You won't steal my gold

Much has changed my friends. A year ago I fought a battle with my own body. This year my living quarters have been upgraded, I now have VIP access to many of the high class bitches that were not present in Logan Square (mostly older Latinas or Polish women with horribly dyed hair). Yes my friends, I now reside  next door to paradise. The Wicker Park dog park. You name it and I have grazed upon it, licked it, attempted to jump up on it.  Short blonde shiny bobs, long unkept tangled hair, long luxurious legs,  yes friends, I have it all. And yes, I have a poor excuse for a wingman but nevertheless he serves a purpose.  A tall, grey, flopsy man with arthritis named Bosendorfer. He often serves the purpose of being the bane of my existence, but serves an integral role when I am playing the field so to speak. He  could win a gold medal in the Olympics of being "that dog" at the park. Taking bear sized excrement,  then kicking up stones that hit fellow park goers, peeing on anything that moves, etc. I must admit, I feel bad for the poor man, I fear that he is senile. Often I walk out in the kitchen just to find him staring absently at the refrigerator.  There is also the issue of him being a German dog of a Jewish owner, this has caused many rumblings from the old man. All in all despite the old curmudgeon known as Mr. Dorfer, perfection is being served to me on a platter daily of all beautiful shapes and sizes, and it is all mine, yes mine to take. Despite my past obstacles, my gold has not been stolen, one paw in front of the next, forward, I see nothing but good ahead. 

I am adrift

I am a survivor. I feel like I want a tattoo. But I'm wearing a dogsuit, that'd be silly.

My friends, I have not only not updated, but I've not even updated regularly, for quite some time. Since this past May, I have fought a battle with cancer. It has taken its toll on me mentally and physically. But my friends, I have survived.

I am a changed man. I have newfound respect for myself, my life, my body, and most importantly, My Master. And even, begrudgingly, My Nemesis. I wrote briefly about my surgeries earlier this summer. That was bad enough. I'm still in the prime of my life but I feel like an old man, missing the teeth I'm now missing. The kind of old man who you see on the street and wonder where he should be but isn't. I haven't gone out dancing yet, mostly because Pedro doesn't know I'm done with treatment. Nor did he know I was even in Chicago; I told him I've been away for the entire past month. I just can't deal with that right now. I need to focus on myself.

I've been in a very contemplative mood since I've finished treatment. I wonder if it’s akin to the feeling an addict gets when he or she finally kicks a serious Beggin Strips or Snausages habit. I'm not sure, but I'm resolved to do everything within my power to see that this never happens to me again. I have changed my diet significantly. I've cut back to one small cup of coffee, and have begun juicing every morning. I can feel the results, I think. I've also almost completely removed gluten and grains from my diet. While reading about tumors during treatment, I read that for international men of mystery in dogsuits like me, grain is a sort of anabolic steroid for a tumor. It's safe to say I cut that shit out pronto. I now eat a mixture of vegetable, fruit, and meat. I do occasionally enjoy a apple fritter or hunk of fry bread, but it's a rareity these days. I already feel better, although I'm not going to lie, I miss Doritos, and two Danish morning meetings. A lot.

I have also had the time to sit back and contemplate where I'm going. What I'm really doing with myself. I will obviously keep writing screenplays. My agent called me recently and said someone had shown interest in something that eight months ago he “couldn't pitch to anyone." I don't know if he's been jerking me around the past eight months to milk monthly fees from me, or if he just feels sorry for me. I can tell you though; it's not my best work. But apparently they've spoken with George Clooney and Michael Keaton. No Hanks. Thank God. If Michael Bay is tapped to direct, I WILL kill myself. 

But I'm talking about what I'm really going to do. This experience made me think about my own mortality, seriously, for one of the first times in my life. I have long forged my own trail. I went where other men in dogsuits dared not go, few even dreamed. But I know that. I have thought deeply about where I'm going to go, or if I even want to keep forging this path of mine.

I have the money I need to continue into the future. It's not an issue of money. I have plenty, my cousin Jorge is constantly making me more money with the money I already have. I have more toys and peanut butter chewies than I can count. And the screenplay racket always brings something in. I'm tired of financial work, especially following this Occupy Wall Street movement. It's truly the Will of The People in action. While I was working on The Street in the 90’s, the writing was on the wall. It's time those people give back. I don’t want to be one of them anymore. My Nemesis (ugh) once said he left the mortgage business because he didn’t want to keep selling people loans that they didn’t need, and whose terms they didn’t understand. I feel a bit of the same right now. I’m not sure how I feel about that. 

