Restful

So, we're back in LA. In some ways I like it better. But my blood pressure's already skyrocketed and I've had to swerve to avoid cars doing stupid things and I don't know why everyone's in such a verdammt hurry all the time. Slow down, smell the trees.

And you can see the air here. I did really like that about Banff, you know -- you actually can see for miles and miles and miles.

Yesterday, the first morning back, I decided to take advantage of whatever verve the vacation had given me and when I got out of bed, I put on my jogging clothes and shoes and headed out the door.

I know I can't expect miracles.

I know that the half-mile I marked out from our house goes downhill (a slight but noticeable grade), which means uphill on the way back.

But geez. One mile...and I couldn't jog the whole way. And I wasn't going fast, because my definition of jog is, "Move at a rate reported to be but not proven to be faster than walking."

And now my quads hurt like nobody's business. I did take it easy, believe me. I'm simply flabbergasted at how out of shape I really am.

(For those of you who are familiar with Cupertino in the Bubb Road area, here's what I used to do: I began at TCI Cablevision and jogged down the railroad tracks, passing where the tracks crossed Bubb and McLellan. Continue down the tracks until Rainbow (or wherever the next major intersection over the tracks is). Go back home. That round-trip was just over 3 miles. When I was feeling really frisky, I'd go down the railroad tracks to Prospect, then home, a distance of slightly more than 5 miles. 4 to 6 times a week.)

I talked to Linda, another GSPer, tonight for a very long time. I'm so out of it; I guess I haven't bonded enough with my mates.

She told me about some psychic warfare another student waged on her, first by begging her to read his stuff and then asking to read hers. She gave him all the feedback she could on his work. When it came time for him to reciprocate, he said, "Who told you this was good?" (This script is currently in the final round of the Sundance workshop.) He slaughtered everything about it, from story to character to structure.

What an asshole.

She also told me that half of the second years did not graduate. Their scripts were not accepted by the thesis committee and they have to rewrite them. "That's pathetic," I said, and Linda agreed. And scary. Bummer if you'd just paid $60,000 (Am.) for an education, at the end of which you could not produce acceptable work.

We also talked about our feelings about success. For example, one of the writers who was in my writing class both semesters is a good writer. Fall down on the ground and roll around funny. (Can't write a female character to save his life, and basically his females are there to fuck the guys. Which means he'll be a big success in Hollywood, if current trends are any indication.) Evidently my writing teacher is introducing this student to his agent.

"That's great," said Linda. "I want all of us to be successful."

"So do I," I said. "I just want to be the first one."

Envy is not one of the personality traits I am most proud of, but I know that I have it. I try not to let it get in the way of my behavior. I guess what I mean is, I try not to confuse my hangups with someone else's problems. I may hate you because you're beautiful, but at least I don't think it's your fault.

But I don't wish any of my classmates ill, and in fact I think it would be really cool if, as Linda put it, we were part of the amazing Class of 1998 that overran Hollywood and got all the Big Bucks.

However, as the first part of my conversation with Linda showed, some in our class are not content with everyone getting a share of the pie (estimated at $653m in 1996). Oh no. In the immortal words of Gore Vidal:

It is not enough for me to succeed. Others must fail.

Why would anyone go out of there way to try to psych out someone else in our class? Why try to tear someone else down? I think it's worse if his behavior wasn't even conscious -- he's just being hurtful because he doesn't know any better.

I guess I'd better get used to this in Hollywood. I hear it happens all the time.