The Tin Man leaks

That old towel-cape feeling

2006-03-21T12:28:00.000-08:00

I watch a lot of movies and TV. A lot. I'm what the money folks in the biz call "a heavy ingestor of content." How disgusting does that sound? Ahh, Hollywood, Inc.

But I digress. This post is about what makes a movie or TV show good vs. bad - and after nearly 27 years of heavy content ingestion, I think I can speak on the subject with some level of authority.

The first time I remember saying "Man, this movie is GOOD" was when I was four or five years old and I saw Superman - the true, Reeve-Brando version (I know the time math doesn't add up, but you gotta remember that it was Peru, it took some time for Yankee entertainment to hit our little corner of the hemisphere).

A MAN COULD FLY! Why didn't anybody tell me? I went home, tied a towel around my neck and jumped from the bed to the chair, from the chair to the bed, with the tiny hope that I'd catch air eventually. And I'm pretty sure I did, a couple of times. This continued for a long, long time. Months, even.

To this day, this remains my litmus test of good entertainment. Does it make me want to wrap myself in it, live in it, think and talk it for days?

According to this test, Hollywood has failed. Let's be charitable and say 99 percent of the time. Why is the vast majority of filmed entertainment so fucking disposable? I can count on two hands the great films and TV shows I've seen in recent memory. The rest, I've forgotten. Proves my point.

You don't realize how fleeting these crapfests are until you experience a miracle and see a damn good movie. All of a sudden context returns, and you're splashed with water when you never even knew you were thirsty.

V for Vendetta snapped me out of this trance this weekend - what a damn good movie. How do I know it's good? Because I saw it on Saturday, it's Tuesday, and I'm still thinking about it. Still reading about it. Still talking to folks who've seen it to find out if they liked it or not, if they saw it as a political tool, if it made them angry or made them feel more liberated.

That's great entertainment. It's not about the special effects, or the editing, or the box office - that's small-time. I'm talking about the way a piece of film makes you feel, the experience of seeing something so compelling that you want to think it, talk it, wrap yourself in it.

The 26-year-old equivalent of tying a towel around your neck. That's good.

Why bother writing/producing/watching the rest?

-TM

Going out in style

2006-03-01T12:07:00.000-08:00

Good news this morning for West Wing lovers like the Tin Man, straight from the mouth of Daily Variety babes:

[Rob] Lowe, who left "The West Wing" in 2003, will reprise his role as Sam Seaborn in the final two episodes of Aaron Sorkin's Emmy-winning series.Also reprising their roles with appearances in one or more of the drama's final five episodes are Mary-Louise Parker, Anna Deavere Smith, Emily Procter, Marlee Matlin, Gary Cole, Tim Matheson, Timothy Busfield and Annabeth Gish.

Did I say "good news"? 'Cause I meant ass-kicking, great-fucking-TV news. I admit I kind of stopped watching when Aaron Sorkin "left" - and boycotted it outright after Toby and Josh got into a goddamn fist fight, which threw six years of character developement ever so stupidly out the window. I guess John Wells ran out of helicopters to crash that day.

But as much as the WW turned into ER on the Potomac, I can't deny I love the damn show - and it ends in May. It's like a relative who was cool and then turned into an asshole and then called to tell me he had four months to live, so all that's left is to make amends and enjoy the time we have.

And with the heartbreaking loss of John Spencer, whose like may never be seen again, all of us prodigal fans should return to pay the man - and the character - the tribute they both richly deserve. Let bygones be bygones.

Added bonus: seeing all the folks listed above return to the show. I worship the ground upon which Sorkin hurls his cigarette butts, but I'll admit that he was never the greatest at explaining why certain characters simply... vanished. And of course it'll be great to see Rob Lowe back where he belongs and where he would've been all these years had he listened to good advice instead of his accountant.

True-blue Sorkinites know that the countdown's on for his new show, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip - hitting your idiot box next fall - but until then, let's celebrate the goodness he gave us known as The West Wing. Let's thank everybody involved - writers, cast, crew, hell, even WB and NBC - for doing TV a friggin service and putting this show on the air.

