NEOBlog: Canonically Irrelevant

My current living situation following my departure from Santa Barbara has enabled me to have my first taste of constantly being on the road. As a resident of a city that is 20 miles away from the festive mothercity, which is itself another 10 or so from filmland, I have come to know something that I haven't really had to experience since my days at Fairmont: the commute. Growing up in the Los Angeles metropolitan area, albeit in the upper-class echelon of its vicinity more commonly known to Fox-watchers as "The OC," I learned to accept the inevitability of the necessity of commuting. For the first chunk of my time at Fairmont I rode the aptly named school bus, which meant that I had to be at the stop in Whittier a good hour before school began. This was greatly shortened to 20 minutes with my acquiring of more Southern Californian method of transport, a car, in my sophomore year. Yet with the deregulation of my morning schedule came my first experience with the intricacies and complicated nature of rush hour travel. Leaving at 7:35 became my prime departure time due to the nature of the 5 freeway at the time I arrived there, however on times that I left earlier I discovered that I was met with significantly less traffic.

These slight inconsistencies later paved the way for my acceptance of the common Los Angeles description of time between any two places within the city as "20 minutes." Indeed, in my head I am 20 minutes away from Fairmont, Jon's house, Julia's old dorm, Angel Stadium, the Block, the Fullerton train station, Birch street (on a bad day), and even downtown Los Angeles (on a good day), despite the fact that the distance of these locations from my residence vary widely. Another important thing that I incorporated into my figures of distance was the "-with traffic" suffix which denotes my estimated arrival time (of 20 minutes) with the added exception of more time should I be "caught in traffic." Traffic in Los Angeles, as you know if you've ever lived here, varies exceedingly wildly depending on time of day, time of year, time on Tom Cruise's Scientology clock, and the positioning of the harvest moon in the sky. Thus, traffic is an every day occurrence and only rarely does it not occur. In my frequent trips to and from Santa Barbara I have attempted to establish a reliable time to travel when I do not get stuck in traffic. I have failed in most of my attempts, thus it takes me anywhere from 1 hour and 50 minutes to 5 and a half hours to make the journey. Even at 10 o' clock on a Sunday I managed to encounter traffic in Hollywood. Where are people going at 10 o' clock on a Sunday? I guess I'm not "in" the industry deep enough to understand.

This discussion of traffic, while longer than I intended, leads into my intended topic. A little while ago I made the journey from The Orange County to Santa Barbara with a stopover in Century City for a job interview. My interview was at the unorthodox time of 5 o' clock on a Friday, so naturally assuming there would be traffic, I left my house at 3. To my surprise, I found that no traffic awaited me on the 5, despite the fact that two weeks prior I had left my house at the exact same time in the exact same direction and experienced traffic from Norwalk to San Fernando (about 35 miles). This unexplainable difference led me to arrive at my destination a full hour early, thus enabling me some time to cruise around Beverly Hills (looking for, admittedly, a Jamba Juice). Having reach Santa Monica Boulevard I invariably entered into the most traffic I had experienced all day. Somewhat bewildered, I remained in traffic until I decided that I should forgo the smoothie for after the interview. At the point when I was about to turn, however, I discovered that the cause of the traffic was the reduction of lanes to accommodate a funeral procession that was about to start. No sooner was I turning than a casket, accompanied by mourners, flash bulbs, and policemen came out of a church and headed towards the street. Only later did I discover this to be the funeral of producer Merv Griffin, accompanied by a plethora of famous people, including the governor, Pat Sajak, Alex Trebek, and Nancy Reagan (who I recognized as someone famous but didn't identify who immediately). Only in Los Angeles would a funeral cause such a commotion, and only there would I drive by and think, "oh, famous person died," and continue on my way.