Thus far I have lived a full life indeed. And I’m happy with where I am right now. I am just wondering, contemplating, what’s next. I don’t want to continue to earn money for its own sake. Screenplay writing is fun, but the quality standards are declining in Hollywood so much that I don’t really see the point anymore, unless I could control the entire creative process.

I’m looking for something that will please me. Make me feel fulfilled and happy. And something that will allow me to give back. I hope to have something soon. I can’t just keep thinking. I am not nor do I want to be a college professor.

OccupySmokey

Protests have been going on in my current hometown. I may be part of the 1%, but I can relate with troubles that the other 99% have. I have been battling cancer and trips to what must be a special ring of hell, a small town called Urbana in Illinois. Staying in seedy hotels, staying in even seedier places of unknown purposes and intents,  I have been grasping at straws to maintain my sanity and comprehend what seems to be some sort of "special treatment" that is given to me every morning.

From what I can deduce,  I am slipped roofies everyday before noon. I am taken back to a room where I pass out, and  I wake up to several females fawning all over me and the smell of alcohol stinging my nostrils. Now these females aren't tens, but they aren't ones either, so on one hand I wonder if I am blessed.   There are bright spot lights and loud clanking noises. I hear other barks and moans coming from all corners of this . They have held me hostage a few nights, which surprises me because my owner is an expert at holding me in captivity.

In the dark of the night, when we are sure that everyone else has left, us fellow humans in dog suits, speak about our experiences. Tears are shed, hugs are had, emotions run raw. It is a support group so to speak, but we keep it on the down low in case that anyone (including the despicable felines) should come back to check on us or rat on us. What happens while I am passed out I can only guess but it is has been the subject of many nightmares even with my intense love for everything female.  I hope to get to the bottom of it and then start a foundation for puppies that have gone through similar experiences. It is time that I start spending my vast fortune on a good cause, and this is the motivation I need to do so.

Being the top 1% comes with some of the same problems as the other 99%, but I can assure you, nothing is perfect and we will all pay our dues someday.

My Nemesis and I make the news

I am the best part of the story.

http://chicago.cbslocal.com/2011/08/15/auto-thefts-surge-in-chicago/

My Fight

It has been ages since I have written.  Same scenario for my screen play. I got to the climax and realized that it essentially had the same plot as Rambo: First Blood Part II, except instead of the main character being a beefy man, it was a handsome, beefy, chihuahua, similar to myself, minus the disturbing amount of sweat, and plus the rippling muscles. A sombrero instead of a bandanna. A black sombrero.

Many things have happened this summer good and bad. On a more sour note, I had a battle with mouth cancer. The cubans I smoke with Pedro may have been one reason, although I cannot be sure. I have never been a huge fan of flossing either, I always thought peanut butter chewies would do the trick. Alas, my bad habits caught up with me. Luckily the surgeon was able to extract it from my mouth, and my cancer is not likely to return. But my bad habits have returned tenfold. Pedro and I attended all of the important Lollapalooza after parties and puffed on many a cuban.

I have now moved to a new penthouse that hotties from all corners of the country have been visiting right off the bat. I have my own room although people seem to think that they can sleep in my bed, fine if you are a lady, not cool if you are a man. Little do they know the blanket and sheets they lay on have been licked by my dirty cuban cigar mouth. Every square inch. Thrice.

Now that I have my own office and room I will be able to work full time on my screen play. No distractions. Pedro is visiting relatives in Cancun, and will not be back for 6 months. When he comes back he often has a month of recovery, and owes many people money, so he lays low until his business is up and running.

And this time I am not even going to try doing an action movie. It will be a horror. And it will be the most gory, riveting masterpiece yet. I will keep you posted on my work.

Red Pill V Blue Pill

I had the choice. They found me. My qualities attracted them. My philosophy in life. I have no fear and I was searching deep within my soul for an answer. An answer to all this madness. We all search, but what set me apart from others is that I was willing to give my life for the answer. Also, my search was not for cool ranch Doritos, or what movie to watch that evening, like the shallow searches my Nemesis and Master often embark upon.  And then they found me, and I had to choose.