Watch. It's the least we could do.

-TM

Getting this show on the road...

2006-02-27T08:23:00.000-08:00

First, a hearty "up yours" to El Jefe for reminding me I haven't made good on my promise to post daily. The man has a point, though. I have failed you thus far. Let's see if I can't mend my ways.

A simple phrase:

"You're a writer if you write."

Makes sense, right? It's from a screenwriting course I took last year. Not sure why I remembered it this morning.

That's a lie. I know why. Because I've been calling myself a writer for some time now. And for a lot of that time it's been a damn lie.

I've gone whole weeks - sometimes months - without putting pen to paper. Not because I was too busy, or got held up by other obligations, or didn't have anything to write about. I have hundreds of things to write about, and even more reasons to do so. But sometimes I just... didn't. Which begs the question:

If you're a writer, and you don't write, what are you?

Aaron Sorkin, at whose screenwriting feet I worship, says there's nothing he fears more than a blank sheet of paper. He began writing A Few Good Men on a rickety grandpa-style typewriter, and I can see him rolling that empty sheet into the machine and just staring at the white of it all for hours - finally fracturing the silence with the first gunshots of frantic typing.

Me, I've been hanging out at Stage 1 - the paper's in there and I'm just staring at the bastard. Staring and waiting, waiting and sweating. Because I'm scared shitless.

As long as my ideas and my stories and my characters stay in my head, they're amazing. They're revolutionary. They're what TV and films should be, they're brilliant, they're golden.

Once they hit the paper, though, they're out there for everyone to see. To probe, to prod, to ridicule. And maybe, maybe, to be appreciated and enjoyed. But what are the chances of that?

Last fall I wrote my first "spec" script - in layman's terms, a screenwriting sample to shop around to possible gigs, a showcase of the wonders you're capable of should you be hired for your pen. And it was well received - my writing instructor said I blew her expectations for a first-time spec and that I showed promise. And I left class with my chest puffed out a little. Who wouldn't?

Then the fear sank in - what if she was lying? She was also trying to get me to sign up for the two-year writing program, which would've made a pretty big dent in my wallet, so what if she was buttering me up so I'd pay her salary? And the spec went in the drawer.

For four months.

I pulled it out last week and was surprised at how much I... liked it. I passed it on to El Jefe, Nate and some other writer friends - which made me realize that all my best friends are writers, which we'll come back to at a later post - and they liked it as well, and also threw in some valuable feedback to help me polish the beast up.

But they liked it - which means I'm doing something right. Just wish my self-esteem would get the goddamn memo.

'Cause the clock's ticking.

This weekend Helias and I jumped into our joint writing project, a spec pilot I've been kicking around for about five years now. No shit. Five years.

The thing's gone through permutation after permutation, characters have been added, killed and revived, pages have been written, burned and phoenixed. And it's waited. And waited. And it probably would've waited a while longer if Helias weren't the damn bulldog he is. Bless the bastard.

So the train's finally leaving the station. I'm kicking this fear bullshit.

It's on.

-TM

I need $40 million and stat

2006-02-22T10:31:00.000-08:00

Seriously. Anybody want to help me out? It's for a good cause, I promise. And it's gonna make us mucho rich, on top of which we'll be credited with doing a VERY important service to the fastest growing minority population in the US.

What do you say? Wanna help me buy Univision?

The $40 mil pricetag may be a little steep - I think we could bring it down to $35, just let me do the talking. After all, I'm one of them.

Why buy Univision? Couple of reasons, the main one being that it - combined with the smaller Telemundo - is making my people dumber by the viewing minute. And that pisses me off.

Tits, ass, puppets, stupid game shows, ridiculous soaps, grown men in diapers and sensationalistic news that makes Fox seem subdued - that's pretty much Spanish-language TV. That's it. There isn't one worthwhile hour of programming out there. It's cheap. It's crap. And it's insulting.

These networks could not possibly set the bar much lower. Imagine if NBC ran nothing but Fear Factor and Who Wants to Screw My Sister over and over and over again, with a little O'Reilly thrown in for flavor. Would you think that NBC regards you as an intelligent, ambitious human being? Or the lowest common denominator of life?

