Enemies of Wm. Moses Roundup

Good needs evil, and so do heroes need enemies. Known precedents:

*Superman vs. Solomon Grundy
*G.I. Joe vs. Cobra
*Autobots vs. Decepticons
*Scrooge McDuck vs. The Beagle Boys
*Richard Kimble vs. The One-Armed Man
*The Irish vs. The English
*Swamp Thing vs. Dr. Arcane
*Bayside vs. Valley High
*Captain Kirk vs. all Klingons everywhere
*Smurfs vs. Gargamel
*Holden Caufield vs. the whole miserable world

Recently, a couple of my outstanding feuds saw closure (of sorts). Recollections from the week of the premiere:

5-04/ JEREMIAH JONES ATONES

Due to DVD compatibility issues, Chris and Drew felt it prudent to go to the Jupiter and pre-screen the film just hours before showtime. Doing so meant dealing with Jeremiah Jones, our venue contact and pathological bullshitter. Given my history with the guy, I decided not to go.

They watched the whole movie with Jones, and for the first time he finally seemed to get it. I'd had no luck explaining our position of strength to Jones over the phone in February. He was too busy inventing fees and spinning rhetorical gems like "We got Kenny Chesney! Do you know who that is?"

Per Chris, there was no trace of this side of Jeremiah Jones as they quality-checked just hours before the premiere. Gone was the shrewd sad sack who'd begrudgingly changed the marquee the day before. This Jeremiah enjoyed and appreciated KW2, and showed some regret for his earlier misapprehension.

Hours and hours later, as the bands played, Chris joined Jeremiah upstairs to settle the door. The count was incredible; 220 at $5 a head. Adjusting for real costs, with a cut to the bands, Scott, Chris and I walked away with a paltry pile of money. Like, enough to buy two shares of Imclone.

Jones, luckily, made bank at the bar, and considering the lushes in attendance, can't say I'm surprised. Can't say I'm unhappy either. I wanted Jones to make as much money possible, to walk away in a different tax bracket. My final comeuppance would be to have him eat his words... while swimming naked in a pool of cash.

05-03/ LO, APOLLO STRUMMED HIS LYRE & SHAT FORTH JOE EVANS

I did not expect to be dealing with this. Some time ago I issued art releases to Chris who in turn had them signed by all contributing musicians. All save one. Joe Evans collaborated with Chris Johnson and five others to produce some pretty diverse tracks, some to set themes. Scott used some of these fairly prominently in the premiere cut.

Chris may have thrust the release form on Joe somewhat late in the game, and indeed, scattered language about perpetuity was understandably troubling. But the fuss Joe made about it merely underscored the spate of troubles we'd had with him from the start. He had a ridiculous sense of entitlement, an inflated sense of importance, like he was the second coming of Gershwin or something.

In repeat phone conversations, I kept hearing the same line about how he'd worked hard and spent so many hours on the music, and thought he was owed something. What that something was never became clear as he continually side-stepped the matter. I had to chase him around within his deluded line of reasoning and repeatedly take control of the conversation just to find out what the hell he wanted.

At one point between calls, I did a thorough break down of all contributing parties and determined that, among 25 musicians, he'd make about twenty bucks a year from now.

"I don't care about that," he said later.

"Then what are we talking about? Listen, we're about to lay off credits, and I need to know whether or not to write you off."

He laughed at me openly, mockingly.

"What's so funny?"

I spoke candidly of our nuclear option, which was to remove any trace of his music altogether, and he stumbled on that. This was as heated as it ever got; I had to continually beat back the urge to flay him with insults; to lash this fool within an inch of crying. If I'd had my druthers I'd've countered the stream of garbage flowing from his mouth with fun facts like:

"No, you didn't submit the music on time; you did however submit a string of bizarre excuses like, say, your father taking you hostage that one time. No, Chris never promised you outrageous rewards like 400 remastered CDs. Chris is not Santa Claus. No, you are not the only artist to score specifically for the film; Metronome Mike could rhyme rings around you with only an egg shaker and a dinner triangle."

