skonen_blades: (Default)
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off 2 Pitch:

The sound of Yello’s ‘Oh Yeah’ can be heard in blackness. Some ambient sound of shoes squeaking, some indistinct chatter. The sound of the Yello song becomes increasingly tinny and we realize that it’s on the radio. It fades and the radio announcer comes on announcing that it’s an 80s retro radio station in Chicago and starts to read a weather report for the day before someone clicks it off.

Voice 1: Ferris? Ferris? Dr. Jenkins!

The scene fades in an establishing shot of a care facility. The sign out front reads “Buffalo Grove Home for the Aged, Chicago Illinois”.

Dr Jenkins: What’s the matter? What’s wrong?

Voice 1: What’s wrong? For Christ sakes look at him. Ferris?

Dr Jenkins: Mr Bueller?

Closeup on Matthew Broderick’s face. He is old.

Matthew Broderick is an old man in an old folk’s home in a suburb of Chicago. He fakes a fever to get out of the day’s activities planned with the resident nurse. He calls his friend Cameron who is at a palliative care unit, unbeknownst to Ferris.

Cameron: I’m dying.

Ferris: You’re not dying. You just can’t think of anything fun to do.

Cameron: No, I’m literally dying. It’s stage 4 and it’s metastasized. I have a week at best.
Ferris escapes from the care facility and breaks bald, dying Cameron out of the hospital for a great day on the town in Chicago. One last day.

Cameron is quite rich but still lonely and sad. He’s resolute, however, and has managed to keep his father’s business thriving after taking the board from him at 21. He’s been the CEO of North Brook enterprises for forty years.

Ferris on the other hand, has wasted his life and squandered his potential. He’s gone from easy job to easy job, girl to girl, social group to social group, with the end effect that while he knows a lot of people and charms whomever he meets, he really doesn’t have his life together.

It’s filled with cameos from the original cast, some of today’s stars as Ferris and Cameron’s kids, a wonderful run-in with a bitter and furious Sloane Peterson, and a heart-warming bucket-list message about living life.

Either that or Ferris is dying after his life has petered out and Cameron is the long-game guy who now has tons of energy and comes to Ferris’s rescue?




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skonen_blades: (didyoujust)
It’s not about creating. It’s about dipping a ladle into the stream and pulling it out and spreading it around. Some ideas are like boats that keep you separate from the stream and some ideas turn the stream into a raging torrent that take away the boat and nearly drown you. But those times can be rare if you only keep on dipping in the ladle every day.

Writing is as much as act of taking the temperature of some unknowable, flowing, other universe as it is an act of creation. We are portals, not engines. We are doorways, not bonfires. We are created in the act of creation. We are canals, not points. We are not originators, merely floodgates. We are the loudspeaker, not the voice. We are tools of what could be referred to as the divine. We are not the sole holders of our pens when we write. We are not the sole stabbers of letters on the keyboard when we screenplay. We are not the sole graspers of our paintbrushes when we sweep across the canvas. All sculptures are merely uncovered.

Powers work through us. That is the biggest secret that world has to offer. The source does not originate inside us, it originates somewhere else. This is what we all sense. It’s disconcerting but it can also be freeing. In me, it seems benign. In others, it may be destructive. I see it as endemic to all and worthy of celebration.

It is not this other force that is capricious and fickle with its affections, it is US that constantly shut the door to the flow. We must remain open. We must remain supple and pliant. Or else we become hard and calcified long before we grow old. If we cannot help the stream to flow through us, then we are empty vessels.

Boats shaped like coffins ready to be shipped into the earth.



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skonen_blades: (whysure)
Hey bookshelf! How’s the bullet wound in your green shirt doing? Is the red ink flowing? Are you in debt? Do you fear the reaper? Does your wooden exoskeleton feel exposed to traitor arrows? Do bullets made from the same stuff at printing presses scare you? You are a hardcopy going softcover. Your spine is thinning. Heavy books covering heavy subjects are becoming fewer and fewer. You might even say that it’s become the twilight of an age when books about vampires are no longer sun-damaged and have lost their teeth to love.

As your subjects become lighter, you need less support. Oak bookshelves give way to plywood. Huge bookshelves are replaced by smaller ones. Periodicals disappear into phone lines and magazines grow in number to satisfy the shortened appetite-span of the average reader. We used to be locusts. Now we are full. Libraries are turning into uninhabited airships, becoming all homeless Bruce Wayne secret identity that no one even cares to know anymore. Cruise ships up to their necks in cat pictures.

They’ll join the billboard atlases and vintage spacesuits in the attention span vortex of the internet. They’d be better off becoming a vagina with a Mohawk. Crater photography and florist x-rays have no place in a society that no longer cares how things work. Even mechanics now dream of playing mechanics in movies. Famous is as famous does has become the reality television motto of every living soul not struggling for water in the third world.

If this is the year of the dragon, then maybe fire will descend from the clouds. Perhaps electricity will stop swallowing all the words and give us back some candlelight. Closets full of worlds will bloom again, cats will dream of whales, and black-eyed barbershop quartets will appear in park gazebos. Panda bears will roam condominium halls and ideas, precious ideas, will swarm like hornets dripping lust from the fertile minds of our young men and women. Each tickled fish will gives an artist year of pleasure.

Rubbing two ideas together can create a storm. Let the light bulb of your ideas give you enough illumination to write when it’s darkest. Because the sun is going down.



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skonen_blades: (heymac)
It’s a good life. Lola club, left on fourth, two blocks straight up to The Happy Clam, knock at the back door, tell Deborah the password (usually vulgar) and you’re in. No cops, no rules, no fire code, totally off the radar.

This is where we fix our machines. They’re pink and bulky but designed to look harmless like an Ipod or a non-stick toaster. The carapaces are easily removed. Revealed, deep inside, is the sinister reality of the warp cores. The glittering no-light they throw on the walls create dancing shadows of people that aren’t there. The rays are shuffled in time. It’s a creepy effect.

We have screwdrivers and belt loops for hammer handles. We have goggles and memorized manuals. We’re experienced technicians putting our babies together and customizing the shit out of them.

These are the world changers. We all live in Santa Barbara. The machines are handed down family lines or sometimes passed laterally to good friends.

Very rarely, a stranger is brought into the mix if there are no trustworthy or living people mentioned in the underground will and testament.

The last time a stranger was brought it was when they brought in me. Red Rebecca. They liked the cut of my jib, they said, and my cherry-red road hog. It’s not like I had anything better to do.

And to own my own world-changer? I snapped at the opportunity. Faked death, changed identity, and Robert was indeed my father’s brother. On paper, at least.

Now here we were in what we called The Lunchroom, loud sixties rock coming out of the old stereo on a milk crate in the corner. We sat at stolen picnic tables and worked hard. We smoked cigarettes and drank bourbon.

And concentrated. Underneath the music was the ratchet of ratchets and the wrenching of wrenches. Tools were traded and parameters were upgraded.

Adding the ideas came last. The warp core’s shell was unscrewed and the unending wormhole was left without a shield for six minutes while we focused our will on the glittering purple brilliance.

The ideas were funneled into the broadcasters. The machines were tricked out and packed up. They were stuffed back into purses, backpacks, and saddlebags.

We meet every week. We put the ideas out there. Whether they take root or not isn’t up to us but we’re doing the best we can.





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