LA Story

Not the Steve Martin version. Not a comedy.

Hey, Wilson. It’s been a while. I’m back in LA. I know you’ve been waiting on news from me, so I am not even going to bother asking you how you’re doing or anything. If your wife left you or you got fired or something, let me know. I’ll do what I can. Otherwise I’ll assume you’re doing volleyball life just fine, and I’ll go ahead and dig into this story I promised to tell you back in November.

Basically the last several posts have been wholly consumed by what I’ll call the “chick dimension” of my time in LA, but while all that was going on, there was also what I’d like to call the “movie star dimension” as well as the “religion dimension.” I plan on writing you a post about some things going on in the area of religion after this one. This post is going to concentrate on the movie star stuff.

First, I’ll want to clarify that the last jaunt to LA was indeed a story of its own that followed on the heels of the previous six month trip to Jordan and around the world. See, the whole thing, from when I arrived in LA in early June until when I left in December took six months, just as the world trip from November ‘22 to April ‘23 took about six months. Both of those trips ended with the lost or theft of $4,000 bicycles. They both sucked.

The first thing to note was that my six months in LA corresponded to a total Hollywood shutdown. I landed in LA on 21 April 2023 in the hopes of making it to a 28 April Snydercon, but had to cancel on that because I was just too wrecked from the trip, so I healed up at mom’s for a bit and headed back in June. But please observe, Wilson, just a week after this writer on a bicycle landed in LA, the writer’s guild went on strike on 1 May.

This is just like when I decided to go to Israel in 2020, at which point governments all over the world decided international travel is not an option because of COVID, a freaking flu that everyone was treating like an Ebola outbreak, with Israel being one of the most draconian of the COVID governments. Even natural-born Israelis couldn’t fly home a lot of the time.

So yeah, I start thinking of going to LA and the writers shut down. Then shortly after I get there, the actors guild goes on strike. Hollywood is as closed as can be. Now after Satan had basically accomplished his mission of wiping the floor with me via the Hindu college chick Onlyfans brigade, and I decided I needed to get back to mommy to save what I could of my sanity, the writers finish their strike. While the actors actually quit picketing on November 9th, the contract between the studios and the guild was finally ratified on December 5th, effectively reopening Hollywood for business. I left LA on December 7th. This is not a lie. My Pearl Harbor was complete, with my soul sunk to the bottom of a blood-soaked sea, just as Hollywood started doing its thing again.

I was literally sitting on the train out of town back to Arizona when I read the news about how Hollywood had just reopened the day before.

At one point, with my head hung to its lowest, I made some comment in some post that the Almighty just might need to judge LA, that city of perdition, LOL. Yeah, God guys tend to invoke the divine retribution card when our faces are in the dirt. It’s just a thing. Sorry. The thing is, we’re not always wrong. I’ll have mercy on you and everybody else, Wilson, and forego further excessive brimstone rhetoric going forward.

I’ll just remind you that in trying to make sense of all the things that were happening to me, I’d been developing my “demons, demons everywhere” method of describing my life into one of broadforces and “pilot waves,” and as I lay there at mom’s, I couldn’t help but notice the long parade of articles about “rogue waves” sweeping Angelenos out to sea.

There were a lot of these articles, Wilson. Along with an earthquake and more rain than in the six years prior combined. Now I’m not trying to tell you that I control the weather. All I am saying is that the whole event made a story. When I go to Hollywood, the entertainment industry shuts down, my mind is torn to pieces by my one psychological kryptonite, and the day I leave, the city starts up again, but with the curses I had in my head actually playing out in some way.

The whole thing, the six months, Hollywood shutting down for the duration of my stay, the bicycle, everything gave the whole thing a distinct look of a story with beginning, theme, and end.

I think I’ve told you before that the Hollywood trip, for me, was actually a kind of a leg on the larger journey toward Israel. Rabbi Kaminetski told me in Belgrade: “Israel won’t open up for just a nobody.” I’d become a bit familiar with the difficult path of the self-published Kindle author, lamenting that not many people read anymore. All during the bike trip I’d been having powerful ideations about the Justice League filmmakers, thinking that all of the incredible coincidences that I’d been seeing constituted a kind of grand Jungian synchronistic event that I thought somebody would just have to pay attention to.

