Screening at the Silent Movie Theatre, West Hollywood!
Hello, everyone. The Nightmare, our newest short film, will be screening at the Dublab Labrat Matinee this Tuesday, June 17th! This year the Labrat Matinee has moved nightward and westerly, being held at the Silent Movie Theatre at 8pm.
Here's the info:
An evening of visions burning bright, unseen music videos, documentaries, comedy clips, out-there animation, short films, eye melting magic, and special surprises!
Music Videos Featuring: American Music Club Animal Collective Ariel Pink Awesome Color Battles Beach House Bon Iver Caribou Daedelus Dan Deacon Devendra Banhart Dntel Entrance Excepter Flight of the Conchords MGMT My Robot Friend Nobody presents: Blank Blue Okkervil River Sebastien Tellier The Dodos Trans Am and more…
Films By: Ace Norton Andy Cahill Ben Barnes Clay Lipsky Dean Fernando Fernando Cardenas Damon Jones Dave Hughes Derek Waters Eric Fensler Erik Barnes Ghost Town Hashim Bharoocha Jimmy Joe Roche JFR/Fingered John Leone Josh Forbes Julia Croon Lana Kim Matt Amato Maximilla Lukacs Miranda July Nima Nourizadeh No Domain Ray Tintori Roel Wonter Saul Levitz Skizz Cyzyk The Masses The Wilderness Timothy Saccenti Tim & Eric Travis Peterson Video Marsh and more…
+ the debut of DUBLAB VISION VERSION + a live performance by TRS-80
films: 8-11pm TRS-80 & dublab djs: 11-Mid
$10 general or $6 members / All Ages
Cinefamily at the Silent Movie Theatre 611 N Fairfax Avenue Los Angeles, 90036 323.655.2510
Good afternoon from the iPhone of a sleeping Wall Street-type on the bus. Our internet's been down at the house all week, during which Chestnut swore he'd sent the Comcast check. A further search of his desk revealed one unsent check and one missing and presumed mailed page of How I Met Your Mother fan fiction.
I'm pleased to present our newest short, The Nightmare. Tumble says you should watch the crap out of it.
Hello friends. After a long spell of bloglessness, I have some news. Movie Night has been invited to screen at the South By Southwest film festival this year in Austin Texas. Here's the SXSW listing.
I'll soon have another short for you to view, so until then, I must abscond to the hazy, ambiguous isle of blog silence.
Greetings from the raspy throat and throbbing head of a person that spent the better portion of an evening huddled around a player piano drinking his landlord's trademark "Kahluatinis" and singing at the top of his lungs. (Our landlord Phil had gathered Tumble, Chestnut and I together to celebrate his completion of a hand-punched piano roll of Exile On Main Street). But I have digressed.
After talking about it nonstop, may I now please present to you a short entitled "Movie Night":
I have recently started a myspace page that will be my main focus and the repostitory for new shorts and other things, so please add it to your friends! www.myspace.com/fishoutofwatersite
Hello everyone. For those of you that missed its premiere at the Labrat Matinee, a new short of mine entitled "Movie Night" will be screening again at The Standard on Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles this Sunday, June 24 at 9pm. It's wonderfully inexpensive, I've been informed. Valet parking is only $5 and admission is free, plus there are drink specials.
Being 3000 miles away and unable to attend, Tumble, Chestnut and I will be holding our own screening in solidarity, lugging the tv out into the backyard to watch Ladyhawke (Chestnut won the coin toss) amongst the lightning bugs. Our landlord Phil has promised to join us and provide the festivities with homemade OFF!
Hello everyone. Just a quick note to mention that an all-new Fish short will be opening the Dublab Labrat Matinee this upcoming Sunday, June 10th at the Little Temple in Los Angeles!
A couple of my blog shorts, including Scarface, will also be screening as well as amazing comedy clips from Bob Odenkirk, Tim and Eric, Maria Bamford and others; music videos from Arcade Fire, Deerhoof, The Books, Blonde Redhead and something like thirty other bands.
For those of you not familiar with the Dublab Labrat Matinee, its a festival of incredible underground shorts and music videos with DJs, drinks and free popcorn.
After discovering that the folks at the Labrat Matinee used a photo for the flyer featuring only myself, a jealousy-riddled Tumble whipped up his own flyer, which at this moment he is FedExing to Chestnut's sister in Los Angeles to distribute:
Hello from the frayed knuckles of a despondent typist. I made another wager with Tumble in a fit of bravado, declaring once again that I could write a short story given any title. Tumble took seventy-two careful hours and came up with the doozy Adventure!: The Barfening of Shitsbury. Needless to say, my creative well has evaporated and my brain started sobbing ten minutes ago. Satsifaction practically emanates from his room down the hall.
