My one shot at The Big Time, stymied.

I have about five dreams a night when it's silent. Listening to the radio has become habitual for me so on the occasions that I do not it seems that a whole stream of strange ideas pop into my head. I was directing a music video, for whom I don't know. It was some new radio friendly, "punk" anthem band. Atypical to the poster boy concert footage, or shitty dubs and close-ups they had hired me to make a strictly animated video. I can't draw. Yet some how in the world of sleep I had achieved the goal of making a video they were satisfied with. It was a cartoon with character voiceovers throughout the song, of a raccoon, a monkey, and a weasel that had been kicked out of their parents' houses and were now wandering the city looking for their first jobs. All three unconcerned with this first shove into the world of responsibility, they cruised around in a Cadillac, trying to score some loot for cheap beer and weed. I kept asking the band if they were serious about the video, if it was what they really wanted. They couldn't stop talking about how "stoked" they were, or about how "sick" the video was. I was watching it after the final edits and didn't believe that I drew it. I knew that if it was released I had no future in the industry. It was a nightmare.

I need a movie theater that plays stuff like this.

Spent last night drinking vodka and watching movies. Normally after a couple flicks and a few drinks I just start to nod off. Not the case. Maybe it's this damn cold but probably more so that I am restless. While the world sleeps I sit with a tingling face and insert commentary over the subtitles of Godzilla vs. Mechagodzilla (1974). I still don't understand why the "spacemen" are not really men at all, their ape identities revealed after being wounded or killed, or the strategy of attacking Japan in the first place as opposed to some other country. Maybe a country lacking a lizard bad ass that rises from the sea and a known prophecy of a giant gremlin that has already thwarted foreign invasion. But apparently a production of that magnitude is in itself a masterplan (we'll work out the details later). Just have another vodka, it will make more sense. I imagine I would look and act that confident if I had a band of goons in tin foil suits and a cyborg, flying, fighting lizard.