Fudge & Motel Sex

Just returned from the best vacation ever ... at least the best one I've been on in recent years. The destination wasn't especially exotic; just the island (Mackinac, not Barbados). But it was a helluva good time anyway.

We spent the whole week acting like proto-typical tourists ... lots of fudge, espresso, shopping, smoked fish and motel sex. The latter being especially great.

What is it about doing the horizontal mambo in a hotel? Same wife, same moves, different location. And that makes all the difference. I won't go into details, because my kids might read this. Suffice it to say we were almost certainly bothering the people trying to sleep in the next room.

One word on paying extra for the jacuzzi suite, though: Not worth the money. All those bubbles and hot water sound much sexier than they really are. Drop the extra cash on champagne and fudge instead. (Fudge, by the way, is a known female aphrodisiac! Really! I wish I could get the missus to live on the stuff!)

Anyway, starting Monday it's back to the "real" world. No more hotel staffer fawning over our every need. No more maid service. No more motel sex. And though we stocked up before leaving the Great White North, that fudge isn't going to last forever. 

Shooting Labor Day

The big Labor Day Party went well, by which I mean everyone over 21 got a good buzz going by early afternoon and maintained it well into the "bonfire" hours.

The food was great, the company was excellent and none of the grandchildren broke anything expensive. Can't ask for better than that.

It also gave me a chance to use my new Super Camcorder - though, as you can see from the photo at left, my actors were somewhat less than enthusiastic about portraying themselves in my first epic. I'm not sure why. Maybe they're unconvinced of my directorial skills. Or maybe they were pissed that I refused to pay union scale (or anything, for that matter).

Or it could be that, like me, they're not keen about the way they look on video. My daughter, aka "Ms. Meshuga" (see photo, again), volunteered as substitute camera operator and shot a ton of footage of moi.

Upon viewing that footage the next day, I noticed something startling: I'm a fatass. Who knew? But the camera does not lie.

They say the camera adds ten pounds, but I'm guessing the other 200 were added the old fashioned way: beer and burritos.

So, does this spell an end to my filmmaking career? Hell, no! But from this point on, I'll make sure I'm on the narrow end of the lens. 

Move Over, Citizen Kane!

Bought a new camcorder a couple days ago. It's about the size of a televangelist's wallet and has exactly seven more features than the space shuttle. I've been reading the badly-translated manual for days and have finally figured out how to turn it on.

Oliver Stone is not losing sleep over my movie-making abilities. But he should be.

Once I figure out how to get the lens cap off, I'm going to be a kick-ass filmmaker. I'm already working on my first script. Or, rather, working on thinking about getting started working on my first script.

Okay, maybe I haven't really gotten that far, but it's going to be a GREAT script, baby! Lots of violence, explosions, T&A, and at least one scene where the protagonist comes to terms with his "mommy issues," just before blasting the aliens out of the sky! Coming soon to a theater near you.

I'll fill you in on the details later. Right now, I have this freakin' lens cap issue to deal with.