Ah, but this was a time for diplomacy. Wednesday, while compressing KW2 at Vazda, Scott and I drove to Joe's house for a summit. There we met Joe in person, flanked by his musician friend Justin, who wore a T-shirt reading "Talk is Cheap Until You Hire a Lawyer". Fortunately I didn't notice 'til Scott told me later; otherwise I might have flown into a frenzy right there, lightning shooting forth from my eyes and blazing the place up like the Chicago Fire (which I also started).

We sat down to discuss the release, and Scott and I made a good foil to Joe and Justin. They made known their concerns, all of which were pretty reasonable. After a half-hour spent reading and rereading, we came to an understanding and got the signature and it was all very pleasant. But my eyes were always on the prize; as soon as pen hit paper I maneuvered the release into my pocket. My first instinct was to shove it right down my pants for safe keeping with my other jewels.

Joe actually made the premiere, too. Scott neglected to tell him that we'd excised quite a bit of his stuff already. The only thing heard from him (besides the requisite "good job" to Scott and myself) was when he approached Chris Merritt backstage and insisted that his name be separated from Chris Johnson's in the credits.

Chris sighed. "Joe. Please. Can we just enjoy this?"

Maybe Chris was right. Maybe instead of stewing over feuds past, it's time to turn the chapter on my anger. Live and let live. In other words, Jeremiah and Joe, I forgive you. I forgive you.Matt

Video: The Real 8-Toe'd Joe

Sadly the real 8-Toe'd Joe could not make the premiere; John Shirley had an unfortunate masonry-related conflict in Louisiana and decided to chase the money.

To learn more about John (who, in reality, lost two toes not to a zombie but to a lawnmower), click on the image for video.

Matt

Escape From ATL! - A Real-Life Layover Told in Fabulous Present Tense!

It's just turned 9 pm Eastern as I step off flight 1512 from Birmingham. This is Atlanta; my connector to LAX is due to depart exactly five minutes ago. I rush through Concourse B and realize I have a full four concourses to go before reaching my plane. I'm not worried. The Flight number for L.A. is 420. Seriously. I am not worried...

9:10 pm - GATE E27. Flight 420 taxies off the runway. I'm worried. A Delta employee tells me that's the last L.A. flight and to return to the ticket counter for rescheduling. All this because of supposed inclement weather. I'm looking out windows and recalling touchdown on 1512; there's no inclement weather! The pilot had explained this away as an FAA imposition; that it's the government overreacting and that Chicken Little apparently runs the show.

Great. Another reason to hate the government. First, a preemptive strike on Iraq, and now this.

9:41 pm - Navigating the labrynth back to the ticket counters takes an eternity, and no one seems to understand the concept of an escalator. It's not a theme park attraction. You don't climb on and ride while mechanized cherubs sing songs of global unity. You don't mount a space pod and dodge ray guns shot by the likes of Buzz Lightyear. There are no ticket-tables, no splash-downs, no height requirements and hence there should be no gawkers standing idle in my way staring at the walls like this is a frickin' haunted hay-ride. Move, lady!

10:00 - DELTA TICKET COUNTER/SW TEMINAL. I explain my situation to the helpless, uncaring screw at the check-in and it's clear she could give a toss.








"Next flight's at 8:30 tomorrow morning."

"Through no fault of my own, I'm trapped in a strange town with little money and no way home. What's Delta going to do about it?"

"We offer an inconvenience rate at the nearest Days Inn. Forty-five dollars."

"Forty-five dollars! Seems like zero dollars is a more appropriate figure. Hell, you should be paying me to grace the dump."

"That's the discount option, sir."

Can you believe this?

10:30 pm - HOULIHAN'S BAR. Last call. I say stuff Delta Airlines and stuff their fun-time buddies at the Day's Inn. I'm taking my $45 to the bar.I'm determined to stay at the airport, and a little Dutch courage should seal the deal. I've slept on cement floors, in closets, on benches, even standing against a wall, but never in an airport. But I'd rather suck down a quick mixer and pass out here than put more money into a room. The KW2 premiere trip (from which I'm returning) already bled me dry between travel costs and merchandising efforts. Damned if I'll give Day's Inn the satisfaction.