Following my interview I once again departed on the road, taking the treacherous 405 out into the valley. Again, I was confounded at the lack of traffic. This did not last, however, and I ran into traffic upon my approach to Camarillo, of all places (long time readers of this blog will know of my affectation for the city). This traffic lasted for quite some time, and I became eager to know the cause of it. Eventually I discovered that the cause was not an accident, as I predicted, but instead a lone stalled car, in the center divider. The car itself did not appear to be in any sort of condition that would encourage rubbernecking, instead it's two attractive female passengers, straight up from LA and perched on the divider with arms folded and blonde hair flowing in the breeze, were enough to cause a traffic backup for a good 10 miles.

God Bless America.

I do look forward to experiencing more of the quirks that makes Los Angeles' mass freeway system so amazing, and hopefully in my commuting travels between home and my new job in Century City will provide me with more fodder for reflection on the state of this great city. That, or I'll end up going nuts and taking the metrolink. Read entire post...

For all who are interested (as well as those who aren't)...here's a little status update on my current situation.

I graduated from UCSB back in June, and officially finished up my classes two weeks ago. I've thus moved back home to Orange County until I get some money and job experience. I've had one interview thus far (meh), and I've got another one tomorrow and yet another on Friday... hopefully something good comes of either of them. Until then I'm stuck in THE OC with not much to do. I'm still editing Brains and Brawn, and I'm also looking to start writing again. I'm not quite ready for the "big project" that I have in my head so I want to see if I can do some shorts first. Also it'd be cool if anyone else is doing something that I can help on. I'd be more than willing to help out. I think it'd be a good idea if we formed a network so we always know what's going on with each other.

NEOFilm wise, I've sold out of the first run of Open Toes DVDs, with more on the way. I'm really impressed at how quickly I went through 50 DVDs. It's great that so many people were interested in the show.

I've also finished my NEOShorts, Volume One DVD, which contains every short film that I've done...ever. It's doubling as my reel so there's even some stuff from Vincent Lin Must Die! and Brains and Brawn on there. I'll be putting that up on my site as well.

Anyway, that's what's going on with me. I'll be up in Santa Barbara from time to time, including this weekend. Keep in touch. Read entire post...

It is with grave condolences that I must report that Alice, my laptop of almost three years, has resolutely died for good. After a three day battle that involved having her innards ravaged with methodical probing tools and fingers, it was finally determined that Alice could not be saved. At around 3:25 PM, Alice had her hard drive removed for salvaging, and the withered, battered yet tough shell that remained was cast off into the depths of the metaphorical recycling bin.

Alice had her memory wiped twice, and her original hard drive died in June, however she kept on persisting. She had cracks and holes, but still contained lots of important data and was always a constant companion. Alice is survived by a five year old DELL Dimension desktop affectionately dubbed Winston.

She's being replaced by a sexy DELL XPS M1210. I'm pretty sure I can manage.

Read entire post...

Open Toes is a film currently in production as part of the Film and Media Studies 106 production course. The plot revolves around the segregation between two gangs at UCSB, the Rainbows and the Reefs, and a love story that emerges between two star-crossed lovers from opposing sides. The following is Part 1 of a series of entries about the production of the movie by writer Nick Ochoa. It is completely factual.

For those of you who don't know, I'm making another movie. Well, I wrote it, anyway; other people are making it, but that's besides the point. In late summer of 2006 I responded to a cry for assistance by one Sarah Dietrich, a charismatic producer with a movie idea hot off the presses. This producer had a dream - a dream of an epic tale whose effects would span multiple generations of Santa Barbarians, much as the Bible influenced several generations of Christian fundamentalists. She had a dream of a biting satire of a segregated society, whose very rivalry depended on such minuscule issues as what they wore on their feet. Indeed, this was a tale true to every form of segregation known to man (and only man). This tale was about the bitter rivalry between those who wear Rainbow sandals and those who wear Reef sandals.

It was to this vision that I answered the call. Sitting down with the starry-eyed producer for hours upon end over endless amounts of hot cocoa and cocaine, I learned of the epic nature of her vision.

