-- Saturday, July 24, 1999 --

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6:19 p.m. Just find a vein, open it up, let it flow. That's how a writer once described his working method.

Last night we rented and watched Permanent Midnight, the Jerry Stahl, Ben Stiller drug story. It was interesting because Ben Stiller was so good in what was such a lousy movie. There was no more plot than the book, really, (guy takes drugs, guy takes more drugs) but then the book was worthwhile because the writing was stylish and raw and the cover by Ralph Steadman was really neat. Definitely style over substance, just like in Hollywood. I always feel sorry for actors who sweat and grimace and generally work really really hard in a movie that very few people go to see. At least it's mostly spritzed-on sweat. And of course, they get always get paid a whole lot of money for the few days they show and glow.

I also appreciate the occasional tidbits and hints from those who've been there, done that, and lived to tell. One writer/addict described "chasing the dragon," and it applies in non-drug situations too. It means hopelessly trying to recapture that first flush of joy, that first true feeling of happiness. That old Wordsworthian golden light, for those who are more writer than addict. People who have fasted know how delicious the first bite tastes, and how no second or thirtieth mouthful is as good. People in love know about the first touch, the first kiss. Nothing ever tastes as sweet, but we chase it anyway.

My all-time favorite drug movie, and one that did, indeed, have the dramatic arc we all know and love is The Boost. It's the male version of Mommie Dearest. So wonderfully over the top, a moral coloring book: Don't go there -- don't do that, he had it all, and then he lost it. It's so soothing. I could watch it again and again, and I have ... although we almost didn't move out here after seeing it the first time. Los Angeles as the enchanted Black Forest. Beware, my pretties.

Sometimes I'll stand in the video store and just stare at the rows and rows of pretty boxes, remembering the thrill of popping in the unknown video and having a wonderful movie come alive under my thumb. I wish I could see so many of them for the first time again: Bottle Rocket, for instance. Or Hear My Song. Or Clockwatchers, or Men in Black. You pick up a box, you pay your $5, and you never know what you're going to get. It could be Chasing Amy or it could be Dragonheart -- you never know.

Ever since I really did get cooties from a movie seat on Long Island, I've been less enthusiastic about seeing pictures in the theater. Plus, it seems odd that you can't reserve a specific seat -- standing in line and pushing to the front for a decent place away from tall spiked people is just too much trouble. Not being able to pause and rewind it. No bathroom breaks. No place to hide if it gets too scary or too boring. No way to avoid the director or the actress standing in the back, waiting for your comment, attuned to every nuance in your carefully rehearsed, guilty words like a wizened old priest in confession.

I've been to special screenings for all the kinds of movies I'd never, ever bother to rent and watch at home, let alone schlep to the movies to see. Nerdy-buddy pics, bodacious-boobie gals with guns, dreary art talkies, gore-soaked action junkers ... and all the time you're "watching" in an alert non-slouch position, headache hovering between your brows, hoping that maybe the earth will move, literally, so you can dive down between the seats and then have something else to talk about on that long, well-lit walk up the aisle into the outstretched needy arms of the person who invited you to this, his shining moment.

Art is hard. Open a vein, let it drip.

But, at least they all got paid. There's some small compensation in that, I suppose, when all art fails. In fact, the people making the movies get paid such huge obscene amounts, you'd think they'd be happy. Or just a little less needy. Robin Williams once said that cocaine is nature's way of telling you that you're making too much money.

Researchers have found that people who find a dime are happy for about twenty minutes afterwards, and then it wears off. They've actually timed it with a stopwatch. Since no research was done on nickels, or dollars, it figures, therefore, that money actually can buy happiness at the rate of two cents a minute.

Finishing my journal entry makes me happy. I hardly broke a sweat. I merely opened a vein. I hope reading it makes you happy, at least for a couple of minutes.

All the movie titles are linked to the Internet Movie Database, a really fun place to spend a few hours looking up your favorite stars, movies, grips, and writers.

Additional neat tv and movie links:

TV Ultra to find the best show on TV today.

Mr. Cranky will tell you what's wrong with your favorite movie.

Movie Critic lets you rate your favorites for all the world to see.

Tomorrow --