So I, like Neo, and others before him, was put in the red chair. Told to choose, blue or red. I take the blue pill, and I wake up as I normally do. I am a morning person, I love to eat breakfast, lounge around, read the morning NY Stock Exchange, and then gradually work myself outside for a morning trot and dumping of excrement onto my fellow Chicagoans lawn. I knew if I took the blue pill, I would probably forget that I had encountered the opportunity to go "deep into the rabbit hole to find the real truth." I would go to work, come home, and think deeply about what else is out there. And why am I here? What is the point of this madness? Day in and day out, I have a feeling I am in a prison. I cannot leave when I want, (without sneaking out with the help of Pedro) I am constantly starving for money, food, and women, I have an insatiable affinity for life, I want to taste it all, I want to smell it all. And I want to know why

So it sounds like I am going to take the red pill, but if I had I would not be writing this to you now would I? I would be off in a hover craft somewhere, learning ju jitsu and kung fu and sharpening my ability to abandon my human in a dog suit shackles in the matrix. I would be able to "bend the spoon" so to speak. I would abandon all fear, and realize the capabilities that I have bend time and space allowing me to fly to heights no chihuahua has ever flown to.

The truth is, my weakness in the end, is and was ladies. Sorry Morpheus, I shall never be able to live without a wide variety of women in my life. I could care less if they are real or not, they feel real to me, they smell good, and that is all that matters.

Call me shallow if you will for not choosing path to truth. I will find my own truth, in my own time. In the meantime I will celebrate life one lady in a red dress at a time.

Absolute Time

I have been reading up on Einstein's General Theory of Relativity. I just cannot wrap my mind around the fact that most humans have not figured out, or accepted that absolute time does not exist. I am not sure of other breeds, but I know that Chihuahua's possess the ability to experience time in its many different forms and avenues.

I am also lower to the ground, so time moves much slower for me due to gravitational forces. I have calculated that an average peanut butter chewy takes me about four hours to eat, whereas it would only take a human about four minutes to eat. Now, I know there are other mitigating factors to pay attention to (like why My Nemesis continues to steal my chewies), but let's focus on time, and time only, that's what you humans are best at anyway right?

I always wondered why humans cannot understand why when they arrive I am astonished at how long they have been gone. It really has been 4 excruciating months. Think Dog Years people.

Actually, just think of time as anything but an absolute. As long as I have lived I have afforded myself this luxury and I rarely feel stressed, and I often think of what possibilities might exist out there deep beyond in galaxies that you humans are too wrapped up in time to imagine. As the universe has continues to expand, I go along with it, and am a much happier puppy because of it.

Old vs. New

As I've said already, I'm experiencing a blue period right now. Although I had a conference call with my agent this morning, and it went well, I'm still having somewhat overwhelming doubts about my desire to truly work in and around the film industry. But, I've not given up hope. In the meantime, I still have this on off gig with my former employer in the UK, and it is honestly a bit relieving to do day in day out work, it provides some type of baseline, if nothing else.

Today, though, I'm having a hard time. I was out till 2am last night, with Pedro, as usual. Another cousin of mine, Jorge, was out as well, but left at midnight like I should have. He's a stockbroker, and I should have followed his lead. But, I needed last night. The DJ was on full steam, and was mixing great classic tracks with newer stuff.

I heard both of these last night, and decided to repost them, since I'm still thinking of them right now. The first, again, takes me back to my heyday in NYC in the early 90's, when my cousins and I would tear the shit out of any club we hit, and were still getting huge bonuses and making all our meetings. We were fucking rock stars. I truly am feeling my age in the midst of this existential crisis. It could also have been the 8 shots of Patron I had last night, I'm going to let the jury decide that one. But, it was at that moment last night, when I knew I was going to be a wreck this morning, that the second track came in, and picked me right back up. I'm thinking of booking Joker for my birthday next year, or perhaps on Mexican Independence Day this year, although I'm sure that idea will be sidelined in favor of some stupid Mariachi band or retarded Reggaeton DJ.

At any rate, I have to get back to work, but it felt good to get that off my furry little chest.



vs.

Don't Try

I am adrift in an existential mire. Per my last entry, I've increasingly found myself under fire for deadlines on my screenplays, to the point of a near inability to tolerate the creative process. For the first time in my life, I've considered returning to the humdrum of currency markets and financial analysis. I've just been so taken aback by the reality of writing and the demands of Hollywood

I've also as of late found myself increasingly turning to my cousin, Pedro for solace, which usually leads to me watching the sun rise and waking up the next day smelling like breakfast burritos from The Hollywood Grill (no relation to my current issues, they're open all night and breezies frequent the establishment from 2-5am). This, obviously, is not good, but I feel I'm in a truly blue period right now, and Pedro is helping, in his own way. His ever optimistic spirit helps pull me up when I need it, even if it's only to down another shot of Patron.

