I'm writing a TV show.....and the doubting bastards can't stop me.
I have to say things [like that] to myself. I have to put that kinda rap out into the universe. If I don't believe in this, I can't expect anyone else to come along for the ride. I'm not just a bike riding/wheelie-popping hoodlum. I'm a cosmic magic-dispenser. I make things go my way. It may take awhile.....but the rigamarole eventually works itself out.....and in my favor.
I didn't fully realize that until this year. I don't know what it was (that hipped me to this fact). There are several possibilities:
1. It could have been me, watching an ep of Entourage. Things always work out for those dudes. That's why modern alpha-males, like myself, love watching this show. The moral of that show? No matter how bad things get, in the end, you'll have friends, happiness and money. Sign me up.
2. It could have been a panel, with one of my favorite comic book writers, where they mentioned astronomy/time-shifting/spell casting. These guys make anything seem possible. [SEE: Moore/Morrison/Ellis]
By the way, the other morning, my bagel floated up in the air. I wasn't high or drunk. Seriously.
By the way, the other morning, my bagel floated up in the air. I wasn't high or drunk. Seriously.
3. It could have been one of those nights where I ate too much Indian food and drank too much Simply Raspberry. Chick Pea Masala opens up doorways to Divine Wisdom. Things happen when I start to hallucinate. Magikal portals are opened.
4. It could have been one of those nights where I was sick, took meds and let my mind float somewhere else. Delirium has its benefits. Especially when the drugs kick in...at 2 a.m. Things happen when I start to hallucinate. Magikal portals are opened.
5. It could have been that one night. I was zoning, drinking Ginger Beer*, listening to an Oregon album and writing some craziness. My brother walks in [around midnight]. Only my desk light is on. The music is deep and trance-like. Candles are flickering. The house smells like Sage. He takes a few steps into the front door, looks at me bewildered and says: "Damn. You'll be in here listening to some deep sh*t. You're like a scientist or something."
That's right. I'm a scientist. I'm concocting new formulas. I'm re-examining equations. I'm building bridges to new star systems and galaxies.
I'm the new James T. Kirk out this piece.
Boldly going where no dude has gone before.
Why did I say all of this?
I'm writing a TV show. The writing part is pretty easy. What I really want is for this thing to sell. It will. I have speak this out into the cosmos. I have to believe this.....everyday.....every night. I'm going to have (at least) 10 minutes [of it] filmed. I'm going to shop it. Someone, somewhere, is going to recognize. Why? Because things always work out for me.....in some way or another. It's called "magic", Ladies & Gentlemen.
I'm going to write and produce a TV show. And guess what?
None of the doubting bastards can stop me.
Hallelujah. Hollaback.
Ziti
*NOTE: The aforementioned Ginger Beer is a special blend, brewed by Rastafarian women in Harlem. This drink is soul-cleansing. No lie. I've made special trips (nocturnal and otherwise) just to get a batch.