11:40 - ATRIUM. All the good spots are taken. I take an empty bench and begin writing this. My only pen pretends to be out of ink, taunting me. Write, damn you! I don't own any I-Pods, no discman to speak of; barring an unlikely flashback, writing this is all I've got.

11:55 - One last COFFEE FROM SEATTLE'S BEST. I see a pen dangling off the register. How to do this... Fortunately a toddler nearby starts screaming for no reason. Heads turn, and with no one looking, I make my move, snatching up the pen along with a napkin, making the theft at least half-legal. The perfect half-crime. My only regret is not causing the toddler to cry in the first place. Bonus points.

12:24 - MEN'S RESTROOM. Stinks in here. I have a serious phobia about bringing nonessential items into a public bathroom, things like luggage. Nonetheless, it's either this or risk my bag being detonated by the TSA.

No way my suitcase is touching this floor. I drag a "Caution: Wet Floor" cone into a stall, drawing looks, then balance my case atop it and against the wall. Set.

Takes me three tries to get a sanitary cover to come out in one piece. I sit down and try desperately to clog up the toilet with two days worth of bowel remnants, sort of a silent-but-deadly protest. No such luck. It all flushes down, automatically of course, so I don't even have the luxury of admiring my work. Makes me long for the days when flushing was optional. As if I could feel more powerless.

12:37 am - ATRIUM. Return here only to find my spot usurped by a fellow traveller. he's already asleep, so I move on instead of challenging him to a duel. And it seems every other cushy spot's accounted for. Blast it. I wander a bit and settle on a less glamorous seat beside a National Guardsman headed to Ontario. Let's hope he stays there.

1:10 am - BEDTIME. Very tired. I latch my bag handle to my wrist via elastic tags and start to drift off, buoyed only by the thought of the clasp-button pocket protecting my wallet....

1:25 am or so - SLEEP... Mysterious dreams of a man with eight toes....

2:30-ish - AWAKE to the sound of floor buffing. This has actually been going on for several hours, aggrevating the weary around me. I'm not kidding; this one guy is buffing the ever-living shit out of these floors, and we're paying the price in hours slept.

2:45 am - Got to pee. As soon as I rise at least two or three lurkers seem to spring from nowhere, anxious to get my chair. A guy asks:

"You still using that?"

"Yeah, actually, I'm just going to the can."

Well I get back and surprise, surprise, what looks to be the very same guy is now sleeping in my chair. Son of a bitch!

What happened to the Honor System! I contemplate tumping him over where he lies, then remember where I am. On top of which, I'm slowly noticing what looks like a pair of breasts on the dude. Either, I've got the wrong guy or I'm this close trading blows with a pre-op transvestite. I let it go.

2:45 - WENDY'S. I'm looking over the menu and it's all garbage. Seeing the chili pot has me speculating whether a severed human finger might help the taste, but that's not funny. It's clear I'm delirious.

I walk away with a side salad and a water, and for about five minutes this salad is my new best friend.

2:52 am - Looks like I've got to find a new best friend. And I am done with this USA Today; it's technically USA Yesterday by this point, and the articles are about as informative as a third grader's account of his day at the aquarium. If USA Today were to cover such a hypothetical field trip, you'd walk away knowing only that an aquarium holds fish and that refreshments were served.

3:22 am - ATRIUM. Aha! After attempting a nap on a cold, sticky marble bench, I see that some fool's left two cushy chairs vacant, and I'm all over it. Sucker. The floor buffer's still buzzing somewhere, but I'm so tired it may not matter.


3:40 am - It matters. By my rights, I'm going to scuff the f†®k out of these floors in the morning. Part of me wants to get up and do it right now, to go create some kind of floor-buffing emergency somewhere down-terminal where the noise won't carry. Crap, though. I'd lose my chairs.

4-ish - SLEEP...