I'm brown and proud, though I admit I've been a little whitewashed by growing up in rural North Carolina. I can't salsa worth a damn. I have no Latin charm to speak of. And I don't have a Peruvian accent - or, for that matter, a southern one.

I am hispanic. Maybe that makes me a little more sensitive to being talked down to or patronized, who knows. But when I see the kind of programming my networks think I deserve, it makes me want to punch a wall, a network exec or both.

Where are the Spanish equivalents of West Wing and The Shield? Hell, I'll even take a CSI or a Smallville. Anything, anything at all, that entertains and challenges me the slightest bit and aims just millimeters higher than the bar.

I realize it's a generational thing, that folks my parents' age and older are used to seeing crap on TV because that's what Latin American TV thrives on, but this is the UNITED STATES, the supposed beacon of culture. Yeah, sure, that's bullshit, but maybe just this once it doesn't have to be. Maybe the Spanish networks can stop calling their audiences idiots to their faces.

That's why we're buying Univision: to raise the bar for millions who deserve much, much more.

Who's in?

-TM

Blonde... twins... touching...

2006-02-21T08:59:00.000-08:00

Apologies for not posting in like ten days, but the Tin Man's been under a lot of pressure on a couple of work-related fronts - happy to say TM delivered, as he tends to do when his street cred is on the line.

Jumping right back into things, yesterday I hit the crack pipe known as the 2006 Winter Olympics and fell in love with a little sport I like to call "Pretty Girls Doing Stuff." Or what others like to call "women's curling."

Granted, the "Pretty Girls" part applies only to the U.S. team, since the rest of the northern hemisphere seems to breed ogres particularly for this event. But Uncle Sam came through for me:

That's them: Jamie, Cassie, Jessica and Maureen, the lassies of U.S. curling. I credit them with making me watch hours and hours of a ridiculous "sport" that, in the end, is actually pretty compelling. Helias and I struggled with the rules at first but thanks to NBC's Curling-for-Idiots-like coverage we finally got what the point was. Which we never really cared about anyway since we were mainly focused on blonde twins lookin' all nice while hurling rocks across ice.

I think Great Britain kicked our ass in the end. But I keep the flame alive in my heart, Team USA. Thanks for the memories.

Call me.

-TM

P.S. Just found they're not twins. No matter. The blog stands.

Just another day at the mines...

2006-02-10T08:19:00.000-08:00

Figure it's time to give you a peek behind the curtains of America's best-selling weekly mag - or my little corner of it, anyway. The most important corner. To me. Are you ready for this? There's no way in hell you are. It's extreme.

The Tin Man. Yup, that's me, r0ckin' the shell necklace. Look close. It's like I'm 17 all over again, minus the crying. And note the jeans - on a Thursday. This tells the upper brass that my style cannot be confined to one measly day a week. Also note that the jeans are strategically covered by the desk.

My buddy Andrew, hydrating. It's an important part of the day here at the Guide, the walk over to the watercooler to keep fluid levels healthy. I - and Andrew there - consider it a prerequisite for success and a ritual that should be repeated a couple dozen times an hour.

There are other pics but Blogger tells me there's no more room on this thing. Your loss. Be assured they were unreal.

On another office note, today I've organized my first Happy Hour since I went all West Coast. Some folks, like Andrew there, might even come. This is big for me - an opportunity to embarrass myself in front of a whole new set of co-workers. Though if I wasn't persona non grata after my drunkass performance at the Christmas party, I think I'm safe.

Rock on,

Unhealthy obsession

2006-02-08T10:40:00.000-08:00

So I was one of the seven people in the US who tuned into the News Hour last night to see Jim "My Boy" Lehrer stick it to Dick "Head" Cheney. And I was one of the two people who re-read the transcript this morning - the other being Maureen "MILF" Dowd, trolling for fun phrases to double-entendre. God, she's hot.

But I digress.

The interview was about five minutes long, I'd say. And what struck me most, besides the reminder that I hate Cheney like Ian hates Dook (http://www.xtcian.com/), was his frequent use of a certain word. Let's see if you can spot it:

"I've been involved off and on for more than 30 years in various aspects of the government's intelligence business as a consumer..."

