It’s evening and it’s nice out. That’s a plus. I’m sitting at Starbucks with the laptop out for the first time in ages – and thankfully no one is here (yet) to drag me into (often needed distracting) conversation. I can remember sitting in this exact same spot typing up a storm about the Indiana primary and other things back a few months ago – back when the days were waxing, not waning – and I could look forward to the sun taking longer to say goodbye. I apparently get really bummed at any indication that summer is going – probably because it always means that winter is coming. Winter was bad last year – 7 months bad.

I’ve come to the conclusion the past couple of weeks that my For Travis Preston script is trash. Call it the last minute saving realization before pouring a few grand into shooting it. Call it another example of me chickening out and not actually getting out there with a crew, cast, camera and plan. Or call it my absolute obsessive commitment to not throw together trash just because I want shoot something.

Regardless of the cause – as Adrian finishes up the Myst script, I’m trying to pull a redeeming concept out from the depths of my bowels to give FTP some sort of through-line so it’s not the spaz of a ten-minute mess that it seems to be. It has good moments – it has its own language and charm. But it’s missing something, and everyone agrees.

So, in the meantime of wading through life and work and stuff — I’ll be throwing darts into the darkened realm of existentialism to see if I can pop a balloon.

Maybe I’ll get a corn dog on the way home.