Tuesday, June 21, 2011


I've been very negligent in my blogging.  Damn you, Twitter.  Damn your instantaneous, thoughtless, mind-numbing byte consumption.  At first 140 characters seemed like nothing... now, anything more, seems like too much.  

It is officially that time of year when my job increases exponentially.  No longer am I just working with my writers, breaking story and writing -- I am breaking story and writing, while juggling pre-production, production and post-production.  Which for most showrunners is manageable, but for an arrogant, single-minded, control freak like myself, it is SO demanding.  And yet, with the exception of my family, there is nothing that brings me more joy, satisfaction and esteem.  I bitch, kvetch and whine while swimming in a pool of gratitude.  And frequently, blood.

So far, the new season feels very potent.  We're back in Charming, we're out of jail and we're making money.  With that upswing, comes all the complications that success and power bring.  Season four is all about the club.  The personalities, the history, the alliances, the conflicts -- the inside dynamics of an organized outlaw enterprise.  Ego, greed, violence and fear reign supreme.  I'm halfway through the cut of 401 and it's pretty fucking badass.

On the subject of ego, greed violence and fear... I was gonna do a whole post about the upcoming Emmys.  My thoughts, my rants, my predictions.  But I gotta tell you... I'm exhausted by my own self-righteousness.  Really.  I have so many fucking opinions that feel so weighty and so relevant to the future of mankind, that I realized I'm just a fucking delusional downer.  I know that sounds extreme and I don't regret anything I've said, but lately I've become very aware that my angry outbursts serve no purpose other than to relieve some small amount of pressure from my obsessive need to be understood.  And by understood, I mean loved, worshiped and adored.  I'm not a dick.  Okay, not all the time.  For the most part, I'm a fairly reasonable dude, but when I take a hit off of any fucking injustice pipe, man, I am fucking hooked on a feeling.  High on believing, that you're in love with me.  Ouga Chaka.  

So, I've decided for the good of the village, it's best if I drop out of all award conversation.  Past, present and future.  And all critic/review conversation as well.  You see, I cannot separate myself from my work.  I try, but it's impossible.  If you say you like me, I fucking love you.  I want to drop to my knees and gargle your genitals until they're gold-dusted milk duds (I have no idea what that means).  But if you even remotely suggest you dislike something about me, I want you, your parents, your children and your pets to die a miserable, slow, painful, sexually-humiliating death.

I guess the point of this entry, other than to say I think fans are gonna dig season four, is to say that I now understand the shortcomings of my bombastic rants.  Although outrageous and entertaining to some, they really serve no greater good.  I'll never effect change with the word "cunt".  I really enjoy saying it, but I'll never make anything better with clever vitriol.  And I really want to be a guy who makes things better.  It's too fucking easy and god-lazy to be a destroyer.  Being a father has made that very clear to me.  

Tune in for more SOA updates.  And I wish my show and all others, success in the upcoming horse race.  

Of course you can't hold me to any of this when the nominations come in.   Ouga Chaka.