A long time ago, in my parents’ living room far, far away, I wrote a fan letter. This was a different world. A world of dial-up internet and video rental stores. My local dealer, a small version of a national chain, had a small section of “independent movies.” Once I figured out what the hell that meant, I was hooked. I rented them all. I paid some stout late fees. I didn’t go out much that summer. The movies were small and looked grainy. Truly like your friends had grabbed a camcorder and hit record.  I liked all of them for their moxie and grit and willingness to reach for the stars from the gutter. Until I saw one called ‘Green” by writer/director Karl T. Hirsch. I didn’t like that one. I loved it. Loved it beyond reason. Couldn’t tell you why I loved it. I just did. Loved it, such that I went to the next town and got a new video rental membership, with every intention of grabbing that movie, telling them I broke it, and coughing up whatever money they asked for just so I could have that film for always.

I couldn’t. Guilt won. The privilege of youth.

So, I sat down, and I dialed up that internet, and half an hour later, I was sending a fan letter to the distribution company of ‘Green’ called Asylum. They sent it to Karl. He wrote me back.

Present time: I have instant WiFi and Nexflix streaming. Karl and I have been friends for 15 years. We’ve written together and he’s stayed at my house. I still love independent film. Never would I have dreamed when I was an aspiring video thief, that I would actually get to play in that world of duct tape and magic.

I’m so thrilled to have come to this place where it is my turn  to promote two fantastic films for which I serve as producer. No exaggeration. These are fantastic movies made by tremendous talents. This is the good stuff.

The Chop

Written and Directed by Jack Davis

IMDb: http://

Facebook: The Chop http://

Twitter: @TheChopMovie

IG: chopmoviepgh

(P.S. I’m in this one. In my underwear. With other stunning girls and impossibly slick cars. If you’re into any of that.)

Coming 2017.




Cut to the Chase

Written and Directed by Blayne Weaver



Twitter: @cutchasemovie

Google Play:
Vudu: http://
XBOX: http://

(P.S. I’m not in this one, but some ridiculously beautiful people are, as you can plainly  see.)

I’m so happy to onboard with these amazing artists. Can’t wait to do it again.

But for now, go. See these great movies.


Seeing Monsters

I know that it’s coming,

prying open the door,

creeping up the back stairs

creaking, I feel it more

with each step

It’s not a surprise.

I knew it was coming

as soon as my eyes

opened this morning and

here it is, friendly stance.

Punctual. Cordial.

Ready to dance.

But it’s ugly. It’s awkward.

It claws my insides.

Blood on my skin.

Tears in my eyes.

It can’t take the blame though,

I called this thing here.

My beautiful monster, my ravenous twin

built from my failure, my failings and sin.

My raving and cursing

not grateful for much

spewing jealous and anger

over authenticity such

a typical mess

like I always create.

Disavowing a trust

and dooming my fate.

Because I can’t just believe

and I can’t just relax.

That’s not what I do.

I just know attacks.

I want both arms straight out

pushing hard, fast away,

Don’t let them hurt you.

Don’t let them stay.

Cause, they will

you remember,

that one did before.

And now, my creation

looms fresh at my door,

needing its feeding,

my fear and my doubt.

So I’ll offer them up

but then turn about,

and sad, wonder why

I’m alone with the beast

snorting, and panting

while I watch the feast.

Yet, I won’t try to fight,

won’t raise arms or defend.

Wanting to wait till the dark, bitter end.

Someday, I won’t need this.

I’ll scratch and I’ll fight,

against the gnarled feelings

that haunt in the night.

They’re not what can hurt me,

they’re not even real.

It’s only what I make,

what I want to see.

And I want to see possible.

Not just the disguise.

Not just flights of fancy

or fears behind eyes.

So maybe tomorrow

but tonight, I atone,

and dance through the night,

seeing monsters,




I really had it cornered for a few days. I had it on the run and then I tricked it, with my cunning, healthy wiles, and it was alone and helpless in a corner.

And then I let that son of a bitch get away. 
The cluster of towering negative thoughts. The big, bad ones. The ones that threaten harm and ensure the people who say they will stay, will surely go. My mystical golem of the feelings of worthlessness and stupidity. Fears and anxieties made real. I had it trapped. And then I screwed up and I let it go. 

