The martini

It’s 11:00 p.m. In about four hours, if everything goes as planned, Tim McCann will yell “Cut!” Then, Bob Gosse will announce, “It’s a wrap! That is a wrap for the feature film, RUNAWAY BOYS!”


I’m sorry that I haven’t done a very good job at keeping all of you in the loop as production has progressed. In the end, the whole time I have been run, run, running so fast and furious. Either that, or when I have had a minute to sit down and try and post something, my brain simply shuts down and my fingers refuse to move.

All I can say tonight, in fact, is this. I haven’t quite processed through it all yet, but I can feel a monster glob of emotion bulding up inside of me. Right now, it’s still a relatively calm rumbling, but in the next…hours? days? it’s going to build up to a TNT-level explosion. …And it’s not gonna be pretty.

It’s strange. I can’t quite explain it, except in the imortal words of Inigo Montoya in THE PRINCESS BRIDE:


I mean, that’s it, right? For..geeze! Three years now…I have been single-mindedly focused on making this movie a reality. And now…saying that I’m “making” a movie is no longer valid. Now it’s I’ve “made” a movie. Wow… Wow… Wow… It’s in the can. On Thursday, at the wrap party, I’m gonna see the first glimpse of footage stitched together. Ikes!

Anyway, it feels very strange. Like…I’m almost scared for it to end because–for just how ready I’ve been to make this happen and to move past it–what am I gonna do now? And I get worried that I am due for some MF’ing serious post-partem depression jag after I get back home.

Then, I remember what Westley said back to Inigo…

Hmph…I hadn’t thought about that.

Can I get back to you in a week?

For now, ‘night all. Screw all this philosophical B.S. I’ve got the rest of my life to be depressed ’cause my freakin’ movie’s in the can. In 3 1/2 hours, my movie’s gonna be in the can, and I am going to PAR-TAY LIKE A ROCK STAR!

Peace out.