It's times like this when I turn to my tried and true quote book. I found a particular quote in there today that is quite demonstrative of my situation, and lends advice.

"Somebody at one of these places...asked me: "What do you do? How do you write, create?" You don't, I told them, you don't try. That's very important: not to try, either for Cadillacs, creation, or immortality. You wait, and if nothing happens, you wait some more. It's like a bug high on the wall. You wait for it to come to you. When it gets close enough you reach out, slap out and kill it, or if you like its looks, you make a pet out of it." - Charles Bukowski

I remember dropping my coffee the first time I read this passage. As I sit here now, tired, overwhelmed, and under stimulated, its meaning has never been more lucid to me. I am who I am. There is only one of me, and as such, I need to keep on keeping on. I must. It's for the best, not only for me, but for those around me.

To this end, I've started therapy. As My Master so often says "Smokey has a lot of issues today." Today, my friends, is everyday. And, as I look a month back at my 42nd birthday, it's about time I tackle the issues that are still, to this day, keeping me from truly self-actualizing. I am an artist, a sensualist, and a hopeless romantic. I need to confront my darkest depths if I'm going to continue my ascent towards the stars.

Here is a picture of me in therapy. My therapist uses animal avatars sometimes, when it's too hard for me to talk about my own issues. I think I chose a nice one. This is really helping, I'm sure of that already.

Freakend

First, an update. I have not been blogging as much as of late. There are several reasons for this. First and foremost, I've been under extreme duress as far as my professional writing goes. Specifically - I'm an artist. As an artist, I can't really be expected to simply churn out work to please the time constraints of others. If I get declined by a sweet chippie and hit a blue period for two weeks, then my work suffers for two weeks. Big deal.

There is literally nothing I can do about this, yet studio executives do not seem to agree. If I had wanted a 9-5 job, I'd have stayed on full time in the UK as a financial analyst. I need more than that, ladies (gentlemen too, although I don't really care what you all think). I need more. I'm not the type of puppy who can just go along with being told what to do. Those years are past me. In my early to mid twenties, I could have put up with such rough treatment, despite my value add to the company. But no more. No more shall I be made to feel as if my work is anything less than the prize that it is.

So, due to these external demands, I've lost a screenplay contract. This just goes to show how much chicanery and utter bullshit is involved with Hollywood talent agents. They all want to be your friend, they'll offer to clean up your poop, bring you chewies, and I'd assume even in some cases (you can tell, they act effeminate from fifty paces) lick you when you're too tired to lick anymore. It's disgusting, it really is. While I consider myself a purist, and try to shy away from using agents and their representation to push my screenplays, there are times when I have to, if for no other reason than they have contacts that I don't.

So, there's my first reason. It's hard. I want to update this site more often, I really do. I have a constant stream of ideas bubbling out of my tiny furry head, I just don't often find the time, or am simply frustrated with the practice of writing, to update as much as I'd like.

Now, my second issue: My Cousin Pedro. Now, I mean, Christ, look at him. Does he look like anything other than a distraction? This is from last Saturday. My Nemesis's sister and brother in law were in town. I have met them before, and in fact nearly seduced his sister once, read an earlier entry for a synopsis of that night. So, we go out and hit the town hard on Thursday (some Irish folk holiday devoted to, as far as I can tell, Irish beer (yuck) and whiskey (better)) and I take them out for a really nice meal on Friday. Saturday night we all decide to just stay in, listen to some music, and hang out around the house. Fucking Pedro shows up at 12:30am, all dressed up, coked out of his mind, and starts yammering about how we're all going to The Evil Olive, because he knows the bouncer working and says we can all get in for free, and get cheap drinks. Now, I KNOW he's full of crap, but I play along, if only to placate him enough so he leaves My Master, Nemesis, and his sister and brother in law alone.

We end up getting back at 5am. My head still hurts. I slept all day today, and although I went into work with My Master today, I'm still planning a day of heavy sleeping.

So...I don't update as often as would be ideal, and I'm catching flack for being "late" with my screenplays. As long as this guy is in my life, I think I'm going to have to get used to this. He's family, and I'm Mexican, there's nothing I can do.