"I don't want to get into the business of passing judgement..."

"And when you start to get into the business of slapping taxes back on, we think that will simply slow down the economy..."

"The education reform the president put in place, No Child Left Behind, is a huge change in the way we do business in this country with respect to education..."

One of these words is not evil like the others... catch it? That's right, this bastard's obsessed with business, and that's not good for you and me, 'cause he's not running a 7-11. He's running the NATION. (If you ask me, he's getting a little help, though I wouldn't say that to his fat face.)

I know I'm not beating anyone to the "Cheney eats money" story, but I realized last night that maybe the guy can't help it. Maybe his daddy beat him with a belt with a business buckle. Or maybe business was the name of the first chick Dick dicked. My point is, maybe it's a pathological thing, something so subconsciously engrained not even he realizes he's repeating it once a minute.

Maybe he needs help. Like an intervention. And if we're gonna give it to him, we gotta give it to him yesterday, because it's not healthy for him, you, me or a couple billion other folks who like to be alive rather than dead, happy rather than sad, stuffed rather than starving.

Because while equality, civility and sympathy are three things we strive for, they're also three things that almost never turn a profit.

- TM

P.S. Apologies for the post starting off ha-ha and ending up boo-hoo - you know who to blame. tm

A bet you can't hedge

2006-02-07T23:01:00.000-08:00

Breakups happen to the best of us. All we can do is acknowledge they happened and move on.

At least that's what I told my buddy when he and his girlfriend split yesterday. And I'm fairly certain I was right. But it's time like these that remind the Tin Man how he earned his moniker.

It's not that I don't have feelings. I do. They're a little hard to get to sometimes, but they're there. I just fail to understand how people - most people, 98% of the world, give or take - open themselves up to the possibility of horrible, terrible pain.

"Falling in love," I think some folks call it.

I mean, the odds are ridiculous! If relationships were something you could play in Vegas, those tables would be the emptiest in the joint. Think about it: I'm betting all my chips that you're the one for me, regardless of changes of environment or consequence, and that nothing will shake this bond you and I feel right this second.

But there's a sucker born every minute, as they say, and we as a species have been rolling the dice for hundreds of millennia now. I guess because a good chunk of us hits the jackpot every now and then.

I don't win and I know exactly why: I don't play. To load one more game metaphor in here, if you miss 100% of the shots you don't take, I've failed at 100% of the relationships I haven't attempted.

I could bore you with the reasons why, that there was this girl once who did this thing, but it's an old tale and someone else could probably tell it better.

My buddy chose to give his all to this girl and it didn't work out. He lost this bet. There'll be others, I told him, more opportunities for joy and sorrow, and that's how this thing rolls on and on. He nodded, and said he knew, but I know my words didn't mean much to him at that point. He was too... sad. Too emotional.

Can't say I didn't envy him.

- TM

I make a damn good spaghetti sauce.

2006-02-06T09:47:00.000-08:00

I do. You wanna say otherwise, we may have a problem. Or perhaps a sauce-off.

First off, fine, I'll admit it: I don't make it from scratch. Mainly 'cause I don't have five and a half hours to stew tomatos or whatever the hell else Trader Joe does before he puts the stuff into jars and sells it to me at considerable markup. I figure he's gone through all this trouble, I'm not gonna spit in his face by scorning his labor.

But from that point on, it's all me, baby. Me and my God-given ingenuity. You're not gonna find this recipe in some white man's book.

No, I dish out Italian by way of Peru with maybe a layover in Spain or a side trip to China. And if I've got a little curry handy, I go a little Bollywood, just 'cause I like their dancin'.

The end result? A feast for the ages. Ask El Jefe. He'll tell you. As will Fizz, JMac and the many others who've partaken of this ambrosia. They know whose game this is.

But like the cabernet I down, it's a bittersweet thing.

