Mad Cat

I'm 86 pages into my third editing pass.

I keep telling myself.  I will cut it to the required page length, I will cut it to the required page length, I will cut it to the required ...

And I will.  So far, I've cut 116 pages.  I'm down to 117.  I've got 27 pages to cut before I start on the last act.

                         *     *     *

I'm worried.

Yesterday, I catch Sir Knavely pounding away at the keyboard. 

I open the apartment door, and there he is.  

I could have sworn that he hit SAVE.  Just before he bounced off to his water bowl. 

I stand at the computer and stare.  There's the screen.  There's Sir Knavely eating from his bowl. 

And I've just gotten home from work. 

I look down at the mail I've just pulled out of my mailbox.  Only seconds ago.

So I set everything down.

I sit down at the computer.  I open up search and run all the files.  There's no document saved under Sir K, Knavely, Sir, whatever.

                         *     *     *

It's impossible.  The idea that he could even type. 

Bah. 

Humbug.

                         *     *     *

But last night, I kept having the same dream. 

I'm sitting at the foot of a large desk.  Above me, a gigantic cat sits at a keyboard.  He's pounding away.  Occasionally he looks down at me.

I shake my head and I'm looking over his shoulder at the screen.

Omigod.  He's writing a letter, telling all the gory details of what it's like to live with a screenwriter.

One who's who's writing a horror film about the French Inquisition.  Eternal love.  A Vampire Priest.

This all sounds very familiar.

                         *     *     *

As if I'm ever going to believe it. 

No cat can actually type.  Or write.

And my life is far too uninteresting to reveal. 

I've obviously been spending way too much time alone.  Time to get out more.

                         *     *     *

Last night, when I wasn't dreaming of a Vampire Cat, I kept getting a whiff of a certain brand of cancer sticks.

Morley's.

This morning, I found a crumpled pack of them outside my door.

Okay.  So I've been watching too many episodes of The X Files. 

So why did The Cigarette Smoking Man's face appear in the mirror when I tried to shave this morning?

I thought I'd come back in the next life as Mulder.  Or maybe Scully.

Not Cancer Man.  Help!

                         *     *     *

There's an old joke that ran in The Los Angeles Times today. 

Three men show up at the Pearly Gates:  Bill Clinton, Dick Nixon, and Pope Benedict.

St. Peter meets them.  He points to Clinton.

"Slick Willy!  In my office.  Now!"

Bill disappears into the office with St. Peter.

Four hours later, Clinton stumbles out, tears running down his cheeks.

"How could I have been so wrong?" he cries.  He walks into heaven, living proof of Christ's mercy.

St. Peter next crooks a finger at Tricky Dick.

"You.  Now!"

Nixon walks into the office.  It's EIGHT hours before he comes out, exhausted, drained, crying.

"How could I have been so wrong?"  An angel leads him off to heaven, another miracle of God's mercy.

"RATZINGER!" cries St. Peter.  "In my office.  Now!"

So Pope Benedict XVI goes in. 

Twelve hours later, St. Peter comes stumbling out.  "How could I have been so wrong?"he cries.

                         *     *     *

She emailed me yesterday.  A former student, Shannon Howard.

She did an internship her in Los Angeles at E! last summer, and she was calling to let me know she's moving back to Brentwood for the summer on May 16. 

Hopefully to do another internship in the business.

She's also looking for a job. 

I told her about a producer I know who might be interested in hiring her.

She was happy.  I was happy.  Whoever gets her is going to be very grateful.

Shannon was my drama club president when I ran the drama program at Hoover High School in North Canton.

In twenty shows, I've never directed a better comedic actress.  Her timing is impeccable.