frankie machine

sinatra too strung out to swing.   wrote about this film today for the book.   elmer bernstein score.  saul bass design.   kim novak helping him get the monkey off his back but “the monkey never dies.”   if you’re lucky you can keep him in the cage for as long as you live.  the same year sinatra did guys and dolls with marlon brando who was already “the wild one” since ’53.   in ’53 sinatra was oscar winner in from here to eternity.   the man with the golden arm was sinatra dirtied up, showing his range and rebellion… willingness to be ugly and vulnerable and sick.   rebel without a cause also  ’55.    presley wouldn’t make a movie for a year.  this is the seed bed for the rock and roll cinema hero.   anti-hero.

Never been a morning person.   Or an afternoon person.   Writing into the night is the consequence.  Yawning as I type this.   Dang.

this way to woodstock.  i think maybe i need to move there if i’m going to do some of this book in cafes, which are key once reporting and drafting is done.    cafes are where i go to get out of the house and do my do.   after say six or seven chapters in the can, i can write anywhere (in other words, in my apartment, with the laptop in front of the TV, propped up by magazines) but that tricky process of reaching cruising altitude, i have to break out.  ten pages today.  you would think that because i live in greenwich village i would have an array of great cafes to write in but i have nitpicked every single one of them.   i’m freakin’ goldilocks on that shit.  one is claustrophobic, the other has shitty wi fi, the third played candlebox.   i once interviewed candlebox at spin.  i guess that dates me.  what doesn’t date me these days?   i think it’s a matter of settling.   i have one that i hate BUT i manage to write in which is where you will find me more often than not but i don’t like it.   in fact the greatest feeling in the world is leaving it… with ten finished pages.   that could be the key.   not what cafe will provide a nice atmosphere, play great music, have great coffee and fast wi-fi, but which cafe is so horrid that i can’t wait to write what i  have to write and leave.

wicked pepper steak

we’ve got 8 glasses of water with lemon daily, plenty of klonopin, netflix and baseball for comedown, american spirits in the fridge for emergency freakdowns, it’s time to go back to book jail.  hit it.

there may be days where i don’t talk to a single person as i finish Loud Pictures, a working title that has survived a year of reporting and drafting and doubt to become an actual title. i will be writing here as a means to communicate.  i don’t know, maybe with nobody, maybe with you, but just as a flare to let people know i haven’t moved to Paris or died or died in Paris.   i don’t care too much that I can’t really afford to write for free.  i need to do this for the time being.   maybe it wont become a daily thing.   maybe it will be a twice daily thing, who knows.   i’ve made promises and broken them before.   but i’m back blogging or whatever they call it now.   i did it years ago for my old employer when there was no word for it and now I don’t even care what the word for it is.  i just want to emerge with a good book and sane and i can’t afford talk therapy, time wise or financially.   I like this better anyway.   my blog.  a brisk walk along the river and that weird sensory deprivation tank that is book jail.   my laptop is propped up on about six old copies of sight and sound and film comment and I think I’m facing south.   maybe west.   here we go…