I Made a Dirty Bomb

'Tis official: Local Bruisers is now owned one-hunnert percent by New Horizons Media. I feel strangely relieved by this turn of events, even though we no longer have the prestigious backing of the Public Buttf**k Society. But I am not bitter, no, me not sad. Am I a beautiful blonde with a big rack and a nice ass? No? Then I shall not be f**ed like one. Daha. This goes out to all you guys on the board. Except for you in the impeccably ironed Express for Men outfit that I came to know and hate. I know you're much more the type to hang out on certain San Francisco streets named after certain Cuban dictators.

I think the biggest pain for me now is the soundtrack. Local Bruisers exists because of inspiration I got from music, and having the Buttf**k connection opened up a nice big royalty-free world. Now it's gone. Goodbye Feist, Cat Power, Pinback, etc. My current soundtrack will now be limited to unknown music from artists desperate enough to whore themselves out just for the possibility of being in a movie. Haha, don't waste your stamp, Bolton.

So where do we go from here? We wait. We wait for confirmation from illustrious Actor-Boy that he is all in. That he will finish the game. Then I plan the trip. Then we do more reshoots. Then all wi' be well, all wi' be well.

Today is Teacher's Day in the Czech Republic. Just so you know.

BTW, if you are leaving comments, please identify yourself. Unless you actually are some crazed stalker named Anonymous. In which case, please send a picture. Nudes welcome.

The Canadians Killed My Pet Seal

The children are now officially 2 years old as of this past Friday. My Lordy Almighty, how time has passed by so quickly.

Kids grow up so fast. It seems like just yesterday that they were those helpless little poopy geysers at the foot of our bed, and now they're strutting around the playground giving other kids wedgies and reminding them, "2 years old, bitches. That's right. Best recognize."

One of their gifts this year included a talking Tigger doll that does cartwheels. Freakin' cartwheels, I swear to god. As I sat on the ground marveling at this technological achievement, I glanced over and saw both kids over at a chalkboard that grandma had given them, scribbling away contentedly. Zoey was sighing and humming along with her internal music, and Zach was drawing what looked like either a deformed penis, or an 19th century Victorian carousel. Either way, the fact that they were ignoring Tigger and found so much pleasure in these artistic pursuits warmed my heart.

At this very moment, I had no regrets about not showing up for the Local Bruisers meeting.

It's Official: Iraq Is A-OK!

There is a distinct possibility that you, oh intrepid blog reader, may have been one of the faithfuls involved in the production of Local Bruisers. If you are, then you are no doubt still in deep emotional shock over the shuttering of production that I announced two weeks ago, and are here to glean a moment of clarity from me, Director-Boy Extraordinaire.

Well, a secret shall be passed unto you, for having the initiative to check the website regularly and notice that the Myspace link has been changed to this Bruiser Blog. Your reward is this:

Local Bruisers is not over.

Depending on who you are, this news will affect you in different ways. Certain parties will be ecstatic, and others will go into a fetal position under a table whispering "dear God, no, I can't takes no mo..." over and over again.

It turns out that Producer-Boy Extraordinaire decided to buy out the rights to Local Bruisers owned by PBS that it was holding in conjunction with New Horizons. So once the deal gets approved by finance this Friday, my movie will be a considered a 100% New Horizons Media production. There are many possibilities as to why the hell Ken would take such a risk on my film:

1. There is a very tangible future financial gain to be made by owning the movie.
2. Ken thinks I'm a freakin' genius.
3. He doesn't want his first project to be a failure, either.
4. He wants to stick it to PBS.
5. He wants to stick it to me.
6. He's that rich, crazy Texan uncle from the Flintstone's who buys stuff for no reason.

So there you go. The movie is not dead. But I am. Because why would I continue with this film without the confidence that it will turn out well?

Can you convince me that you can perform again without the abject look of utter fear on your face that permeates every so-called "intimate" scene you have?

Can you convince me that there will be no more dramatic histrionics?

Can you convince me that you will be professional both on and off the set?

Can you convince me that your performance will be better? That you can internalize a scene so it at least has a semblance of honesty?

Can you convince me that you will ACT and not just go through the motions?

Can you convince me that you will not let your goddamn personal life and personal morality destroy the camaraderie that is so important to this production?

I have no personal assurances, nor do I seek them out. I am still tired and hurt, folks.

Oh, what the hell. Convince me.

With love and cuddles,
Director-Boy

I'd Rather Have a Bottle In Front of Me Than of A Frontal Lobotomy

Bad, bad, bad, bad mood. First post in 4 months. Thank God nothing important happened...oh wait, except my sex change and the demise of Local Bruisers. Haha.

So the slow, agonizing death of Local Bruisers goes on interminably. Funding has been terminated as of last week Friday; can you say hallellujah, Mr. Bush? Now will I even get my raw footage back? I guess that's for the suits to decide.

Nothing much to say. No one really to blame. Well, actually, there are definitely people to blame, but what's the use?

Yesterday I hooked up my Ipod to the computer and blared Matisyahu while I fixed the kids their dinner. When I came out of the kitchen, they were sitting in front of the computer, big smiles on their faces, head bobbing to the beat. If the sight of one's children rockin' out to the groovy sounds of a white, Hasidic Jewish reggae artist doesn't put a smile on your face, by God, nothing will.