5:30 am - AWAKE to the rap of a police baton. There are two lady cops saying, in rather unfriendly tones, that there's no sleeping in the airport, and something about "getting on a train." One asks when my plane leaves, and when I tell her she gives me a jolt by suggesting I hurry up. That got me up, at least until I looked at a clock and realized she must not be familiar with the concept of linear time.

5:38 am - COFFEE.

5:50 am - SECURITY. I usually brace up for deportation around this time, but I'm so tired I just sleep-walk through it.

6:07 am - TRAIN SHUTTLE between concourses. Got to play this just right. Hate touching the grip bars handled by filthy frequent fliers, hate touching anything touched by others. I spread my legs for the best balance, never grasping the polls, ready to fall into my suitcase for cushioning. Wonder if regimented hygiene and a heightened immune system will speed my recovery from a broken clavicle. I prefer a compound fracture to sharing slime with a fellow human.

6:19 am - GATE A-27. So far so good. Plane's on time. Now they've got two hours to invent delays before I get riled again. Sleep?

6:21 am - SLEEP, or try to.

8:00 am - All is well. Plane's on time, at the gate, passengers boarding. I've found a Pay-Day in my pocket; may've been there a while. A fitting breakfast... I am not worried....

Matt

Southern Exposure

We got more press than expected leading up to the KW2 premiere, which still wasn't much.

See Ben Flannagan's article in the Crimson White which maybe spends a little too much time comparing KW2 with its predecessor.

Luke Buckley gave us two full pages in TUSK (a weekly distributed with the Tuscaloosa News), a very nice piece. Scott has a lot of good quotes.

Besides a few blurbs in other weeklies, that's about it. However, there are a couple of items from Wm. Moses past...

Here's a review hot off the heels of KW1, from March 2004. Graham Flanagan wrote this one, and it's a little lopsided. Barely any mention of Chris Merritt.

Here's one CW write-up heralding the release of "Dude, Where's My, Boat?" from April 2004. Contributed by Dan Whisenhunt. A week or so later, a review appeared in the CW from Ben Flanagan. The title is just too much: Stewart triumphs Orson Welles-style with Dude Where's My Boat?

Matt

KW2 Headlines: Premiere Sees Record Attendance! Crowd Weeps!

Yesterday, 9:45 pm, May 4th, Thursday. Some 230 people sat transfixed during the final minutes of "Killer Weed 2: Sequel Ate My Baby"'s world premiere, wondering how this tangled odyssey might end. Already they'd seen zombie carnage, explosions, gun battles, flashbacks, time travel and a bus accident done with miniatures. Still to come was a massive fight scene, a father and son reunited, more chromakey magic, the ending from the first film, strange temporal autoerotica, and a walk down the dark side of Sesame Street.

Minutes later when the credits rolled, the applause spewed freely, people rising to their feet and exalting KW2 as a triumph; a divine fit of inspiration somehow bottled and metered out for mortal consumption; an intractable comedy battering ram jabbed in the barred doors of collective consciousness.

Okay, I'm getting pretentious, but suffice it to say that KW2 came out a total laugh-riot.
After issuing our special thanks and handling the raffle business, many people adjourned to the main room to see Chinese Dentist put on a helluva show. Not I. And not my fellow hucksters-in-crime Chris Merritt and Scott Draper.

Before joining the party we breathed a moment, exchanging silent smiles connoting our immense self-satisfaction. That's right; after working so hard and so long, practically without halt, we took a moment to actually be proud of ourselves. Our Frankenstein's monster had finally gotten its nascent jolt of lightning, came to life, and immediately set about terrorizing the village.

We soon joined the main room, but were far too busy soaking up compliments to really enjoy the show. Fans old and new kept tapping our shoulders and offering undeviating praise for something obviously requiring time, devotion, sacrifice, and in my case, hair loss.

I couldn't be happier with the fact that people actually got it. The coming hours brought a couple clarifications and what-the-fu©ks? but for once in my miserable life a script I wrote scored in the three departments that matter most: structure, clarity and comedy. But the real credit goes to the abundance of talent executing KW2. Vision-driven direction, precision editing, exceptional ensemble acting. Hats off, guys.