I’d had some bizarre conversations with a kooky guy from my Facebook friend list who reminded me in some ways of my own kind of crazy. I dubbed him “The Other Mad Prophet”, who “just by chance” had come down to Los Angeles and had been sleeping in his car in Marina del Rey a couple of miles from my place in Venice. With that guy I got the idea that LA could be a place to “find a voice,” as it were. And just maybe, to no longer be alone.

The battle to do so would be an uphill one. I started writing an analysis of the Justice League movies with an idea that I could also write about the filming of the movies if I could actually make any contacts that would provide any information that I could work into a book-worthy narrative. With this second goal in my mind, I started reaching out in order to see what I could come up with.

I was foiled by the usual culprit: everything in the 21st century is powered by the internet, and the internet hates me. Actually walking up to a place and asking if anybody is home is something that just isn’t done anymore. Funny thing, that fact. When I was in Amman trying to get to Israel, I found that everything I needed to do had to be taken care of inside Israel. I was thinking that if I could only get to Tel Aviv, my problems getting into Israel would be over. When I got to LA, I thought, “at least my feet are on the ground in the place I am trying to go. This should be easy.”

So I rode my bicycle up to the Hollywood Reporter and asked them who their superhero beat guy was. I was told there is no way to make an in-person contact, and they would not even give a phone number. Go home and fill out the tip form on the website, was the answer. So I did. Nobody answered.

I looked to reach out to the various superfans of the Snyderverse movement like Skiiwalker Tha Jedi, for example. I went to one of his watch parties and asked in the chat about having a convo with him. He said to get with him on X, so I paid Elon for my blue dot in order to send this guy messages. He didn’t respond.

Now armed with a blue dot, I sent a message to Jammie the Snyderqueen, a big fan on X. No response. The social media site Vero has these chicks, “The Nerd Queens,” who do Zack Snyder stuff, so I requested to contact them on Vero and left a comment or two on their post feeds. Nothing.

Wanting to showcase my capabilities for writing in addition to my book on Amazon as well as get feedback on the best way to hammer a literary analysis of the Justice League movies into shape, I put some chapters on my blog and linked them on various fan websites to see how a superhero fan would react to them. I got virtually no feedback. Bad feedback would have been better than no feedback. Again, all of this was on the internet, so I was tempted to think the grand universal algorithm of the internet just hated me, or I was under some black magic curse from the Satanic illuminati or something.

I couldn’t find any actual in-person local area Snyder groups on places like Meetup, Eventbrite, nothing. The whole world is internet, Wilson. Out of the whole experience, the only guy who was actually answering e-mails and the phone was Steve at Creative Artists. That guy is getting a fruit basket, Wilson. Love that guy. Thank God for administrative assistants. However, he told me to come back with an agent. No harm, no foul. I was learning how corporate Hollywood works.

I went looking for agents. In LA, not only do you need an agent to establish a relationship with a talent rep, but you need an agent to establish a relationship with an agent. I’d done some hunting for agents on a writers’ site called Duotrope before, and could tell that this was going to be an involved process.

Okay, Wilson, I forgot. I did talk to an admin assistant from Paradigm when I was looking to get in contact with Ray Fisher. Ray’s rep was on maternity leave, and his boss was standing in for her, but his boss was on vacation. I did finally get in touch with someone who said I could send in a book proposal. So I did. By e-mail. The response was the ballad of a lone cricket strumming its legs under the dim sliver of a waning crescent moon on a misty eve of autumn.

I did get to see Ray in an absolutely phenomenal theatrical performance, but there were no autographs for the fans afterward. I couldn’t ask him personally to put a word in for me to approach any of his people about writing a book, and I couldn’t get to any of his people about writing a book about him.

Of course strange things continued to surround anything with electronic devices. The Google Maps location for Vanity Fair lead to a warehouse in East LA. I rode all day to the east side of nowhere to find an office that wasn’t there. I can’t seem to find the Strava ride on that one. Sometimes I delete them when there are screwups, like when I accidentally leave it on when I dismount and walk around or something. I also tell Google, “change this marker, the place isn’t there.” So I can’t prove that one to you. Oops. Sorry, Wilson. I didn’t think I would need to show that ride to anybody or that jacked up Google Maps location.