"Unfortunately," she said to me, "I cannot translate my thoughts into words. This...is where I need you."

Such candor I had never seen before. "I'll take the case!" I shouted. I fervently began writing what I could of her dream, but condensing a 5 hour epic with a star cast (including Morgan Freeman as narrator) and battle scenes that rivaled Return of The King in choreography and extras down to a mere twenty minutes was no easy task. Night after night I walked along the cliffs for inspiration, searching for a muse from whom I could channel creative energy. Alas, the sea was a cold mistress, and I succeeded only in getting my laptop wet. I spiraled into a whirlwind of 60s-era depression, complete with the funky colors and Strawberry Alarm Clock playing in my head, and tried so many combinations of narcotics that I was close to becoming more dead than Steve Irwin in a tank full of stingrays.

And yet, I pressed on. After disappearing from society for more than a month, I emerged from the depths of Isla Vista with a script whittled down to thirty minutes. I debated with myself for literally hours, trying to figure out what had to be cut for the sake of sanity. Ultimately, it was the ten minute sex ghost orgy that concluded the film which had to be left on the cutting room floor. Heartbroken but confident, I returned to Sarah Dietrich with her vision faithfully translated to a Microsoft Word document. I'll never forget the words that she uttered to me upon receipt of the stack of paper.

"That's fine, whatever."

It was my finest hour. With script in hand, we jubilantly marched off towards the film pitches, prepared to tackle whatever obstacles would come our way. Little did we know that the obstacles we encountered made the obstacles surrounding world piece look like a 4th grade obstacle course (you know, with the tires, stolen street cones, hopscotch chalk, etc).

Next: The Crew! Read entire post...

Here at the University of California, Santa Barbara, once a year there comes along a special event that takes the world by storm. It's an event that everyone plans for at LEAST a month in advance. Chances are that if you live in this blissful community of Isla Vista, you have had at least three friends from out of town ask if they could stay with you over this gallant weekend of tomfoolery. Yes, dear people, I'm referring...to HALLOWEEN.

Halloween is a time of year for everyone to escape the horrors that are the first four weeks of college. After all, who can bear going to 2 classes a day, 4 days a week, and only staying awake in half of them? I sure as hell can't. And what's up with scheduling all these midterms around the weekend? How dare they put ANYTHING on week 5 of a 10 week quarter! It's like I'm in...college or something. Moreover, Halloween is an excuse to walk around outside in nothing but a large t-shirt, call it a costume, and only be mildly assaulted for it. I admit that 1 out of the 3 ideas I had for Halloween costumes was to go out with a hairdryer and call myself "Hairdryer Man", but at least that's got some ingenuity and class. And I immediately respect anyone that goes out as an eskimo (and by that I don't mean a slutty eskimo, or a slutkimo, as I like to call it), because let's face it, you'll be a lot better off than someone who's a half-naked pirate.

While we're on the topic of slutty costumes...what's the deal with slutty costumes? I mean, aside from the obvious "look at me, I do lots of coke and weigh 80 lbs and have a hot body" aspect of it, has anyone thought about the historical liberties that "slutty" costumes take? Let's not forget that what we Gen Y-ers think of as promiscuous has only been the case for about 40 or so years. I'm pretty sure that in the arrr-ful pirate eras of the 1700s, a woman who was on a pirate ship was most definitely NOT a pirate, but more of a sex-slave to the large, ale-swigging captain of the ship, which is definitely NOT what the women of today are going for. The same goes for other historically inaccurate costumes, such as slutty nuns, slutty nurses, slutty astronauts, slutty prostitutes, and slutty ninjas. If you do, however, decide to dress up as a slutty Ann Coulter...well, I have no complaints about that.

