Belgian Chocolate Milk Society

I’m a firm believer that you create magic all around you just by being yourself and giving in to your more adorable base urges. My groundless need to drink Belgian chocolate milk at Whole Foods’ yesterday lead to our naming of our writer’s collective after the silky, delicious carraggean filled desert milk.

As for the collective itself, well… aside from the fact that we never actually got to my or Fizz’s submissions for group critique, it was interesting. There were a few rules set in place that made the game more like a complex writing exercise than a natural critique. First a little background info, everyone submitted a minimum of either 2 pages of a story or 5 pages of a screenplay. There were five of us and we allotted about three hours for this first meeting.

The rules were simple but evolving; when your story is being discussed there is a cone of silence in effect for the writer. Only after the group has thoroughly exhausted all possible suggestions is the writer then allowed to put everything in context. It was a flawed but somehow more thrilling version of a think tank: an imagine tank. How can you critique two pages of the barest traces of an idea? You just make shit up stream of consciousness style -sometimes interjecting with a savvy pop culture reference to make yourself seem smart. Though to be fair, I think all my self aggrandizing references were useful observations. I’m sure everyone thinks theirs were useful observations too.

It almost feels like training for working on the writing staff for a show like The Office. The humor that came out of our interactions was honestly funnier than anything we were writing. I mean, there were two Brians there. Myself and a bearded fellow. We couldn’t decide how to differentiate between us. Do they call me, boo? No. No one outside of my Japanese rock world calls me that. It’s a nickname from a very specific time and place that belongs to history. Incidentally, I can’t wait ’til my daughter cocks her head up at me quizzically and asks me why that man called me ‘boo.’ We tried out Stewdog, but it came at the expense of everyone’s dignity. Every time JB used it on me I wanted to pound back a brewski and belch like a frat boy. It got so ridiculous that I eventually told them to call me Stevesie or Steve Z, which was supposed to be a sly The Life Aquatic reference but got a laugh for, what I believe, are other non Wes Anderson related reasons. Uncultured barbarians.

We’ve decided to meet again next week when my turn in the stocks will come. I may have a very different take on things then.

For now… Proost! (That’s Danish for Cheers!)

Get Real

Sup proud men and women of the Inu Nation? I just wanted to drop a quick line about the updates over the last several days. In an effort to hone my storytelling skills anew, I’ve begun writing essays again. Every time I have the urge to facebook, I’ll come here instead. Hopefully, when I have time, I’ll put some of these creative impulses into my format of choice, video. But until then Uncle boo’s old fashioned words n’ jpegs will have to suffice.

You’ll notice that this new batch of oven fresh entries get a lot more personal and a lot more real than my previous ones. With child on the way, the time for hiding behind walls is over. Or wait… maybe it’s just begun? Peek-a-boo…

I also started translating the new albums by Mr. Children and Bump of Chicken. I’m committed to finishing each although Bump may kill me with all their time slip, self introspection nonsense magic!