Miles Per Deadline PART DEUX

Deadline night again. 

Finished my story on the ASO devil. Yet maybe I am being too harsh calling her that! 

Cookies are a good source for sugar...I bought 13 of them for my fellow journalist...If only I had the milk to, now that would be PERFECTION. 

Feigned Interest labors hard on the computer as I live in fear that my story is not as good as Lori think it is. Maybe I am just paranoid, maybe it is just the Filet O Fish in my stomach. 

But there is still some kind of light out so that is comforting. 

At least till I am right back to the grind tomorrow. 

Next Wednesday will be my day of rest. 

Miles PER Beware of Jagulars

Broken radio is the worse thing that could happen on your way to school, the damn thing wouldn't even turn back on, I could have entertained myself by doing my own renditions of awesomely bad 80's songs but I instead just drove silently as random thoughts about the road took control. Upon trying to enter the on ramp to my freeway I found that I was by myself and about to enter the carpool lane but I couldn't get over because all the cars in the regular were stopped and I would have to stop in the carpool lane to do it, why hold up angry LA people, so I cruised down the carpool lane hoping no cops were waiting at the interchange. After barely escaping that I sat in traffic for all of 10 minutes (Might be a new record) and I ended up behind an old Jaguar coupe that had a very interesting license plate: BEWARE OF JAGULARS! The first thought that rolled through my head was how fucking corny that is, and how egotistical the schmuck driving the jaguar must be to believe that car jackers are itching to get the next jaguar. Maybe I saw it as a metaphor for how elitist we Americans can be or the effects of having no radio was getting to me. Then again is wasn't as cool as the license plate of a car at my little brothers school: MY OTHER RIDE IS YOUR HUSBAND. Now that is something completely different. Or maybe it is just the honest to god truth. 

Miles PER Fear & Loathing with the ASO devil

6:30 AM I woke up, refreshed for what has been the longest day of my life. As a student journalist time moves slowly, the day becomes longer yet there are still not enough hours, minutes, seconds, in the day for a journalist to get everything done.I can only dream of a 25th hour. 8: 30 AM I arrive at school. I was hoping to walk into the newsroom, sit on my ass for 20 minutes then go work on my story. Instead I walked into school and ended up starting as soon I went right to work. the night before my editor had been verbally bitched at by a invisible demon, the ASO devil, who up until recently was the student president of my beloved El Camino. Now like Client 9 (for those non-news junkie: client 9 is Eliot Spitzer the NY governor who had unprotected sex with hooker Ashley Dupre) the ASO devil has fallen from grace after being removed from student body president.  Covering this story is like letting the little kid in line hit you with a stick over and over again...At every corner you are met with opposition, they choose not to talk because they have nothing to say on the matter, She doesn't want to talk (FUCK HER), I even was polite enough to give her a shot to redeem herself, tell me why she was removed, she responded very bitchy to my editor, so now I have to write a story in defense of my editors honor...HOORAH! It is 7:36 PM right now and after spending the last eight to nine hours chasing down "The ASO Devil" I have gotten what I need, so now I just need to sit here, write, and hope she doesn't come up from behind me and make me an offer I can't refuse. Dirt naps don't sound too comfortable. 

(Kilo will Return in  Miles Per Spike Lee'ing the issues)

Miles Per Confessions of a Gentlemen Club Junkie

Every so often there will be a chronicle of my adventures and escapades at the local Gentlemen's club to protect the identity of the club I have decided to not directly refer to the club by name and some of the names have been changed but it will be all factual accounts. This is Part I.

Red strobe lights flicker around the club, It is a little after 10 and the club, "The BE", is only modestly packed, me and The Doctor (as he is known to the many security folk at this establishment) position ourself in the back next to the glass divider between us and the couch dances. At the bar is the object of my affection. Now this is the funny thing about why we go to "The BE" because after a while we stopped going for the strippers and we were going for the beautiful waitress that don't peel off their clothes for money. The reason is probably the allure of the what we could only imagine. We have only dreamed of what these waitresses look like underneath their short skirts or tight dresses. But by this point the first "dancer" has come and gone. She has done her little stint ("would you like a dance" she said.) To which I politely turn her down, with a simple ok, she shakes her head and walks toward the next prospective patron. meanwhile my drink has just arrived at my table, my overpriced root beer ($5.25 for one bottle) I pull out 11 dollars, five for the drink, the rest to tip Stephanie, our beautiful waitress, our goddess of the bar, feeling like such a baller I tell her there will be no need for change as she sits down to talk with The Doctor and myself.  

The "dancers" like vultures begin to trek along the red carpet of "The BE" eyeing their pray or patrons for a little "sexy, fun, time" (yes they have actually used those exact words). I notice the old gentlemen (picture father time and that is him right there with one of the "wise women" wearing a sheer top) has made his usual selection, the promotion ends and the word "No" still lingers on my tongue. I see the object of my jilted affection working at the bar, her name is Cee, she is cute and petite, with brown hair, and a big smile, I casually walk over to say hi and hug her, along the way, Sabrina, a brazilian  bombshell stops me to say hi,I quickly peck her on the cheek and continue toward Cee. Slipping her 5 dollars I tell her some corny line (I seem to be all about corny lines). I tell her "I rather give my money to her" and she smiles and takes it, and laughs as I continue the barrage of corny material. Somewhere along in the conversation I slip in to give me her number. To my amazement she does but warns me that she has a man already...I figure it is worth a shot. Right? 

(Kilo will return in Miles Per Chick Flicks Man Up)

Miles Per Writer's Block

"We're only interested in one thing, Bart. Can you tell a story? Can you make us laugh? Can you make us cry? Can you make us want to break out in joyous song? Is that more than one thing? Okay! "

-From the movie, "Barton Fink"

It's like the train station in your head has just made the last stop for the day. The gears make one last turn before completely pausing and then complete and utter blackness like a tunnel. Writer's block may be the greatest threat to a warrior of the pen. For without the ability to write you are obsolete. Useless in design. You write not because you want to (well let me rephrase that..sometimes you have to) but because your whole livelihood depends on what you scribble down on to the blank page that is staring back at you with its little beady white eyes. Right now my biggest block comes from a couple things: 1) my ability as a student journalist 2) the unfinished screenplay that has been dormant for the past 2 months. You may be saying why there is some irony in the fact that I am suffering from writer's block and yet I am able to compose this blog. This is more of an "exercise" for me...it is to help me stimulate my thoughts then maybe I will compose something of use later...also my last post was last Sunday so I must have been suffering from some serious writer's block. Most of the time it is not so much the ideas you are presenting it is the presentation of the ideas. Every writer has great ideas, some great ideas have not been so great stories yet we choose to accept these ideas because it is a process...you keep writing no matter how shitty or contrived it can be you keep writing because that is your weapon of choice...what is the best cure for writer's block? writing. As plain as simple as that. If the Coen Brothers can make a movie like Barton Fink while suffering a writer's block then there is some hope for the rest of us writers. right?