I hate the fucking rain
Waking from an uneven slumber with a drooling mouth and an unusually hard cock I staggered to my feet to silence the cell phone alarm.
"why the fuck did I set the alarm" I thought to myself as I tried to wipe the crusty sleep from my eyes. It's raining, that's just fucking awesome. Let's add that to the fact that I'm doing time in Koreatown and I'm living with my ex-girlfriend...the only thing this party is missing in nuclear waste and a toy breed that won't shut the fuck up. The only thing I can think of is that I must have been a son-of-a-bitch in a previous life and thus I am being punished. But on second thought that's absurd cause I don't believe in reincarnation or original sin...life is probability, cause and effect so I should just deal with it.
Rising to my feet I felt the wooziness of the 5 Corona's I drank the night before. You know I'm broke when I can't afford Guinness. Note to self: life is to short to drink cheap beer...when you die you wanna die happy. Last night was chill though, I kicked it with Johnny Sabado and smoked a gang of blunts while we talked about how much we like strippers and how we can't presently afford the habit. The recession is a motherfucker.
Brushing my teeth and attempting to not die of hypothermia of the cold ass floor I began to formulate a plan. "This is not my stop" I barked into the mirror. I'm not really one for pep talks but this franchise is starting to exhibit the signs of self-pity...so pep talks it is.
I heard her rise to her feet. It's a slow process with lots of exhaling and "oh my god's". Really? The sun rises every fucking day and yet it still catches you by surprise...I've got to get the fuck outta here.
I broke the fuck out (of the bathroom), donned a somewhat offensive T-shirt and one of the two pairs of baggie jeans that I owned and laced up the kicks...I gots shit to do. Not 4 min's latter I started catching text messages from women I really should be avoiding. Sex has become like baseball for me...and I'm playing in the bush leagues. Not that I can't lure (operative word) a fine piece of ass...but I'm 41 and kind of not in the mood for the bullshit and misrepresentation. I'm looking for sex that's so good it nearly kills me. If you ain't got that...then what's the point? I can damage my credit rating and amass parking tickets all by my lonesome.
Let's see who we've got on the incoming (note to the occasionally reader: incoming refers to the direction of data coming into the handset I.E. smartphone, so it's a text (sms/mms), email or google talk volley (I'm on android bitches)...it's my Turkish hottie. Looks like she's requesting another round of the on again, off again...first we fuck, then we argue...then we ignore each other. Predictable...but her ass is the bomb so maybe I'll hit her back...but who are we kidding...this is about my shoulders and her furniture that needs to be picked up @ Ikea and moved into her new apartment. I'd prefer a rate sheet...and yes, she can pay me in panties.
I descend the steps like it's xmas morning and head into my office, if you can call it an office. I've got papers scattered everywhere, dirty dishes and a few dirty socks strewn about. Looks like an outtake from "First 48"...which is kinda disgusting, but it keeps the ex the fuck outta here. Yes I'm deploying psychological strategies up in this piece...it's like that homey!
Opening my email on the google browser (I've learned that it's easier to read bullshit on a full size screen) I see that I have a response from a literary manger who I'll leave nameless. My last request to for submission has been denied because it's pilot season. Like I give a fuck about TV. Honestly, I'd rather she respond that unless I'm willing to come over here and clean the clam for a few hours I can forget about representation. At least that would be honest. This entire situation with her is entirely fucked by the way. I met her at a producers conference that I shall also leave nameless (don't complain.. I might actually make/sell something and the last thing I need is this blog to show up on TMZ like a pair of stank panties when your ex-girlfriend is cleaning the apt (yes.. .that really happened).