But yeah, Google was leading me all over Los Angeles on roads to nowhere, nobody was answering e-mails, phone calls, etc. So on the one hand, I’ve told a story about a prophet come to LA and leaving with a curse that resulted in earthquakes and tidal waves. On the other hand, it was a story of Satan handing me a cauldron of boiling acid with my ass in it. There’s a song with a memorable line: “Yeah, mama, this surely is a dream.” But if it was a dream, how is it that I can rain hurricanes on an evil metropolis with a curse, but just…can’t…get…Ray…Fisher’s…autograph…

Dave Chapelle had a good line in his latest special, The Dreamer. I’m paraphrasing here, but he said something like “when I meet another dreamer, I just figure out if I am in their dream or if they’re in mine.” I can see him saying something like, “guys, it looks like we’re all in Bailey’s dream. The thing is, he has no control over anything, and it’s a nightmare, so if you see that guy, GTFO…” My answer to that is: it ain’t a dream. It’s a story written by God. But that’s a subject for another post.

The last thing I’ll mention about this is the most bittersweet. I only ever met one dude in any way associated with the entertainment industry in Los Angeles. I’ll tell the story about that.

So you know that nothing associated with any of my electronic devices ever seems to happen. Because of this, and the fact that I don’t have a day job, but I do have a pension and a bicycle, if I were to want to talk to Maggie Piscatone about getting an autograph from Gal Gadot, I’m actually just as likely to fly to New York City and knock on the door of the Creative Artists office there than I am to send an e-mail at this point. And yes, I took that approach in LA.

At the start of this whole thing back in 2021, when I was passing my book out to the artists who inspired me, I went to Believe Media, a local production company that made commercials and listed Zack Snyder on the director page. I had a great conversation about Zack and the Justice League with the accountant there. This time I decided to do the exact same thing, and rode up there unannounced.

They apparently didn’t like that, and it might just be that some of my crazy posting on Vero and Facebook may have trickled here and there as well. At one point I got a call from an investigator associated with Believe who had a couple of questions for me. I told him what I had going on. He ended up being satisfied that I was a harmless nut job, and even gave me some tips about agents, podcasts, publishing, etc. Not only is this guy a super-qualified law enforcement investigator, but he does a variety of true crime entertainment projects, podcasts, etc. I ended up talking with him a few times. Cool guy. But at one point, I asked him if this was just about me knocking on a door without an appointment, or if Zack actually had any idea about my existence. Now I don’t want to get this guy in trouble, and I don’t remember his exact words. I won’t use quotes or anything. But I walked away from the conversation with the understanding that Zack and Ray and crew did in fact know of my existence, and they thought I was freaking nuts. I mean, I would wholeheartedly agree. I’d only add that I have this idea that my specific kind of nuts might actually mean something cool.

But to end this account of my endeavors to contact the Justice League crew, on a practical level, aside from conversations of demons with their Illuminati spells that screw up electronic devices, I learned from the movie star angle of this story that if I actually were to want to make a movie, Los Angeles, California is absolutely the last place I would ever go. The place is designed to stop people from making movies. Only the one in a million makes it there. For me, it would be easier to learn Danish, move to Copenhagen, meet some danish actors and filmmakers, and make a movie. You won’t break a billion Benjamins in Copenhagen. You won’t reach billions of people in Copenhagen. But you’ll make a movie. For me, Santa Monica Boulevard, also known as Route 66, is just a Boulevard of Broken Dreams.

I left when the chicks at the co-op were done spitting me out. With all that crap going on, “psychofan” was just more than I was up for overcoming.

However, the synchronistic events didn’t stop. While lying on my bed in my mom’s spare bedroom in Scottsdale, Zack Snyder’s Rebel Moon came out. The critics hated it. Most of them were saying that it was derivative. I can’t get over that blindness. The movie was intended to be, and wanted to be, the Seven Samurai told in with space ships and laser guns. In it there were homages to everything that came before, particularly Star Wars, but I saw elements of everything from Buckaroo Bonzai to Ice Pirates to Eve Online in it. I mean yeah, the movie was Seven Samurai soaked in Star Wars, and was supposed to be derivative in order to launch a universe for a new intellectual property with nods to where it all came from.