The premiere served as a defacto reunion for most members of the cast and crew. Drew Tompkins ("Pope") arrived in the morning at Chris' apartment to visit and help with merchandise. Later evening we met Jillian Fratkin ("Zoey") and Daniel Hudson ("Luke") for drinks at some pub, and that's the first time we'd all assembled at once since January 8th 2005.

Drew, Jillian and Daniel were almost as floored as the unsuspecting audience when it came to watching this sprawling, even, doting love letter to sequels at large. I'm thinking now back to my summer '04 phone conversation with Drew in which I sought his assurance that he'd indeed reprise his role in this Pope-driven story. I could feel his thoughts turning to summer '03 when we'd crapped out the first one, wondering if he was up for another spate of long nights and early mornings. He agreed of course, and as an added appreciation bonus we threw in a few extra long nights and early mornings. Good thing, too. Trying to imagine KW2 without the Pope is like imagining Rosie O'Donnel without any clothes on. Nobody wins.

Likewise, Jillian and Daniel showed nary a trace of regret. Production was hard on them, too, of course. To see themselves deliver such Grade-A work (drawn together so nicely by Scott's editing) surely justified the hard work. Both had substantial experience acting in student shorts prior to all this, but few amounted to more than a pile of dried poo next to KW2. I really think they liked it. Nay, loved it. If they could, I'm sure they'd arrange a group marriage.

I'd be remiss without mentioning other friends of the film who made the event. Karolyn Mayo (costumer/co-producer) clutched my hand throughout, tense, despite having seen most of the film. Her brother Turner Mayo (special effects) sat feet away, drinking it all in for the first time.

From parts north came both Kyle Everitt ("Dane") and Nick Anderson ("Doug"). Kyle especially was happy to see this so fully realized as he'd more than once compromised with us over the length and color of Jillian's hair-do. (Long theater department story...)


Tallie Kimble (grip/PA) and Amber ("Zombie 28") came from Atlanta, and decided to hug one another, which was hot.

Even C-Mo ("Jimbo") was there, famous for stoking the ire of William Moses in the Production Report.

Alas, one presence was sorely missed. Lauren Merritt. She played "Chloe" in film one and on December 22nd 2004 afforded us a day in which to shoot a scene with herself and Nick/"Doug". Travel from Manhattan proved impossible for Lauren, nearly devastating Drew, Chris, and myself. Her role, after all, defined a tone for both movies. And she would've had a better time at the premiere than she would've had eating foreign food, or whatever it is they do in New York.

In any case, Chinese Dentist obliterated the crowd in the main room, and before too long Baak Gwai followed. Absolutely incredible. I remember dancing. Drinking. At times both at once. And not much else...

Matt

Zero Hour

It's almost here. In one day, on May 4th, "Killer Weed 2" debuts at Jupiter Bar & Grill in Tuscaloosa. The program should be very straight forward. At 9pm we seal the room and strap our guests into restraints, careful to drop rewetting fluid into their eyes (pried open å la A Clockwork Orange). Once they've absorbed every minute, every frame, Chris, Scott and I take the floor for acknowledgements and a Q & A. After answering the question, "When can I go home?" a few times, we'll then move on to the raffle, which will be difficult to keep short and sweet given the sheer number of prizes being doled out.

Everyone in attendance will receive in exchange for the modest cover charge a free raffle ticket (with extra chances available for purchase). As many as twenty-five will get prizes ranging from an ultimate master package (soundtrack, poster, T-shirt, DVD, comic book) on down to simple soundtrack handouts.

At essence, the challenge will be picking out twenty-five lucky prize recipients in as short a time as possible, because the music acts will take the stage in the main room shortly after the film.

As noted elsewhere on this blog, Chris Merritt early on recruited Tuscaloosa favorites Baak Gwai and Chinese Dentist for the KW2 soundtrack. Not only are these groups prolific songwriters and performers but they're extremely generous and reasonable. Given the negative profit margin we now occupy, much thanks goes to Baak Gwai and Chinese Dentist for playing for next to nothing. KW2 is really a house of cards built on a foundations of self-sacrifice, and these guys are tossing themselves in the volcano yet again by capping off the show.

