WANTED: SWF WITH WHIP

I have a problem. No, not with that! I don't need Sexaholics Anonymous. I need help with this little procrastination thing. I seem to be able to find so many things to do to avoid writing, which I've declared to the gods as the priority in my life. Instead of spending an eight-hour work day at the keyboard I find myself surfing the internet, staring blindly at the bookshelf, or offering to vacuum my neighbor's floor. And while my personal research on "The Benefits Of Afternoon Napping" is going quite well, I have inadvertantly become an expert at avoidance. With this conundrum staring me boldly in the face, I thought I'd better do something about it. And then I thought, "Maybe later." (Oh, God; I really do need help.) So then I thought: Why not get an expert in discipline? Yes, a dominatrix! Who better to help me crack the whip than some leather-bound diva with an anger problem?

Or, maybe I need an ecclesiastical approach. (Religion certainly can't hurt...can it?) Yes, that's it. I need an angel. "Send me an angel...Send me an angel, right now..." Remember that ultra-80's pop hit? Remember the parachute pants that came - and went - with it? That's precisely how I feel at this moment: first, I need someone to bitch-slap me and say, "What the fuck were you thinking?!?" and, second, to - you guessed it - send me an angel. (Right now. Right now.) For, try as I may, I can't seem to be self-disciplined. I don't have a writing schedule, as all the experts so heartily recommend. I only write when I feel the muse or the pressure of a deadline. But I know that I should be more organized and disciplined.

Wait. Maybe it's just Catholic guilt. For even with all of the ridiculous spinning and time-wasting, I have actually managed to be pretty darned productive. In the last year, for example, I did complete two screenplays with my writing partner, Michael (Phobic & Snooze); write and produce the sold-out stage production of Rough Copy in New York with my comedy partner, Kali; bury my Mom; and, move across the country. "Not to shabby," says my very own Inner Adam Sandler with a charming grin and a strum of the ukulele.

Maybe it's a juggling problem; maybe I have to many balls in the air. (True, this would the perfect spot for a lovely picture of a clown. But, as we all know, clowns are evil; and so, they have no place in The Chill.) Yes, maybe I just have unrealistic expectations. It certainly wouldn't be the first time. (See reference to Mr. Little, in "Six Degrees of Sarah Jessica.") Maybe, like Fat Bastard, I just have too much on my plate. My current menu reads something like this: Appetizer~Meditate; Salad~Stretch; Main Course~work on new screenplay with Michael while marketing first two scripts and producing "Rough Copy" for podcast with Kali; Dessert~write blog, learn Final Cut, and launch website. All while working those now infamous 13-hour shifts in the emergency room at County and trying to squeeze out a social life.



Whew - I'm worn out from just typing that list. But, this column (and my life) is not Bitchfest or Whinapalooza. Far from it, because I am actually enjoying myself. I get the shits & giggles every time I post to The Chill and surf for the approriate visual accoutrements. And when people respond? I love it. (I bow to you now, Dear Readers.) And despite the apparent inertia, things really are moving. Just the other day at a networking event at Raleigh Studios on Melrose, I met with a very bright (and personable) producer from New Line Cinema who really seemed to like "Snooze." So maybe this track really is just fine, excessive juggling and over-eating included. That's a nice thought and one that I can certainly live with. But, maybe I could still order the dominatrix. Just for kicks...