See, I used to have an army to feed - the aforementioned boyz. Now it's just me and Helias, maybe Doll, if he can pry himself from physics long enough to enjoy a good meal. But the thrill is gone. Usually I'd serve up my creation while poker chips still littered the table and Elisha Cuthbert played a porn star on the teevee. Trash would be talked, bets would be antied and women would be objectified, all over a fine plate of the Tin Man's spaghetti.

Ahhh, those were the days. Will they come again? I know not. For now, I'll just continue lunching on the leftovers of the past.

But you know what?

They're still damn tasty.

- TM

And the keyboard wept...

2006-02-03T13:31:00.000-08:00

A couple of minutes ago I typed the following sentence:

"I’m happy to announce that we finally have our own fax machine!"

It was the first line of an e-mail I just sent to the other folks in my unit. Let's take a moment to analyze the (not so) hidden pathos of this statement.

"I'm happy"

A lie. A damn lie.

"to announce"

I'm not announcing anything. I'm not standing here with a bullhorn. I'm typing a damn e-mail. Rejoice.

"that we finally have"

Implying that it's been some sort of uphill struggle - which I suppose it has, but it's not like I was lugging alabaster for the pharaoh or anything. I had to put in a request through IT that took two weeks to process. Hardship. I bleed.

"our own fax machine"

An appliance I'm shocked to death has not been put out of its misery. And it's OURS! ALL OURS! And worst of all:

"!"

An exclamation point. At time of typing, I was actually excited at the turn of events before me. A fax machine! WOOHOO! I used to have to walk twelve feet across sand-colored carpet to retrieve faxes! No longer! Now the thing's sitting right here on my desk! If I'm not careful I'll bump it with my elbow! It's displaced my file racks! THAT'S HOW CLOSE IT IS!!!!

It's been a long week.

-TM

Reality checks my Peruvian ass can't cash

2006-02-02T09:37:00.000-08:00

Oh yeah, I have a blog. And I haven't posted since August. Huh. That's funny.

But it's 2006 now, the Year of the Dog, and somehow that speaks to me... so I'm gonna blog every day. Yeah, I said it. EVERY DAY. Rain or shine, sober or drunk, dressed or un. And unlike the promises I usually make to loved ones, I'm gonna try keep this one.

So let's celebrate my return to the blogsphere with a little game I like to call Reality Check. Sure, it's usually a drinking game - a shot of Jack for every salty tear, two for every wallpunch - but it's before noon and there are rules I'd rather not break until it becomes absolutely necessary and/or the weekend.

This week brought me three great achievements to which I can compare my current futility. I present them to you in order of life significance:

See my cousin Claudia. See my cousin Claudia graduate from law school the same year I graduated from undergrad even though she's younger than me, and see her land a job with the hottest law firm in Lima. And, oh yeah, see her visit Macchu Picchu, spiritual nexus of my people. Great.

This is my dad, and the lovely lady beside him will be my stepmom as of this coming summer sometime. She's 30, so roughly a biscuit older than me, and the old man is knocking on 50's door. This'll be engagement no. 3 for Pops. My current total: zero (though I guess I'm closer to the optimal number than he is). Guess it'd help if I weren't a total jackass to women who like me. Note to self: work on that.

And last but most definitely not least, these are my grandparents. He turned 83 yesterday and they've been married for 60 years, which is an amount of time impossible for me to grasp. Couple of obvious questions here: Will I make it to 83? If I do, will I be alone or accompanied? And will I also rock the moustache?

Oh, don't you fret: I'm not sitting here all weepy-eyed or anything. Just contemplative. And that's rare for the Tin Man, so let me enjoy it. And you can join in the fun too: what hell have YOU done with your life?

I kid, I kid, reader. You've done plenty.

Right?

-TM

If you see El Jefe, tell him I'm gonna kick his ass, or in the very least key his car

2005-08-24T11:08:00.000-07:00

We all remember the key scene in Les Miserables, right? Where the priest gives the dirtyass Valjean food and shelter, only to have the bastard steal his silverware?

The Tin Man had a little Hugo moment this weekend when, like the man of God he is, he opened his home to a ruffian - in this case, El Jefe. And, like Valjean, El Jefe bit the hand that poured him Jack Daniels.

Damn you, El Jefe. Damn you and your blog-comandeering ways.