I wonder. When Zack got the idea to do Seven Samurai, he surely knew that The Magnificent Seven was also a “derivative” retelling of that story. I highly doubt he knew that this whole multi-year adventure of mine started with a poem I wrote about Zack and the Magnificent Seven, however. So Zack is launching his new world, his IP, via a space story of the Magnificent Seven, and I start my trip around the world and mission to the Holy Land with a poem about the Magnificent Seven. Do you remember Bruce Wayne’s line at the end of Zack Snyder’s Justice League? “Six chairs, with room for more.”

That’s not all, though. Being “derivative,” and paying homage to The Magnificent Seven, there was a lot of “Old West” flavor in the movie. Further, George Lucas took a lot of his inspiration for the Galactic Empire from the Nazis. Darth Vader’s helmet was inspired by those of the Nazi foot soldiers, for example. In a “derivative” homage to the Galactic Empire of Star Wars, take a look at the uniforms of the Mother World’s military officers in Rebel Moon It’s completely obvious that the bad guys are Nazis. Now I’m a convert to Reform Judaism. On a mission to Israel. To boot, I was born in Texas, and I “settled” (if you can use that word in connection with me) in Arizona. I’m a cowboy. I’m a Nazi fighter in a duster and with a roan. Of course this setup is going to speak to me. And it did.

Take for example the scene of the taming of the gryphon. I have a story about that scene. It’s based on a mistake, but it still means something. When I was a kid I first learned of the story of Prometheus from reading a copy of Bulfinch’s Mythology that my mom got me on my eleventh birthday. According to Hesiod, Prometheus brought fire to man, but it hacked Zeus off, so he chained Prometheus to a rock to have his liver ripped out every day by an eagle. But I remembered it wrong. All my life I’ve been making references to Prometheus and the gryphon. I somehow misremembered the eagle for a gryphon.

For many, the myth of Prometheus is a kind of Luciferian tale of Satan being a good guy who was punished by God for showing man all the enlightening things of life. But for me, it’s a story of those who are tormented by Satan, the god of this world, for trying to give people wisdom from God. I even made a little corporation to manage my own intellectual property. I called it “Promethean Fire, LLC”. Wilson, you can imagine how I might get hit by a scene about the gathering of a bunch of Nazi-fighting space cowboys with a grand scene about gryphon taming. Okay, so the real myth was about an eagle, but that scene meant a ton for me because I’d always thought of it as myth about a gryphon.

There were a variety of other little nuggets I loved about that film, but overall, while I was sitting at mom’s beaten, broken, and alone, Kora (read Psalm 42 to learn about the Sons of Korah) was collecting a troupe that was going to save the world. It was time to get out of bed.

Israel is going to save the world, and I wanna help. LA did not turn out to be a place for a storyteller like me. Copenhagen would be better. But I don’t know Danish, and I’ve been dying to get my Hebrew up to fluency for years and years now. How about making movies in the Israeli film industry? More on that below.

So LA is not a place to get a story told. I rode around the world to make cause with the Justice League. I told everybody I could that I would write a book for free about the miracle of making those movies and give the profits to anybody they wanted, but nobody was interested in the psychofan.

I talked about my friend Pat that I met at the co-op in my last post. He was thinking of heading to Hoboken, New Jersey, a stone’s throw from Manhattan. I have a nephew there who has done some acting and who is looking for a publisher for a book he has written. Ezra Miller and Gal Gadot are managed by Creative Artists in New York. To that we add that I need to figure out how to get to Israel because I was banned from that country when a Border Control Agent grilled me about going to Israel until I let slip that I was planning to talk to a rabbi friend in Safed about possibly converting to Judaism. For that sin I can never return, apparently.

But in New York we swap out LA’s 250 thousand Jews for New York City’s 1.6 million Jews. There has to be a good immigration lawyer among them. Nefesh B’Nefesh, the USA’s premiere organization for helping Jews go to Israel, is headquartered in New York. I’d been riding my bike along the coast of LA for months, but I’m a long-touring cyclist. I ride from city to city on a bike. We long-tourers aren’t the fastest racers. We aren’t the strongest climbers. We have a different skill set. “Hey, we aren’t going to make it to Vienna unless we ride…today…in the blizzard…” That’s what we do. I was looking forward to riding around Manhattan like Joseph Gordon Levitt in Premiere Rush, shooting past the icicles hanging from the trees of Central Park like the teeth of a White Walker dragon. Don’t show my mom this video, Wilson. I’ve been doing a bit of this since I’ve been back in LA, actually. But I really wanted to, and thought I needed to, get to New York, and I was going to go live with Pat.

