I just finished a Mulholland Drive…drive.
As I returned and passed the Beverly Hills Hotel, my mix ran out. A mix that did its job…carrying me through the beautiful valley views.
But, I needed something to carry me home. Lucky for Winburn, Pat Benatar was kickin' it on XM. And I concur, love is most certainly a battlefield. What a fucking jam. Suddenly, dance is my craving.
I haven’t fully ruled out the possibility that I’m partially insane…or that I have serious, bubbling emotional problems. But we’ll get back to that. Perhaps another night. This one might run long.
I treated this week as if it were another one of my be all, end all’s. See, I had another pitch with a studio bigwig yesterday. I’ve been speaking a bit of rabble lately…flaked out on a handful of good souls. Now, you know why.
So I talked with my little chickadee late on Thursday. She had spots to fill. Spots with my name attached, perhaps?
Let me first tell you that landing this gig would be striking oil, gold…golden oil. Whatever. Orgasm. There’s little more I could ask for. I thought I was shooting for a 1-year contract with a salary that tips in around a grand a week. I thought wrong. Apparently, I’ve been shooting much higher. Or, at least…so I was informed. Like, 140% higher. So, they ain’t fuckin' around.
I like to think of myself as a creative individual…with a very active, dancing mind. When she called and asked me to pitch again, no sweat. I know my stuff, I trust my stuff. But, well…let me explain.
You see, the first time around, I went into the pitch with “my stuff” and bombed. Not because “my stuff” is bomb material. It’s that “my stuff” wasn’t going to become “their stuff” any time in the near future. Creatively, we were miles apart.
So she told me to study “their stuff” and fire away. “The sooner, the better.” I spent this past weekend watching movies I would have never otherwise taken the time to see. Very broad appeal, comedic, family-friendly fare. I thought I was in for a shit flavored treat, but when Vin Diesel starts referring to the infant as “Red Baby” in The Pacifier…I mean, come on. Good stuff. I watched a lot of movies this weekend. More than usual.
And I came up with about 30 ideas. From those, I cut it down to 2, set up my meeting and came out swinging. The others were a little too…not for them.
That means roughly 93% of my ideas aren’t even allowed to set foot on this studio’s playground. Trust me, this thing isn’t as easy as it sounds.
I prepare for a pitch about the same way I prepared to pitch back in my days of tossing baseballs. Funny, huh? It’s the same principle as going on stage, as giving a speech, as performing 30 Jacks deep while your friends are filming in the closet...
Okay, that last one, I didn’t even give myself a chance.
But, there’s something really personal about giving a pitch. You’re so vulnerable. The only protection I had was the rationalization that these weren’t my babies, they were my whore children. Derived to impress a studio that has found extraordinary success by following a specific formula. They know what they’re doing, and do it well. I want in.
If the job were mine, you would have been informed in my opening sentence. Following that, my closing sentence would have informed you of my intentions to go on a 122-hour drunkard of celebration. I’m here. I’m sober. I didn’t get the job.
I started right into the first pitch. My greatest challenge in talking creative is staying focused and not diving into, “what the fuck did you just say?” territory. When you’re accomplished, dive all you want. When you’re a young pup, you’ve got to be short and sweet…cut and dry. It’s all part of the pecking order. Right now, executives own me. In 10 years, I’ll own them. But right now…the only time that matters…I have heaps to learn. It’s really fucking tough telling a 2-hour story in a succinct 3 minutes. There’s so much I want to say. So much brilliance I want to demonstrate. It’s the curse of being blessed as a gifted writer.
New readers, take that last bit with a sip of sarcasm.
But if you want to debate the “blessed” remark, you’d better hurry. It wont be much of a debate for long.
That was 100% sincere.
So my first idea…and let me state upfront that the lack of originality pains me. It was Freaky Friday meets The Breakfast Club. I divulge because I doubt it will ever make it to paper. “The Hot Chick” made 35 million in the box office. Come the fuck on. This would make a killing. Especially with my scorching words as its backbone. Yes, scorching.
“The elements are strong…and there’s no way for you to have known this, but the studio is moving away from “high school” movies.”
She’s like a queen who reins with an iron fist over my only insecurity. Plus, I think one fifth of me is in love with her. I don’t know if that hurts or helps the situation.
Next!
Okay, whatever. She passed on my gimmick idea. I wasn’t completely heartbroken. The first pitch was more of an icebreaker than anything. And I needed it. In all honesty, half way through, I hit this terrible snag where I crossed my fingers and prayed for coherence. Pitching is the scariest and most exciting thing in my life.
My second pitch…Elf meets Big Fish. Try spinning that web in a tight 3 minutes. I did…try, that is. Mine took 7. Still, it managed to stand. Why? Because it would be a Christmas classic…hilarious and heartfelt. But what can I say, you have to hire me and find out. I can’t speak my sweet subtlety to you. All I need is some paper, a pen and just a little bit of time. Roll the dice on me. See what it feels like to scream, “Yahtzee, motherfucker!”
She gave me some feedback. The kind of feedback where I try to be brief and not overstay my welcome. At the end of it all, I had to ask…where does this leave us?
I expected her to show appreciation for my time…upon which time, I would thank her for her valuable time. We would endure a clean break and part ways with cheerful holiday wishes. Then, I would run into her at a party 5 years from now with a, “Told you I had skillz. You should have hired me. You could have been the shout out in all my acceptance speeches.” Instead…
“We’ll just keep going back and fourth. Call me with a slam-dunk. January, we’ll go again.”
I had three crammed days and came up with a foul tip. Now, I have 30. Might as well go out and celebrate. Close a door and I’ll kick it open. Leave it open, and it’s over. Baby, come January…I’m taking that job.
Mind you, coming up with a slam-dunk in this town is like pissing into the bullseye of a water gun game at your hometown summer carnival…from 30 feet out.
Since my stream is strong, steady…I say no worries.
The funny thing about life is that you can choose to take every situation in one of two directions.
I’m choosing to take this as someone trying to lasso a wild talent. She hears my thousand mile per hour sputter and sees a project. Give him a month to sand himself out…to sand over those rough edges and that boy could be smooth.
…
So I’m heading back to New York this Saturday…staying till Tuesday. Need to fill in the last few blanks for the script. Okay, very large blanks. I used to have a deadline. Mid-January. No thanks. I’ll get there when I get there. Especially with the “new development.” I’d be a fool if I took it lightly.
My little scripting vacation is all but over. Come January, time to pimp the charm and land some sweet new means of an LA paycheck.
But things are going. If anything, I’ll always have that. And I’ve written about this quite a bit, but how fucking romantic can it get? These will be the times we all look back and smile. Having no real idea of who we are or where we’re going…fighting to keep that head above water.
We remember feelings. The times we fought, the times we fell, the times we laughed, loved, cried.
And when they’re swirling, which they are…
What a gift.
