I just got an e-mail from the Academy chairman about the Emmy Awards broadcast.

"We have it on the highest authority that G4TechTV's piece on the NATAS Science & Technology Emmy Awards Gala featuring the 2nd Annual Advanced Media Technology Emmy Awards will be broadcast as part of 'The Screen Savers' December 1st, 7 Eastern / 4 Pacific."

Short notice, but better than no notice. I'm more eager to see if G4techTV puts up any info -- including the video interview with yours truly -- at some point.

An article in the Carnegie Signal Item newspaper appeared last Wednesday and talks about my Emmy win. You can read all the details here.

While it would be easy to blame a copy editor for some of my mangled quote, it's probably more likely due to the fact that I was interviewed on my cell phone while I was walking around the streets of SoHo after being out until 4:30 a.m. the night before. So it's entirely likely that I did, in fact, say, "When it actual happens it is easily to get swept up in."

Although now, I have no item what the hell I was talking about.

[See? I meant to say "idea." You knew that, right? Right?]

I've written before about focus as it relates to the creation of art. And about my struggle with finding focus.

Today I read in the Los Angeles Times Magazine an interview with T.C. Boyle. Here's the quote that struck me:

"It is an obsessive-compulsive disorder, creating art, and there's no way to stop it. It's how I describe fiction writing. This is it. I don't write film scripts. I don't care about money. I don't want to be a man of letters or write essays or histories. I don't want to do anything but write fiction. I think this single-mindedness is part of the reason for my success."

On so many levels I agree with this. I have long believed the Napoleon Hill line of thought that says "don't think about money, and money will come to you."

But I somehow smart when I read that "this single-mindedness is part of the reason for my success."

I DO want to write film scripts and create TV shows and paint abstract canvases and perform insane (often times unlistenable) music. I want to be a publisher, an editor, a designer, a murder mystery novelist, a comic book writer, a kids book author.

I often think that if I did nothing else but write fiction (and perhaps more specifically, adult literary novels) then, like the estimable Mr. T.C. Boyle, I would be "successful."

Perhaps my single-mindedness is broader, though no less focused. Perhaps my obsession and my compulsion is to entertain. It's to tell stories. It's to make people feel.

The difference is that mine is the long game. Which just means that finding focus, recognizing it, sticking to it, is that much harder.

People ask me where I get my gift of storytelling. While I feel I get a ton of creativity from my mom, the gift of story comes from my dad, who is the master.

So here we are: Gab and I, her parents, my parents. Thanksgiving day. The bird is in the oven. The appetizers are on the table. The cocktails have been served.

And my dad and Gab's dad are swapping war stories. Okay they're actually just basic training stories. In a weird twist of fate and coincidence, Mr. Middaugh spent his service during the Korean war in Germany and Mr. Pascoe spent his service during the Vietnam war in Germany.

My dad's story:

One time he was asked to paint the outside of KP. He had his bucket of white paint and was swiping the steps bright white. Unfortunately, he spilled the bucket. The paint ran down the stairs, onto the walkway, all into the grass.

As he continued on, a general and a lieutenant walked by. The higher ranks yelled out. My dad snapped up to attention.

The general walked around him, looked at the grass, looked at the cement path. "Boy," he said, "there's more paint on the ground than there is on the stairs."

My dad said: "I'm a soldier, sir! If you wanted a painter, you should have hired a painter, sir!"

Silence.

The general said, "Carry on, son."

Guess what I'm thankful for.

Yesterday I got an idea for a song called "I Can't Make Sense of You (With My Five Senses)." I can't decide if it's a subversively ironic punk song or a kids' sing-a-long. Be thankful that I don't have a recording contract.

I know what I can say: after the party on Friday, a group of friends -- including Mr. Martin B. -- made our way over to the one-and-only Original Pantry Restaurant for some after-midnight grub. The waiter (who told us he'd been working there for 47 years ... oh yeah) brought us some of their famous grilled sourdough. It's heaven in the mornings, but it's even more delightful after a night of drinking.

But my wordsmithing can't compare to Martin's brilliant drunken observation:

"It's like a group of girlscouts sleeping in my mouth."

Word.

What can I say? Has it sunk in yet? Kinda, but also not really. I came back from NYC, basking in the glow of an Emmy win, fully charged and ready to go. Lovely Wife Gabrielle organized a small celebration in downtown L.A. for this past Friday. It was great to get together with friends and show off the statue, though I had to keep it away from my former bandmate Martin, who was trying to use it to pick up girls. Not that I'm opposed to that.

Yes, it's true. This past monday I was handed a statue for Outstanding Achievement in Advanced Media Technology for the Creation of a Video Game. More of my babbling when I get back from NYC.

