grudge had some sort of ghost or specter that had that same olive tone. My subconscious isn’t all that original.)

No matter what I did there was no way to find out any more about this eye. I couldn’t tell if some poor unfortunate person had been somehow embedded in the plaster, only his or her eye showing through the hole, or if this were some supernatural free-standing eye. I would try to communicate, yelling for it to blink if it understood me. I tried holding hand-written notes for it to read. There was no sign that the eye comprehended me, only that it “saw” me and always seemed terrified.

I tried to get on with my life, but always there would be this damn eye in the plaster that I would pass by every now and then. (Throughout the night in my dreams I would be interrupted by the reminder that this eye was here.) I began to get irritated by this nagging eyeball, almost feeling an urge to stab it, or to try to chip away at the plaster around it. Of course I didn’t do any of these violent things, but I could feel the irritation and agitation building in me.

There was no resolution to this dream. Eventually morning came, I woke up, had coffee, sketched the eyeball and started with my day.