Pat, however, delayed and delayed, and I was getting the sense that I was going to stare at the ceiling at my mom’s house forever. I needed to get to some Jews and an Israeli consulate, and I’m thinking this battle over my travel ban is going to be uphill, so I’ll need to be able to visit that consulate a hundred times or so. My electronics never work, and mail is slow and partial, so coming back to LA is a good option. I can Amtrak home for $50 in a day to suckle on dear mom if I run into any more college chicks from hell. Pat ultimately wound up getting himself a high rise apartment in downtown Chicago at about the same time. He rarely takes calls anymore. I didn’t even get to teach him about the parable of the sower. So LA it is.

I just have one more synchronistic event to tell you about. I’ll start by reminding you of a previous one of a similar type. There was that time I wrote a story about the car chase in Matt Reeves’ The Batman. I put it on X at one point. I don’t really do Twitter, and I’ve deleted and recreated my account a few times whenever I feel like trying to mess with it, so I can’t show you the date I put it on X or anything. I’ll just say that a couple of days after I put that story on X, Zack Snyder actually tweets to Matt Reeves about how much he liked The Batman, and Matt actually tweeted back about how much that support meant to him. That was one of those synchronistic events that had me thinking, “WTF? Did this guy know I just wrote a story about that movie a couple of days before?” Yeah, it’s all like that Carly Simon song, “you’re so vain, I bet you think this song is about you.” But, well, something like that kind of happened again.

So I was wanting to go to New York to try to get to Israel, screw all the movie stars, but the whole thing about me, the guy with three previous horror stories of sexual harassment claims, trying to make cause with a group of filmmakers including three who had gotten wrecked by sexual harrassment claims, who then gets hit with three sexual harrassment claims in three months, was a hell of a synchronistic event for me. And there is the fact that one of those filmmakers is an Israeli, Gal Gadot. I really wanted to tell everyone that I was not the misogynist that I am pegged as, and I wanted to leave a message for Gal and Yaron, if anything should ever come from all this, if anybody should ever see anything, if anything should ever mean anything to anybody. So I actually wrote Gal a poem. Among a number of things I hope it conveys, it very concretely states that there may just be a day where I actually do come calling and asking for some support from this lovely lady of excellence and her husband. Just days later, after not seeing anything on her Instagram for a long time, she puts this story on that social media platform.

I look up this @dannya character. Danny A. Abeckaser. He is an Israeli-American New York filmmaker. I’ve been following him on Instagram ever since. I grabbed whatever of his movies I could find on Google, and I’ve been watching them. I also looked him up on Wikipedia and found out that he started out in the New York City club industry in the early 90s. I thought to myself that if I ever met the guy, I could tell him about how I used to hang out at the Palladium in NYC in the early 90s.

So as the story goes, the grandest of all nightclubs in history was Studio 54. The Studio 54 days are the stuff of legend. I remember there was even a movie about it starring Ryan Phillippe. Well, Studio 54 got busted and went away, but the same owners opened up the Palladium for round two. Now the people who used to hang out at Studio 54 say they were party to a club scene that surpassed all who came after, and call the Palladium crowd a bunch of commercialized pretenders. But the people who used to hang out at the Palladium, well, we tip our hat to Studio 54, but we say that our days were more glorious than all who came after, who are nothing but a bunch of commercialized pretenders. Having hung out at the Palladium was something. Or maybe if I ever mention to him that I met Debbie Gibson at an underground after hours club that opened at 2 AM and closed at 7 AM called Save the Robots, the name might ring a bell for this guy.

So I’m watching his movies and thinking about Israeli film while walking around my new neighborhood here in East Hollywood, and I catch view of a funny sight.

I hadn’t thought about the Palladium in three decades, Wilson, but now there’s one in my neighborhood, LOL.