My favorite part about Halloween is how many diverse people I meet while wandering the streets. There is nothing more enjoyable than to see someone peeing on a parked car, walking up to him, and then finding out that he's from UCSD. I think it's great that San Diegans come up here to pee on our cars, really. Upon further interviewing, you can discover all sorts of information from our out-of-town friends. People come to IV for various reasons, including "banging hot UCSB chicks," "getting piss ass drunk," "assaulting the police horses," and "banging hot UCSB chicks." I think it's great that IV attracts such a diverse crowd, and I for one always get a bit of a rush when I see Embarcadero del Sur clogged with cars trying to naively drive down to "The DP," and it really impresses me that so many people would drive for hours just to get "hella drunk" and possibly have drunken intercourse with someone who's probably not even from Santa Barbara. Anything that can make our population rival that of a World Series game for a 6 day period is A-ok with me. Congrats to the Cards, by the way.

In summary, I don't think the county does a good enough job of promoting Halloween in Isla Vista. Just think of the revenue they can get by putting up a toll booth on Storke and El Colegio and charging people $1 to go through. Forget Measure D. I think Arnold should make IV tolls a top priority for his campaign...I know he'd get my vote. Also, the county could set up a booth and have a "Sluttiest slut" costume contest. It could be a family event. Hell, it IS Halloween, promote child trick-or-treating! Afterwards, the kids could ride police horses down the street and take pictures of the lines of arrested people (including Dad, who swore she was 18). Fun for the whole family!

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go prepare my "slutty Thomas Jefferson" costume. Read entire post...

Yes, dear readers, the lack of entries over the last month is due to the phenomenon commonly known as "writer's block". You see, this occurs when the brain decides that you've been too creative for your own good, and thus cannot risk overloading your mind-circuits with excess creativity, thus the creative sectors of your brain shut down. Nevertheless, I haven't done anything creative in a few weeks, so I'm guessing it's just taking my brain a little bit of overtime to return to normal. Trust me, I have this really great piece on George Washington vs. Cornwallis that I want to do. No really. It'll be fun.

I'm working on updating my website, as the front page has been a Vincent Lin Must Die! promo for quite some time, and the movie's already premiered. I'm finishing up the DVD version, all I need is to get the Glassman's in studio for some commentary, and I'll be set. Other than that, the new version of the website will let those interested know about what my next projects are.

I'll be back in Santa Barbara on Sunday, so my "OC" time is limited. That's right, SB, I'm coming back, baby. Read entire post...

I'm offerring this challenge on my MySpace, so I thought, "hey, I haven't done a blog entry in awhile, what a great opportunity!"

Guess all 21 of my favorite movies in the image below and win a prize.



...If you're viewing this through Facebook, be warned that I don't have them all listed on my favorites up there. I know I should. But I don't. Anyway, You have to match the picture to the movie as well, not just name all the movies. C'mon! Read entire post...

Lyndon Johnson burst into the president's bedroom.

"Now see here, Johnson," exclaimed John F. Kennedy, the 35th President of the United States, "it's 10 in the morning on a Sunday, what's the big idea barging in here like this?"

Marilyn Monroe rolled over on her side, resting her arms on Kennedy's lap. "Who is it, Jack?" she drolled.

"Well it's just Lyndie, Marilyn. You'd better get yourself cleaned up, Jacqueline might come back from Church any moment now."

"Oh, alright, darling," said Marilyn, as she kissed the Presidents ear.

"Now, ah, what was so important that you had to come barging in here, Johnson? You know this is Marilyn Hour."

"Sir, it's the Cubans. They have missiles. Lots of them. And they're pointed right at us," replied the Vice President.

"What? The Cubans? Missiles? Well, ah, Johnson, that sounds like we have a darn crisis on our hands. Better get me a hot cup o' Joe, and bring in Lincoln's portrait, will ya?"

"Yes sir," replied Johnson. Kennedy turned all business following this encounter, and quickly shooed out Marilyn Monroe. The President rushed out of his bedroom in such a hurry that he forgot to put on his pants, however seeing the President pantsless in the early hours of a Sunday morning was not unheard of. On his way to the oval office, Kennedy was greeted by his Secretary of Defense, Robert S. McNamara.

