The D-Word's life is one of glamour and riches, as only a documentary filmmaker can live it

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So, now all of you new readers of the D-Word know my not-so-secret, dirty little secret: I just can’t bring myself to write these journal entries as regularly as you would like. Or even I would like.

Every time something eventful happens -- like, say, the New York Times publishes a juicy article about Yours Truly, or I show the almost final cut of the film to Justin, or we finally solve the opening and finish editing -- I always intend to rush right to my keyboard and share the good news. Honest.

Then something inevitably distracts me and I put it off until the next day. Then the next...

This is bad for traffic, I’m told.

But rest assured, my faithful fellow voyeurs, that I’ll eventually reward you with a quality entry, complete with the meticulous craftsmanship and spell-checking the D-Word has come to be known for. And I don’t even charge for it. Yet.

"So, what was it like to be written up in the Times?,” people keep asking.

Well, a little like dying and reading your own obit, is the best I can describe it.

I’ve had a decent amount of press over the years for a small-format video sort, but I’m not so blase about fame to pretend it wasn’t fun, nor that the D-Word’s head didn’t swell just a wee bit for a day or so.

But in the course of making a first-person doc, I’ve been forced to separate myself somewhat from this Doug Block guy. He’s a character in my film. Nice write-up they gave him, wasn’t it?

I’m impressed with how many people read the New York Times. I mean, this wasn’t a front page story.

Several people comment on the heartwarming picture of Feathers, the scene-stealing cockatiel.

An old schoolmate living in Tennessee e-mails to say, now that Sue Quitmeier has retired from the opera, he reckons I’m the most famous person from our high school class.

A person I went to camp with in the 60's writes to ask if I’m the person he thinks I am. Yes, I answer, I think I am who you think I am.

My vivacious co-producer, Esther, tells me a girlfriend saw the photo and told her, “he’s a hotty!” I ask if she means me or the bird.

A few editors from serious publishing companies write to ask if I'm interested in doing a dead tree repurposing of these humble web scrawlings. I have no moral aversion to it, I reply, provided it contributes mightily towards the Lucy Block College Fund.

An 8th grader named Jake is new to the country, wants to be a filmmaker and hopes I can give him "some advices." He's currently doing "a documentery about Jay-Walking for home work."

He’s come to the right place -- I take my role as dispensor of advices seriously:

Hey Jake: Thanks for writing me. Of all the responses I've gotten for the article I think yours is my favorite.

I think it's great that you just came right out and asked for advice. The best I can offer is to keep doing exactly what it looks like you're doing. Make films and ask people for help.

I learned by watching movies all the time, starting when I was in 11th grade, so you've got a few years head start on me. You also have the advantage of watching on video, where you can freeze the frame, play scenes in slow motion and study the shots.

But there's still something wonderful, even magical, about seeing films with audiences in theaters, the way they were meant to be seen. Hearing how audiences respond, especially
to comedies, is very important to learn.

I'd also highly recommend that you see classic films from the early days of Hollywood, as well as the great classics from around the world (well, you have plenty of time). You might love the silent comedies of Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin. Have you ever seen them?

If the film flops and the book deals fizzle, maybe I can teach junior high school.

What else? The day of the article, my mother gets inundated with calls from kvelling friends. She updates me every few hours with unsolicited reports.

Apparently a neighbor hung the article up on a bulletin board at my old high school. It prompts a nice note from my favorite teacher.

Then there’s the homefront, which has D-Wife taking mushiness to a whole new level. “Well, listen, how often do you get to read your husband say he fell in love with you all over again in the New York Times?” she coos in my ear. “It was just a marketing ploy,” I try to explain, but she’s not buying it.

Actually, the biggest surprise is Justin’s reaction:

i'd never heard my self-revelations described as "repel"lant before... and i guess some folks are titillated by repulsion, so that's why you're
here. some say never read your critics. maybe never read them when you've got a bad cold... the coverage of me... can not be utterly repellent to everyone; some still see the underlying enthusiasm behind the psychosis.

I reply that he better develop a thicker skin. One thing I’ve discovered along the way is that, whether or not you get good, bad or indifferent reviews, critics and journalists are invariably bound to misrepresent or misinterpret your work. Or simply not have the space to delve into every aspect of it. He better be ready for that.