There's something about waking up in someone else's bed...

I've been lucky enough to crash at my friend Paul Pope's place in the village while he's out of town, and it's given me this incredible sense of living in New York. But still there's that alienating feeling that comes from being a stranger in a strange place.

I find that it most often affects me right before I wake up. When I start to tumble out of sleep, but still have the haze of the night draped over me. I think that dreams in this dawn of consciousness are the most powerful. I remember this morning seeing a list in my mind; it looked like an e-mail in-box, but instead of messages, the list was of dreams I had while sleeping.

Once I became aware that my dreams were listed out for me to simply read, I focused my eyes on them. I couldn't read the words. Maybe they were written in Paul's strange Martian language, examples of which hang all over his apartment. Maybe they were simply out of focus. Whatever the case, items slowly started to be removed from the list. Then it occurred to me that I wasn't looking at an in-box -- it was an out-box of items that were about to be sent.

When my dreams were sent away, I did not wake. Instead I became aware of everything in the room, which had changed into cool elements of precision. The air mattress I slept on was now a stainless steel table. The folds in my body were straight lines. Parallel to my body, a polished red stripe lacquered the four walls. Everything was so precise.

The Emmy Awards are tonight. I mentioned to some of you that it would be broadcast on TV. Here's the scoop: "Portions of the ceremony will be broadcast on “Pulse,” the G4techTV cable network news program, on November 19th at 10 PM ET/PT."

At the very least, stay tuned tomorrow to hear the announcement on this site. Three nominations, but all I want is one statue!

I leave in a couple hours to fly to NYC for the Emmy Awards Ceremony on Monday, November 15. I was told it was going to be broadcast on G4techTV, but I couldn't find a listing for it. I'm planning on staying in the city for about a week, mostly to hole up in my friend Paul Pope's apartment and write ... specifically, my long-awaited, long-worked-on next crime novel.

I fixed the link to comments on this page, but I still don't have any idea what the hell I was talking about last night.

My friend Kowe made an important comment on my sad, devistating last post. He wrote that it was sad that I would question my role as a writer, even during that tragedy. He said all the requisite things like "writers are healers" and "think about a world without art."

The point for me wasn't that I forgot this stuff; it was that I could be reduced to pragmatism.

It would be easy for me to take as a lesson from all this the realization that there should always be art, always be artists (although a tribunal somewhere is convening right now to revoke my rights for writing this convoluted sentence). Well, maybe that is the lesson. I don't know.

Clearly the lesson right now is that 2 a.m. + Makers Mark + pontificating about lofty poetic ideas regarding writing and life lessons = bad idea.

(this bad idea, and every one I hope to have in the future, is why I'm a writer.)

I don't imagine any of you are reading this Web site standing up, perhaps pacing within your cubical, clutching a donut and your morning coffee, wondering what's new in the world ... and wondering why you're not sitting down.

But trust me, you should sit down now.

I just came back from my friends' wedding. I had all the intentions of writing it up, all the bliss and pomp and circumstance. I had wanted to write about my Friday night -- the bachelor party -- in which Chris (the groom) opened up, among other treasures, a bottle of 1975 Sauterne (which was unspeakably divine). And I wanted to write about the fantastic rehearsal dinner they had on Saturday, one that was so good I thought that if there were vows, it could have BEEN the wedding.

But it all led up to tonight.

Held at the L.A. River Gardens, the wedding held a special meaning to me. I love the L.A. River; Gab and I even thought about having our wedding at this place. It was beautiful and blessed. Even with a 50% chance of rain forecasted, the sky opened up and breathed a breath of fresh smogless air onto a lovely ceremony.

And then.

I don't know if I can even write it. I'm still so full of tears and disbelief.

The bride's father collapsed on the dance floor. And while I haven't heard the official harsh news, I know it's not good. I know that no matter how much I hope and pray with all of my soul for my dear friends ... I know he's gone.

Please, please let me be wrong.

You know, I'm supposed to be a murder mystery writer. There are so many bodies that litter my first two books: bloody, bruised, and beaten. I hope to have written them convincingly. But what the hell do I know.

When I saw him on the ground, the doctors in the crowd rushing to his side, screaming, "We don't have a pulse!" ... all I could think about was how damn helpless I was. I though to myself, I'm a fucking writer. A writer. What the fuck can I do? All that I've learned, all that I've achieved ... what the fuck? I can't do anything.

I was married two month ago. That could be my dad.

I want to throw up.