It’s just a stone’s throw from my apartment, and I walk right past it just as I am thinking about the Palladium, the New York Club scene, the New York film industry, and this Israeli director. More coincidences, more symbols. Apophenia is a bitch, Wilson, but I live in a universe designed by infinite, living intelligence. Infinite, living intelligence can do all things, but he doesn’t have a mouth. When he wants to talk to you, he uses patterns and coincidences, and he opens your eyes to the meaning of the stories that are going on in your life.

This is quite common for people who have this understanding, and who feel a moral order to the universe. For instance, there is a certain type of person who, if they cheat on their wife, and walking home from work one day they hear police sirens approaching them, they might get nervous that the cops are coming for them, simply because they have this sense of guilt, even though they’ve broken no laws. I remember Richard Prior saying once, “every time I hear sirens I start thinking of all the shit I did…” Thinking that there is this moral, karmic order to things, so that if you don’t buy your wife flowers on Valentines Day you’re more likely to get fired from your job, this is that same sentiment that your life is managed by an ultimate moral authority. It’s a kind of a conversation with God. Well, if you’re me, that conversation get’s very detailed and runs all over the place.

So, I have to ask myself, is my poem to Gal Gadot, which mentions that one day I may ask her to support me as a kind of patroness in some way, which is immediately followed by her Instagram story which amounts to support for an established but lesser known filmmaker as a kind of patroness to him, a part of a series of events which is then capped by my walking past the Hollywood Palladium just as I am thinking about talking to this guy about the New York Palladium, a part of a story with a message from God?

I’m not here in LA to do movie stuff. I’m here to do travel stuff. I’m here to fix my Israel problem. So I am writing you this to sort of put everything with the movie stars out there on the table, in case something happens with it. I know this post is long, but I want to to really include all things film-related, so that anyone who reads it can know my whole film connection.

I’ve never really been about turning my book into a movie or anything else related to my life. I’d just be happy on the one hand to do writing in film as a part of getting my message out about a number of philosophical and spiritual topics that I think are going to be relevant for humanity. I’m all too happy to contribute to others’ ideas for film, but I do have ideas for three movies, or maybe limited series, that I could work on if I ever got any indication from anywhere that there would be any chance of anyone anywhere ever actually wanting to do anything with them.

Most people with scripts and story ideas are very protective of telling anyone about their ideas for fear that someone else will come along and copy them, beating them to the punch. I have no such fear because I can quite confidently say that absolutely no one on earth has the combination of knowledge and experience to make any of the movies that I am about to describe the way that I will. That is, if I tell you I want to make a movie about sandwiches, and this gives somebody else the idea to make a movie about sandwiches, they can go ahead. Their sandwich movie will not be anything like mine, which will be more unique, innovative, and powerful than theirs. I’ll be happy to be the second guy to make a sandwich movie, because my sandwich movie will blow the doors off anything that came before or would ever come after.

That said, I am going to put a few sentences out there about ideas I have for three movies.

So there have been a few movies about the creation of the world, but I have an idea for a movie about the creation of heaven and the angels and the war between them that ultimately lead to the creation of our world that attempts to explain why we live in the type of world that we do and gives ideas about the meaning of life in general. The entire movie takes place before our universe even began, and the characters are all heavenly beings. I tell you, this will be no Christopher Walken playing Gabriel in The Prophecy. Ideas will be presented that just aren’t out there anywhere else.

The second movie is a Jesus movie based on what the Christians call the Logos-Sarx Christology that will present Jesus in a way that has never appeared on film. Most Jesus movies present him according to a standard formula informed by Christian doctrinal tradition, or, like The Last Temptation of Christ, try to reinvent him in some opposing context as some kind of Stupid Buddha or some such reinterpretation as the gnostic presentation, etc. This one will have a very innovative approach that won’t closely resemble any Jesus movie produced by the Christian community, but will in fact not do any injury whatsoever to the material in the four canonical Gospels of the accepted New Testament. Core Christian doctrines will not be contradicted, but Jesus will be presented in a provocative way that will give Christians, Muslims, and Jews pause, and invoke greater harmony between the Abrahamic world religions. There will also be an unusual take on miracles and the popular reaction to them, so this Jesus movie will actually have some intense special effects.