I thought The Mack, who is currently becoming one with my couch, would keep El Jefe in check when I stepped out for another eight-hour shift at the nation's best-selling weekly magazine. I underestimated El Jefe.

Be warned, El Jefe. I never make the same mistake twice.

I'll leave the evidence of your betrayal on the holy blog. I could take it off, sure, but I think there's a lesson here. For all of us. For all of you.

But besides El Jefe's mutiny, it was a nice little weekend. A little beach, a little nightlife, a little poker - it was almost like the old days, except when we hit the hootch, when it was exactly like the old days.

Are you surprised at my tears, sir? Strong men also cry. Strong men... also... cry...

Thanks for coming out, Jefe. Fizz, we expect you out here shortly. Quick, before The Mack gets a job.

Peace.

-TM

I'm a large hairy woman, who enjoys long walks on the beach.

2005-08-22T12:48:00.000-07:00

I refuse to post to this blog despite the urgings of my friends and perhaps my relatives. It has been suggested that I probably just don't have nothing positive or even mildly interesting to add to the blogosphere, but as my good friend Patrick has told me that doesn't keep 99% of the blogger community from posting so why should it me? Patrick has many sage hints and pieces of advice of me that he is only too happy to share. Plus he is so interested in the education of simpletons that he'll often phrase his immense knowledge in short catch phrases. For instance when our friend J-mac complained the other day about the possiblity of burning his lily-white Scotch-Irish hide at the beach, Patrick merely shouted out that J-mac needed to "Burn the Toast!" We're not sure what he meant by that. I'm sure that shit was deep though.

He's also incredibly handsome.

And fucking suave as hell.

It never rains in southern California...

2005-08-03T21:28:00.000-07:00

No, no it doesn't. It also never stops shaking.

A lot's happened since last we jawed. Let's see... the Tin Man got himself a respectable job, not a deep fryer in sight; the pad's coming along nicely, thanks in no small part to the tastefully hidden Elisha Cuthbert poster; and celebrity sightings are in the double digits.

The latest one? It happened today, actually. That hobbit of hobbits, Elijah the Woodster, at the light at Venice and National. One minute I'm changing CDs and the next minute Frodo's in my rearview. He drives a Mini Cooper, which we all expected, really.

And I couldn't call myself an Angelino without being an extra in something, so I took care of that this weekend by standing eight hours in the hot, hot, damn hot sun on the steps of City Hall. The upside? I got to meet Edward James Olmos. The downside? I pretty much no longer have a face.

But just wait til agents and casting directors see me in this thing - the phone's gonna ring off the hook! I gave the camera everything I had! All my unquenched passion, all my dark intensity, every ounce of my is-he-or-isn't-he sensitivity. I showed them who the Tin Man really is, a bare-all look into the deep throes of my psyche. Check me out:

I'm the Hispanic guy in the middle there.Yeah, baby. A star is born.

I was unpaid, of course, which I was semi-bummed about until I met some of the "paid" extras and immediately decided that their kind should be exterminated. Every last damn one of them.

Here's a snippet of what I overheard between two "professional" extras, as these organisms like to be called:

Worthless Being #1: "Yeah, I did Pirates. They wanted me to come back for 2, but I don't know, I think it's gonna suck, don't know if I want to be a part of that."
Worthless Being #2: "Oh, I know. I'm still kicking myself for doing War of the Worlds, I hate that my name's attached to that."
Worthless Being #1: "But Johnny [Depp] was cool, it'd be nice to hang with him again. Yeah, we hung."
Worthless Being #2: "Yeah, Tom [Cruise] was pretty cool too, you know, before he went all apeshit."
Worthless Being #1: "Yeah."
Worthless Being #2: "Yeah. You gonna eat that corndog?"

I searched for a blunt object to no avail, then considered using my own head to knock them unconscious, but by then the nausea had passed. Needless to say I took a couple of showers when I got home.

What kind of life can that be, when your purpose is to blend into the background? Have we checked if these people are actually vampires of some sort? Can someone get on that? I'd sleep better.