"Howdy there, Rob, you heard about this, ah, Cuban Missile Crisis thing?"

Robert S. McNamara huffed. "Yeah, those damn commies are trying to wipe us clean off the map."

"I know what you mean, Rob. It's a damn shame. They've got a better space program, more missles, and finer women. I tell ya, if I ever get tired of this job as, ah, president, I'm gonna fake my own assassination like Lincoln did and move to the Soviet Union, get me a servant-hooker-girl, and, ah, you know, participate in the glorious wonder that is organized Marxist Socialism."

Suddenly, John Kennedy's brother, Robert Kennedy, came lurking out of the shadows, carrying a handle of Russian vodka. "Jack," he stammered.

"Well, ah, if it isn't my little brother Bobby. Isn't a little too early in the morning to be, ah, drinking?" exclaimed the President.

"I got it from Teddy," said Robert Kennedy, "he told me I would need this if I was to end up fightin' ya."

"Oh, so it's come to this again, has it? A little of the ol' sibling rivalry, eh?" Just then, Lyndon Johnson returned with the President's coffee in one hand and a portrait of Abraham Lincoln on the other. "Ah, good, thanks Lyndie." John Kennedy grabbed the portrait and held it out in front of him. "You did great wonders for the American people, Abraham, and you're the only good Republican I know. On my dead baby Patrick's eternal spirit, I pray to you to give me the power to, ah, vanquish the Cubans and my little brother."

The Lincoln portrait immediately began glowing, and it emitted a beam of light that covered the President from head to toe. He stood there taking it all in, laughing in his glory.

"Well this is fucking amazing, Johnson!" he exclaimed. With that, the President tossed aside the portrait, charged at his brother, and slammed his iron fist into Robert Kennedy's jaw, sending him flying into the Red Room. Kennedy turned to his Vice President. "Lyndie, get me Khrushchev on the phone, and tell him he that if he disarms the missiles, I'll make sure that this Cold War lasts until 1991, and I'll come over there to, you know, help him running the country in a few years. Heck, I'll even through in Marilyn and my brother Bobby."

"Of course, sir!" emphatically excliamed Johnson, and he skipped merrily into the War Room.

Robert S. McNamara stood in awe of John Kennedy. "You sir, are the greatest negotiator in the history of the world."

And with that, John F. Kennedy ended the Cuban Missle Crisis. Read entire post...

[EDIT] I know this looks funny on Firefox at the moment. I'm seeing what I can do to fix it.

You might say I left my heart in San Francisco.

After months of uncertainty, Jon and I finally managed to make it up to the Bay Area this past weekend, albeit not on a road trip, but in an airplane. This unfortunate situation led me to declare the road trip as officially starting when Andrew picked us up in San Jose, and lasted for about 30 minutes as he drove us to his Stanford residence in Palo Alto. It then picked up again by means of trains and buses the following day, and culminated in the drive from Millbrae to Palo Alto the day after that. Nevertheless, it was still a fun experience overall. What follows is a typical description of my adventures in classic Trip Report format.

Upon our arrival in Palo Alto, it became apparent that our sleeping space over two of the following three nights would be relative small and crowded. Andrew, of course, remained in his own bed, while Jon and I wriggled uncomfortably together on the ground in a totally non-gay manner, with about three inches separating us from a Brokeback-esque emasculation scene. Obviously with my known sleeping issues, I failed to achieve sleep and eventually moved out into the common room and crashed on the couch, unseating its occupant and effectively blocking off the path for those who had to wake up early.