I had been doing pretty well. I had loaded up my Instagram feed with body positive pictures and eating disorder recovery accounts. I had practiced writing down my stream-of-conscious negative thoughts and then editing them into more realistic and reasonable fact statements. I even attended a seminar on overcoming anxiety. It was coming together. 

And then shit fell apart. 

And I don’t know why. 

It just happens sometimes. 

I spent a solid hour on Sunday crying. Now, that’s exhausting business. I forgot how mentally and physically draining that kind of weep can be. I also ran got an hour. The crying was hands-down harder. 

(Sidebar: not a doctor so not actual medical advice, but I tried treating emotional pain like physical pain. I took some ibuprofen, and that actually provided some relief. )

I took a picture of myself for some forsaken reason. But I’m not including that. I’m not at that level of self-acceptance. Ain’t nobody trying to see tears running down my red, chubby cheeks and snot dangling from the end of my swollen nose. Maybe I want to remember that moment. A place I don’t want to see anymore. Keep it as a memory. 

The thing that pisses me off the most is that I was making progress. I had a few good days strung together on my bangle band of healing. I had mornings when I woke up feeling decent and nights where I was busy and not just counting the minutes until I could respectfully go to sleep. 

Then this bullshit. That’s what it is. Not real. Not actual tragedy. Made up mind lies and bullshit. But the result and my response is unfortunately the same. 

I’m flailing. I’m pushing people away. I’m snarling and snapping at the people I should be caring for the most. I’m kinda being a self-absorbed, indulgent asshole. I don’t like it. It scares me and I don’t want to do it anymore. So I won’t. 

Tonight, I’m giving up. 8:33 is a respectable bed time, no?

Tomorrow, I stop.  I get that greedy bastard back in a corner. Try to talk. Reach out. Connect. Initiate. Attempt to take another swing. Keep fighting for things that are impossibly far away but won’t get closer just by looking at them. 

Tomorrow, I dig my heels in, stop the backslide, and start climbing again. 



4634 pieces.
4 missing.

We say kids are resilient.

Maybe that’s what we just hope. It’s surely what I hope. As my own kid bounces between two houses, multiple grandparents and step-family, resiliency is what I hope for and will be thrilled if we miss that and land at only mildly screwed up.

This kid is my hero. The young man started building his firehouse with his favorite grown-up friend. I was mean and made him go to sleep, so he had to return to the construction days later. I know. Mothers are the worst.

Fabrication started calmly. Until he asked for help. He never asks for help. Legos are not for the feeble minded nor for mothers. But there was a problem. Giant problem. They had come up missing. Four blocks. We needed twos and greens. There were none. Absolutely nothing in site.  Butts were lifted off floors, boxes were moved, instruction manuals shifted. Not a thing.

I would have lost my shit.

I would have screamed and stomped and yelled all the curse words. The big ones. The one made with  several nouns and messy adjectives to keep them company.

Not him.

He said, ” Hmmm.”

I’m sorry? Hmmm? Is that a new swear word? Is that what the kids says when things are really lit? Hmmm?

No. That is what stable, reasonable, resilient kids say when they are solving a problem.

Solve the problem.

That course had never even occurred to me.

Yet,  there he was. Snooping through the bin of extra blocks to find a substitute. Ready to simply carry on.

I’m not saying the boy is a genius. But he passed me years ago in the brain department.

Something so simple. Dealing with a problem. Finding an acceptable solution, that might not be the ideal configuration, but one that lets you just get one with it.

Why is this so hard for grown ups? Or at least for this grown up. Ok, for this petulant adolescent brain in an adult body with the grey hairs, the crow’s feet and the bum knee? But it’s so hard for me. I can be weak and wavering and floppy. I am not built resilient.

Right now, I have some adult-type problems. We all do. Money. Security. Health. Wishes. It’s all hard. Why does it not occur to me to just address my troubles as they arise and  as well as I can with what’s available to me and get to it? No. My first thought is that I should whine and bitch to my fantastic boy, send out cryptic, depressive tweets and eat a bunch of chips. None of these things will get the Lego Firehouse built any faster. And isn’t that what it’s all about?

I tried tonight. I quit bitching and sat down at my computer and did some work. Using what I had available to come up with possible solutions for problems. It was sticky and ungainly. But, it was something.

It wasn’t quite resilient.

It wasn’t the green blocks that I needed.

But it was a step to keep building.