I arrived in Alabama Saturday morning and joined the other producers in a loaner edit bay at Vazda Studios. (Scott's still well-connected in Birmingham, though his influence is disappearing faster than an ice cream sandwich in the hands of Dom Deluise.)

Scott and I are sitting feet apart right now in fact; he edits as I write this. And there's a certain understated beauty about that, harkening back to the times of artisans and quatrocentro-era guilds. It's like he's a blacksmith over there smelting ore while I'm on-hand designing an exciting new horseshoe.

Chris will join us this afternoon, whereupon we'll get comfortable and review (possibly for the last time) the premiere cut for KW2. Final tweaks pending (e.g. credits, folie), we'll put a ribbon on her just two days before the big day.

Speaking of which, upon arrival it was interesting to see the reach of Chris' well-honed PR machine. Walking the Tuscaloosa streets one sees posters on most storefronts except those missing by theft (which are promptly replaced) The 250-count stickers which've been circulating since January now count out around two dozen, meaning there are approximately 200 stickers sutured to walls, buildings, newsracks and restroom mirrors.Chris has been smart about distributing T-shirts, tossing out a few to friends who make the scene regularly whom he trusts will wear them everyday until Thursday. In fact, that's the deal; if Chris's spies catch anyone not wearing the T in public, private, the shower, whatever, then said offender owes us ten smackers. Yesterday, before being sidetracked by more pressing business, Chris and I were en route to go ambush one such offender and pry a Hamilton from his clammy rigamortis-ridden hands if needed. It's worth chancing the murder charge.

On a less cost-conscious note there are also a hundred KW2 one-inch round buttons bought for a song (thanks, Brighid!). Chris's happy to hand over a pile or so to anyone, students, teachers, local merchants, and a few vagrants who thought it was change.

Despite these many developments, not everything is peaches on the venue front. Don't fear, everything's written in stone regarding when and where. It's "what" that may offer a shred of confusion as my favorite enemy Jeremiah Jones has struck again. (For a full account of my previous quibbles with the deceptive, tactless so-called booking agent at the Jupiter, see "Bring Me the Head of Jeremiah Jones".)

The exterior marquee display, for which Jones is responsible, cites only a Chinese Dentist/Baak Gwai dual show for Thursday night. There is absolutely no indication that a film will be shown. My own father (whom I'm putting through college) gleaned this yesterday while driving the strip and expressed his concern that the thing had been cancelled.

Now, this is a serious problem. I applaud Jones' decision to include the band names; their devoted followings may account for half the patrons, who knows? However, if KW1 fans rely on the marquee's version of events, they may stay home.

Chris and I attempted to address this yesterday. It was touchy, because officially I'm not supposed to have contact with this asshole after our February row in which he tried to pad the venue fee to insane extremes. Even so, I accompanied Chris Merritt to the Jupe around 5 pm, agreeing to let him address the matter with Jones while I stood silently by for muscle and good looks.

We found him leaning on the bar, chatting, looking every bit the prick I imagined him to be, though shorter. Chris did the talking as I looked on, arms bowed, my eyes secretly burrowing a hole in his head. Had to bite my tongue when he excused the marquee goof by claiming it simply remained unchanged from last week.

Let's consider this, shall we? He actually thinks we're such chumps we'd buy a line like that, knowing Chinese Dentist and BaakGwai have never played a joint show, as if we aren't firmly aware that this was a bold-faced lie. And more shocking still, it rolled off his tongue like scripture.

We came to the understanding that it'd be changed, to which my natural reaction would've been, "When?" were I not muzzled. The answer apparently isn't "today," because I just received word that the marquee remains unchanged. I'm exactly one phone call away from going absolutely apeshit on this useless, dodgy, crust of a human being. The fatwa continues...

But that cold place in my heart reserved for Jeremiah Jones is slowly being cleared for a new favorite foe, musician Joe Evans, who apparently overestimates his importance in the Killer Weed pecking order. But now is a happy time; I'll bottle my ire for the moment and be sure to rip this guy proper when I have more time and jokes.

Matt