The final movie is an end of the world movie that highlights the ever blurring distinction between prophets, wizards, extraterrestrials, and superheroes to present a kind of a combination robot apocalypse, alien invasion, biblical Armageddon in the same story. On this one I can give a bit of detail because the underlying ideas are not so esoteric. In essence, in a dystopian future, the concept of a space alien and an angel are so confused that with the presence of nefarious artificial intelligences manipulating media and society, prophets and wizards can be running around throwing fireballs at each other and the general population can easily be deceived into thinking these guys are space aliens and superheroes. The entire world gets convinced to protect itself from an alien invasion in order to be duped into fighting against the coming Messiah, except for, that is, the Israelis, who wind up hosting a unique form of Armageddon that is completely in line with prophecies preached in the Abrahamic religions, but does not resemble any Left Behind storyline in any slight way whatsoever..

So, two of these movies are actually set in Israel. Hollywood is a terrible place to try to get a movie made. I don’t want to learn Danish. I want to learn Hebrew. I’d like to go over there with a voice and with a purpose. I’ve been living a Jungian synchronistic symphony involving filmmakers and superheroes for a year now, but in order to make Aliyah, I have to demonstrate nine months of participation in a single Jewish community. That is my intended focus as of today. But I do have ideas for some films, and I am here all by myself. I’m a decent writer. So I wanted to have all this out there for posterity, in case some cinematic party should ever read it and get in touch with me.

I’m not going to sit here by myself writing scripts that nobody will ever read. I’m the loneliest person you’ll ever know, Wilson. There once was a time when I would walk into a room full of people and simply take command of it. But anymore, I’m that guy who feels alone in a room full of people. I just don’t have it in me to be kicked away as a psychofan, but I’m looking for my tribe.

Now if Zack Snyder were to throw Bailey a bone, that would make for an incredible story. If Danny Abeckaser were to throw Bailey a bone, that would be an incredible story too. But given everything that has happened to me involving women, if Gal Gadot, Wonder Woman, would throw Bailey a bone, that would be a story sweeter than ten thousand chocolate kisses floating down a river of honey speckled with gold. So I’ll stand by that river bank (Hebrew: gadot), and I’ll look for a wave (Hebrew: gal).

If nothing happens with that, well, I spend all my money eating out, so I’m signing up for a cooking class where I am the only guy surrounded by a bunch of chicks, so I can learn what it’s like not to be scared of women, and I’ll ride with my bike club so I can get rid of this pot belly I picked up over Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Hanukkah, and become a regular participant in Jewish life for nine months so I have one more avenue of overcoming this ban from the Holy Land that I’ve been trying to get into for years now.

To end this thing, Wilson, I suppose I will with a bit of a dilemma. I want to focus on getting to Israel and establishing some kind of a normal life with friends and routines like normal people have in order to save myself from solitude’s powerful contribution to the madness of a guy with post-traumatic stress disorder, gynophobia, apophenia, and some weird kind of technological dyslexia that I have yet to find a name for in the DSM-V. Wilson, Satan is a disembodied spirit who has been cast out of heaven with absolutely no ability to affect material reality whatsoever. He can’t lift a grain of rice. The only thing he can do is jack with your head. But he has done a good job messing with mine. So I just have to drop anchor.

However, as I’ve been saying above, this movie star thing, it’s been impossibly weird. Miraculously so. And the idea of being able to go to Israel because this guy who has had so many acrimonious encounters with women gets a visa from Wonder Woman to go wash Yaron’s car or learn Hebrew to write scripts in the Holy Land or any such cockeyed thing under the sun, well, if I don’t do something with it, I’m just an asshole. God wrote this story me. I just can’t do nothing with it. I wrote another post about Gal a while back called “The Woman I Didn’t Call”. If I don’t call, Wilson, I’m just failing. There is no other word for it. Just failing.

But this story that I am writing to you, how do I fit it into an e-mail to Mags at CAA New York? How can I put it into an Instagram direct message to Danny Abeckaser? I have absolutely no earthly idea what to say. It’s just one of those unintended consequences of being such a solitary guy whose life experience and whose states of mind are so far removed from anything that anyone else on earth could possibly relate to.

Keep me in your prayers, Wilson. I just got the most wonderful message from this chick that I briefly met during my last six months in LA. She is getting her PhD in Communications. If someone with graduate-level expertise in communications can’t set me straight on this, I’m probably pretty screwed. Pray for me.