That may apply to me, too, I warn. Justin may look at the film and feel I’ve totally misrepresented him. Be prepared.

I don’t warn him without reason. He’s in town for a day or two with his girlfriend Amy and I invite them over to see the rough cut. It’s close enough to finished that I feel it’s time. In most cases I don’t show the film to the subjects in it until it’s locked, stocked and barreled, but I want Justin to see it privately first. I know he’s used to a lot of attention, but there’s no way he can really be prepared to have a piece of his life captured on film to this degree. It has to be unsettling and it would be unfair not to give him the time and space to assimilate his feelings.

Naturally, Justin would ultimately share his response publicly, but his immediate reaction is revealing.

He and Amy watch with body parts intertwined, laugh a lot and comment to each other throughout the film. Between that and his notetaking, he misses some of the best moments.

He’s struck, as if for the first time, by how invasive his journal entries used to be – or maybe that we’ve chosen to focus so relentlessly on it. Because he doesn’t write daily now, or because he’s in a committed relationship and happy, or maybe because he’s just grown up a lot, Justin no longer presses on people’s bruises publicly like he once did. There was a lot of “ouch” underneath his laughter.

After viewing himself gleefully reading an exerpt from Howard Rheingold’s early porn writings for my camera (while Howard, who has taken Justin under his wing and invited him to live in his house, works unaware on the porch outside), Justin sheepishly notes to Amy that perhaps they should warn Howard.

Afterwards, the most reassuring thing to me is their reaction to Marjorie's extended interview. I’m afraid they won’t relate but they find her very compelling. In fact, Amy claims she's the best thing in the movie, her directness in stark contrast to the others’ inability to relate face-to-face. I don’t see Justin’s face when she says this, but Debbie does. "For just a moment, he looked like a little boy who was told there wouldn't be Christmas this year," she tells me later.

I have no idea whether the film matches Justin's expectations or not, or even if he had any. I do know he respects the work and respects that I’ve put so much of myself into it. I’m sure the next time he sees it, he’ll have the distance to judge the film with more perspective.

I like Amy a lot, and not just because she has wonderful things to say about the film (she compares it very favorably to the new Nick Broomfield doc Kurt and Courtney, which she and Justin have just seen). She’s smart and sassy, a real match for Justin. After meeting her, I suddenly know how to revise the supers for the I-Ching scene where we see Justin for the last time.

As I watch, aided by seeing it through the eyes of people seeing it for the first time, I realize Michel has it slightly wrong. One of his main arguments for narration is that he feels my role is to be the guide for the audience into this brave new Webbed world. But Justin is the guide. I’m merely a guy who stuck out his thumb and hitched a ride. Justin was the driver.

So it’s not appropriate for me to narrate. You need to be on top of things to narrate. Besides, the story works just fine without narration and Debbie agrees. It needs just a little bit at the beginning to set up the story and that’s it.

Over a shot of puffy clouds from an airplane window, I’m saying: “Everywhere I went, I kept hearing about this thing called the World Wide Web. It was going to change the way we get information, they said. Change the way we relate to each other. It was going to change everything.”

A few days later, it comes to me while sipping morning coffee at an Astor Place cafe.

All I need is to extend the clouds a bit and add: “I was exactly half-way between college graduation and retirement. I was ready for a change.”

These two short sentences establish all that I want revealed about myself-- a hint that I'm suffering a midlife restlessness and that I'm seeking some kind of journey of self-discovery. And it sets the story in motion.

It works for me. It works for Debbie... finally! We’re finished editing!

Yeee haaaaa!!!

Of course, we now face ten weeks of frenzied technical post-production work: cleaning the sound tracks, composing the music and sound design, doing the sound mix, online editing, color correcting and overseeing the tape-to-film transfer. Not to mention, clearing all rights, getting final approval from Cinemax and ZDF, raising additonal finishing funds, finalizing errors & ommissions insurance, applying to film festivals, preparing press kits... Things like that.

Still, I have a semblance of a life again.

My own hotty has her 50th birthday coming up this weekend and there’s a party to plan.

Yeeeeeeeeeee haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!!

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