The next morning I was stept on by Andrew on his way out for work, and thusly amused myself with a bowl of oatmeal while Jon sleepily arose from his restful slumber. Following our individual grooming we subsequently headed out towards the sparkling gem of a city that is San Francisco, utilizing a shuttle, commuter train, light rail, a streetcar, feet, and a bus before reaching our destination at the north end of the city. If you're interested, we took the shuttle bus from Stanford to the Palo Alto Caltrain station, from which we took the train to its terminus on the south end of the city. Following a brief stop at Quiznos, we boarded the MUNI N line around the ports to Market Street, at which point we took the tourist-laden streetcar F line down Embarcadero to Fisherman's Wharf. We then walked across Fort Mason and boarded bus 28 to the Golden Gate Bridge. If you're not interested, just forget everything you just read. At the bridge, I let Jon talk me into walking its entire length, which was interesting and fun except for the part where we had to make the return trip. By the time we returned, my feet hurt and I was hungry, however Andrew was finished with work and met up with us at chocolate haven Ghiradelli Square. Following a red meat-laden meal, we walked to North Beach, the Italian part of the city, checked out the hipster City Lights bookstore, and then continued on into the Financial District where I ostensibly attempted to locate a restroom for the public amongst the lofty skyscrapers. If you're interested, there's one on the 3rd floor of an Asian bank building across the street from the Transamerica Tower. There's also one in the nearby Starbucks, but the guy I was waiting for to leave the restroom is probably still in there.

Our endeavour ended at our hotel of choice (Ramada) in SOMA, which was split into two buildings across from each other with a sketchy street between them. Of course we were put into the secondary building. Following check-in, my dear friend Julia arrived in suburbanite minivan (driven by her friend Mira) and took us to the modernized Brea Mall of San Francisco, where we ate at a food court. After much pronging and speculation, she then took us to the best place she could think of for entertaining Orange County-based tourists: The Castro District. For those unfamiliar with San Francisco, Castro is the GAY district. My lofty Republican reader-base just left my blog. In Castro I experienced a new sort of shop, namely, the male sex shop. It was a life-changing experience to be sure. Following these mis-adventures we decided to leave for places north, and at the insistance of Mira, ended up with cereal and milk at Julia's midscale house. This lasted a short while, however with our hotel being effectively across the city, we were forced to leave relatively early and retire for the night.

In the morning I left Jon and Andrew at the Ramada and successfully tackled the MUNI system in an attempt to reach the Filmore District, which I hoped would be better than the president it was named after. Luckily it turned out to be so, and I met Julia at a non-chain coffee shop (read: NOT Starbucks) for an enlightening conversation on yuppies, city life, and male sex shops. I said goodbye to her for at least a month and a half and made my way back to Ramada, where I learned that Jon and Andrew had gone to said coffee chain themselves a little while earlier. As we left the city, I left behind fond memories and gained a somewhat confusing feeling over personal matters, which obviously won't be explained in a public blog. This isn't Xanga.

I can safely NOT recommend You, Me, and Dupree. I make mistakes, I know, and we should've seen The Devil Wears Prada. But I was in the mood for something light. The movie doesn't know what genre it's going for and as such fails to successfully court the Owen Wilson slapstick genre and the Kate Hudson romantic genre. Why Matt Dillon, after starring in the mildly good Crash, chose to go with this movie is somewhat bewildering, but all three actors did well. A really old looking Michael Douglas is in it too, but don't expect an American President. He's pretty much just an old douchebag. The movie gets a 5/10 from me. It's sometimes funny, and sometimes romantic, but not enough to really succeed in either genre.

As for the rest of the trip, it was fairly uneventful, with the highlight being a semi under the influence romp around Stanford at midnight, much to the chagrin of people attempting to study (on a Saturday, for that matter) in the library. Upon our return to the room, noisy party aftermath accompanied my desire to sleep, which had to fulfilled for our early flight the next day. On the way out, I declared the road trip over, and bid farewell to my Stanfordian friend for a few weeks, boarded the plane with Jon, and flew back to the shelters of Orange County.

But as I said, I left my heart in San Francisco. Read entire post...

Just wanted to let you guys know that my website has undergone a temporary face lift. That's all. Read entire post...