Good Night, L.A.

Two weeks of pretty much continuous day-job work and night-job writing (both of which I was actually getting paid for, as a nice change of pace) came to a close Friday with a good word from the production company that was paying for the writing, and I got home from work to find waiting for me, surprise of surprises, the new Bruce Springsteen album, four days before it's due to be released.

And as I walked to the corner store through the Los Angeles twilight, with the lights of nearby downtown reflecting off the haze like a Michael Mann setting, I was nearly overcome by the sudden feeling that I was approaching something great; that the writing I'd been doing for over eight years was finally bringing me somewhere, and that that somewhere was far closer than it had ever appeared before.

I went home, ate some pizza, drank some wine, read a good book, and listened to Bruce, and all felt right with the world.

An Open Rant to George Lucas

I could have dealt with the revamped sound effects. I could have dealt with the tweaked, overtly elaborate explosions. I might have been able to stomach the awkward and distracting CGI creatures shoehorned in for no apparent reason, other than you could. I might even possibly have been able to take, without vomiting, the godawful musical number in Jabba's Palace, or the replacement of my beloved closing Ewok rendition of the CSN classic, "Love the One You're With" with an inane world-music reject medley. I could have taken all that.

But damn your eyes, George Lucas, for slapping friggin' Hayden Christensen on the end of RETURN OF THE JEDI. Damn your eyes to Hades!