keep the wild inside

Hollywood is in a mess. Movies with big names (Jim Carrey, Denzel) are being put on hold because the budgets scare the producers. Profits are down. And there are 8,000 screenwriters in town, waiting tables or saddled with day jobs, all planning to make a living as a writer or a director, and last month the major studios bought 18 pitches. Eighteen.

I want to set up a publishing agreement with a solar energy company. Form a new business paradigm; I'll make the art and the poetry as a way of introducing your photovoltaics to a new audience. We can both make news. I'm thinking about this when I buy a chai frap at Starbucks, that Yankee malignancy, and there in the rack for the customers to buy is the Beatles' Revolver. Don't these people have any imagination? Tell me something new.

Jake comes over with a few songs from a new singer he's producing. She's awesome. Jessica Somebody. Jake is worth more to me than Starbucks. But now he's looking at me. What? "Whaddaya got?" I don't have shit. Pictures, ideas, but nothing I can play. Jake shrugs. This is the city of angels. Every dream is constructed with broken promises.

"Okay," says Jake, "Show me some pictures."

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