Grogan Tumble himself has been hunched over his cabling spool coffee table, jotting down ideas with fevered inspiration.
He got it in his head to come out with a line of motivational calendars. So far, I've only gotten a chance to glimpse months January through March:
I personally can't wait to see December. I found a crumpled up idea in his wastebasket that simply read, "I hate you, Santa."
As the month of April stumbles off into the past like a lovesick wino trying to recall the name of a grade-school crush and tie his bike-chain-belt at the same time, I've been trying my hardest to keep myself immersed in work to plug up whatever holes have been worn into the lobes of my noggin by depressions past and present.
Tonight, between the ingestion of a particulary potent bottle of bottom-shelf liquor and a half-crazed late-night Heath Bar run, I came up with another page for Love is a Drowsy, Retarded Turtle, the children's book I've been writing on-and-off for a couple years:
Chestnut's voice mumbles through the walls at this late hour, preparing for a trip to the Altoona office tomorrow morning. I can barely make out a muffled "Onde está o café o mais próximo?" (Chestnut downloaded Portuguese lessons to his iPod in order to impress a Brazillian toll collector he remembers from six months ago). From the other wall, the muted dual guitars of Thin Lizzy's Cowboy Song wrap themselves around my roommate's warbled yell-singing as Tumble, fresh off a telephone call where his sister advised him to grow up and "get a real job," has holed himself in his room sipping single-malt scotch and designing a treehouse.
It's been three weeks almost since we lost a man who helped me understand the world better than my own two eyes could ever do alone. And tonight I still don't very much feel like writing. I feel like sitting at my desk, drawing assholes in marker or painting unwavering bands of light, anything to compensate for the closing of one great, great man's portal somewhere over Manhattan.
So I think I'll sign off here and hope that someone somewhere understands the world like no one else ever has and is at this moment putting pen to paper to let us in on it.
The Frost Has Been Burned Off This Author's Weathered Heart
Spring has whisked its way into our enclave and set right what was once a matted mess of human misery. This past Saturday saw our three formerly hapless selves take in breakfast smoothies and a jaunt in our local park. Our fun was only briefly interrupted when Chestnut's wheatgrass shot started to kickbox his lower GI, forcing him to wait for a vagrant taking a paper towel bath to free up the restroom.
Sometime early yesterday a stircrazy Tumble breathed in a lungful of 72-degree spring air and set to building a miniature golf course in the backyard. (An initially reluctant Landlord Phil enthusiastically lent Tumble his post-hole digger after seeing the schematics for the ambitious "Pit of Screaming Hellfire" on the 17th hole.) Chestnut has been taking vacation days and lounging on Phil's roof, regaling him with office gossip while Phil tends to his pot seedlings.
And just today I started working on a new short story. I won't tell you anything about it now, except to say it's about a sniper with asthma.
The world that once laid waste to our hopes and dreams now intoxicates us with promise and wonder, if only to set up more hopes and dreams for a spectacular dashing. It's like a wonderful theme park ride that leaves you penniless and crippled, deliriously screaming for more as you claw your way back into the line. But enough of my silly jottings. Tumble has just called from the backyard to get my opinion on whether or not he's struck a gas main.
Good evening. It's taken some time nursing myself back to face-the-world form, but as Neil Young once sung, "an ambulance can only go so fast." (Tumble and I played that side of On The Beach nonstop for a solid weekend during our ongoing depressfest. He called the Guinness people with news of our accomplishment and was met with the world's record for indifference).
Tumble has been keeping himself busy talking on the phone with his homesick grandmother in Phoenix and sending her pictures of a Pittsburgh winter.
Chestnut, meanwhile, has returned from his business trip on a mission. While recording a kissing scene for the audio book a while back, Chestnut sensed a moment between himself and Tumble's sister.
To Tumble's credit, he noticed it, too.
Gathering up all musterable courage, Chestnut asked her out on a Valentine's date and was flatly rejected due to her burgeoning infatuation with the stage manager of a local production of The Fantasticks. Chestnut has since caromed into our collective mope, contributing vital manpower to snack retrieval and DVD changing. It's good to see the household united, even if it is just three sad sacks nestled firmly in a rut letting life in all its glory soldier on.