And I met Luis Guzman's stand-in, who, to my surprise, was actually not Luis Guzman. I thought LG could use the extra bills, but I guess he's doing alright.

If you're Luis Guzman: Thank you, man. You're an inspiration to Hispanics everywhere. Que viva la raza!

If you're everyone else: How the hell did Luis Guzman happen?

Alrighty, bedtime for this Hollywood wannabe. Until next time, which may or may not be around Christmas,

-TM

Like Lewis without the Clark... and late

2005-07-01T16:10:00.000-07:00

The Tin Man's a lot of things - oh, is he ever - and dammit if prompt isn't one of them.

As all of you should know, I drove Blue Steel, my trusty Japanese stallion, cross-country a couple of weeks ago - trading a nice, comfy, paycheck-ful Chapel Hill life for a warm, sunny, fiscally idiotic Los Angeles existence. And believe me, it's all those things. Definitely warm. Definitely sunny. And moldy bread's a matter of opinion.

Anyway, long story short, I had the great idea of preserving the four-day drive for posterity by writing it up. You know, the funny things. The sad things. The oh-my-God-I'm-in-Texas-just-keep-driving things. To that end, I took copious notes along the way, proving that steering with your knees for hours at a time is totally as cool as it sounds.

Thing is, I got to LA and forgot my kickass plan. And now, a month later, I forgot where I put my notes.

But it's no matter, for I'm strappingly young and stacked with memory. So here, for your reading enjoyment, are the 70 mph, strictly-through-the-windshield highlights. If you're a minor, don't worry - they're excruciatingly G-rated.

Day 1 - Rabun Gap, Ga., to Little Rock, Ark.

"But Tin Man, why start in Georgia?" Because, faithful reader, that's where Tin Folks live - just across the N.C.-Ga. line. Tin Mom cried as I pulled out of the driveway - was it because her baby bird was spreading his wings toward the horizon, or because he'd left her his bank account number "just in case"? Only time will tell.
Tennessee is entirely too long. Slightly in its favor is that, after the halfway point, all the billboards advertise either toll-free prayer or vasectomies. God's country.
Arkansas is either the world's leading producer of soy beans or I need to learn something about plants.
I passed Toad Suck, Ark., as fast as Blue Steel would take me. I don't wanna know.

Day 2 - Little Rock, Ark., to Amarillo, Tx.

Nothing.
Hey, dead chinchilla. Hey, Oklahoma.
Not a damn thing.
Crosses galore, lest I forget where I am.
Amarillo makes me wanna padlock Blue Steel. It's basically a truck stop of 170,000 people.

Day 3 - Amarillo, Tx., to Flagstaff, Az.

Is there a piece of paper I could sign to help give Texas back to Mexico? Though we'd probably have to do it when Mexico's not looking.
A lot of campers out here. I don't get the pater familias who says, "Hey, kids, guess where we're going this summer? The desert!" Where there's no water! And you could die!
I swear, a sign just advertised "Real Indians!" Not Real Indian Artifacts, or even Blankets. Real Indians. I cry a little.
If ever you feel completely happy with yourself and convinced that the world is a beautiful and harmonious place, let me know and I'll get you on a plane to New Mexico.
Finally, relief. Literally. Flagstaff's a beautful town, right at the ankles of the snowcapped southern Rockies. No joke there.
My waitress' name was Mackenzie. That doesn't happen east of the Mississippi. $1.50 Coronas seven days a week. That doesn't happen either.

Day 4 - Flagfstaff, Az. - Los Angeles, Ca.

I leave the Rockies in my rearview and once again encounter miles and miles of death and dirt. Hey, a dead elk! Yeah, that's the highlight.
Hey, I could go see the Grand Canyon...
I don't.
Welcome to California! State border police asks me if I'm hiding anything, to which I reply, "vast amounts of untapped potential." The old man smiles and waves me on. Smugglers everywhere: pretend to be writers.
More desert.
Bumper-to-bumper traffic at 2 p.m. in the afternoon? Palm trees? Girl in the next car has a nose she wasn't born with? I'm home.

So there it is, the story I should have told weeks ago. Dig it. Tin Man out.