But I'm writing this, really, as a testament to my friends. Because through this tragedy arose something pure and good. I guess nobody else really knew how to react. Everyone hugged and kissed and comforted each other like it was all our last day.

We held hands, we cried together, we honestly loved each other unconditionally.

And that feeling, that feeling is NOT worth the pain. But it's good. It's good because it's real. I saw heroes tonight, and I saw that I was not one. I made promises that transcend pettiness. I came expecting a ceremony of love, and I got more love that a hundred ceremonies.

I'm not a very religious man, even though I think I 'm very spiritual. And to be sure, the bride and groom are not very religious either -- the groom even said in his vows that he doesn't believe in things like providence. But he believes in a greater force that brough his wife and him together.

I believe too.

Whether you believe or not, please pray with me-- in whatever way that you know how -- for my friends and their families. May I suggest, if you are able, to call your dad and tell him that you love him.

Yes, as hard as it is to believe, my beloved JETIX Cards Live has been nominated for another (hold your breath) THREE Emmy Awards.

Previously, the Academy of Television Arts and Sciences (ATAS) had short-listed my project (I was the head writer/producer) for a special jury-selected Emmy that went to the fine folks at Celebrity Mole. Moles are dirty, filthy creatures that only become even slightly cool when they wear big glasses with tiny slits in them. But really, I'm happy for them.

Now comes the National Academy of Television Arts and Sciences (NATAS). This outstanding organization has announced its four advanced media technology awards, and I'm up for three of the four. You can read the official press release here.

I'll be heading to NYC next weekend; the award ceremony is on Monday, November 15. Wish me luck. Hopefully, I'll come back with some very heavy statues.

Okay, really I was minding my own business.

I went out for a drink last night with my good friends Adam and Melanie. They were concened that I was "too lonely" this week because Gabrielle is in London. I guess they were right if by lonely they meant 12 hours of typesetting Kill Whitey.

As a tangent, I finally have an answer to the inevitable question I've been getting these past two months. Perhaps the only good thing about Gabrielle being out of the house is that I don't have to make the bed every day. Question: Do things feel any different now that you're married. Answer: Yes. I now spend a measurable amount of time actually thinking about the made/unmade state of the bed.

Back to last night's drinking engagement. I park my car in a dark alley in Eagle Rock. The E-Rock is a neighborhood on the eastern edge of Los Angeles, a place where the priced-out Silver Lake hipsters have settled. It's not particularly dangerous. I'm not an overly frightened person to begin with. So why not park in a dark alley. All the spots on the main drag were taken. And the Eagle Rock does not have the valet parking. Yet.

I'm walking along a path -- to my left was a stylish ghetto chain link fence in front of a falling down shack. Then, in the darkness, the fence buckled out toward me and a mangled mass of fur roared at me.

I screamed like a little girl. If you're going to scream, don't pussy-foot around. So I didn't. It was a real and loud scream for mercy.

After catching my breath I realized it was a dirty German sheppard with hollow eyes and black gums. But most remarkably, the dog only had three legs.

People, this was a beast straight from the bowels of hell itself! If I had stayed, there would have been pea soup, children in snowsuits and meat tenderizers, and most likely Alice Cooper. Nearby, elevator cables were snapping. Churches were infested with flies.

Inside, Adam and Melanie bought me a glass of champagne. Suddenly, typography and three-legged dogs seemed a little farther away.

And no, I'm not talking about Black Wednesday, which was actually inspiration DRAINING.

I'm talking about my friend Chad Hermann.

When I first started writing on this site (see how relunctant I am to use the word "blog"?) over a year ago, I had almost thought that I wouldn't need to stay in touch with friends as much -- they can keep updated with what I'm doing by reading all the stuff here.

Well, first of all, I guess I would need to add stuff here more often. But aside from that and more importantly, there still exists the need for one-on-one communication, even through the distant veil of e-mail.

Last week I sat down to write Chad an e-mail. I hadn't heard from him in a while; in fact, he hadn't responded to the last couple of e-mails (even my obvious bait, like "what do you think of the new photo iPods?"). So I opened up to him, and instead of talking technology and toys, we talked writing.

And lo and behold, to my great and humbled honor, a couple days later a Web site was born (again, with the blog hesitation).

Call it what you will, it's wonderful reading, even just these past couple days. I look forward to much more.

Chad was one of the editors of my first two books: By the Balls and Five Shots and a Funeral. He's really had an editorial hand in almost everything I've done before and since. He was also a crucial early member of the UglyTown team.

The other thing to make this post timely: Chad's comment on the recent election pretty much sum up my own disgust. I find it's hard for me to say anything, so I'll just point to his words. Hopefully today will be a better day than tomorrow.