..anyways, back to the story. I sat through three days of this producers festival where I was pitching a reality tv show. That in and of itself was a huge mistake because I'm a filmmaker. My dick gets super hard when we start to talk about shots, angles and dialogue. What I cut and submitted was light years from what I said I would... everyone was pissed and refused to entertain the thought of us working for them...whatevers...you can only hide your art for so long, so I should be happy. So in the middle of this producers conference which is quickly beginning to resemble a bad horror movie (the black guy is going to die soon) I get access to this literary manager. I get to the meeting early and there's like 3 people there...and wouldn't you know it they are actors. This manger manages actors and writers which I personally hate. It means that people who are better looking than me will be offering sex and doing anything to get her attention. The one thing I like about being a writer is that we have integrity. We'll only go so far...not true for actors (and I love actors so easy on the hate mail). So as I'm waiting for the meeting to begin I get on my smart phone and research her a little bit. I find a slew of interviews of her and she's abrasive in each one. Not that I'm particularly worried, I'm from the east. I'm as comfortable with abrasive people as I am with cold weather...but I'm not really in the mood for either presently.
cue the beginning of the meeting and it's business as usual. She recounts how dedicated she is to art and how difficult it is to find good writers...blah...blah...blah. It's the typical bullshit and I seem to be the only one at this table that understands this. Oh great it's story time. For those of you who aren't familiar with story time it's when an actor segues from asking a question to telling a story to subtly indicate their acting chops and how special they are. It's almost as exciting as watching your dog lick his cock...only without the smacking.
She lays into him, rips off one of his arms and begins to chew on it. The entire table is mortified..except me. I knew there was gonna be some dismemberment up in this piece...the goal was not to be chewed up first. After a short story by her and another uncomfortable silence (there were many) another actor tries to pitch themselves. This chick is really cute, petite and looks like she could fuck all night. Too bad she wasn't prepped for the question "what kind of acting would you like to do?"... there was a seriously uncomfortable silence (I'm talking 4 Mississippi) before she stammered out an incomprehensible answer...she got murdered on the spot. I'm talking chainsaw dismemberment. I even think I got some blood on my glasses. It's not looking good for the rookies, and the entire table is looking shook. I could care less. I came to pitch.
She then asked for pitches, which was kind of strange. Most people of her....status.. hate to be pitched to.. they tend to think it's tedious. But she seems to like stories and more importantly writers (or so I thought). No one was willing to step onto the killing floor... and then I raised my hand. I swear to fucking god (and this is coming from an atheist) the assembled "artists" nearly all snapped their necks looking over at me and my fearlessness. What a bunch of pussies! "...only the man who thinks his arm can be cut off will actually get his arm cut off". I pitch my new script, my new female action script that I wrote for one of my actors that I'm in love with (she's female and I love women so don't read into it). A few seconds goes by and her face lights up.. "that's a script I'd definitely like to read". The room can't believe that I just pulled that off. Their heads are spinning like cheap rims in Inglewood. She congratulates me and goes on to lecture for a few more minutes before she asks for another pitch. Again silence falls over the table.
I count to 5 and then I raise my hand. The table can't believe that I want to pitch again and neither does the manager. "You have another script?" she says quizzically?
"I came here to chew bubble gum and pitch some scripts and I'm all out of bubble gum". The John Carpenter reference is lost on the relatively young crowd and I pitch. This time I pitch her Sex, Love & Z-Parts...my favorite script. After another pause that seems to last longer than the CFA exam (google it) she smiles and responds that she'd like to read that one as well. In an instant I'm being slipped business cards from actors and writers...as if I have any power in here.
The meeting adjourns and I'm mobbed by people... "where did you learn to write?", "who do you write about?", "Do you have a writing partner?"....I mean what the fuck? What happened to losing graciously and then getting pissed and going home and writing a better script that I pitched?...kids today!
By the time I get to the hotel bar the word has spread. People are treating my like I just won the fucking lottery; little do they know that I'm going to have to write a check to get my car out of valet...this town is comedy.
Fast forward 4 months later. I submitted and hear nothing. 3 months pass and I'm climbing the walls. Det. Budd suggests that I just drop by her office and make my presence known under the guise that the squeaky wheel gets the oil. He has a point but I don't' think that that's the best approach. So I wait. Another month....still no fucking reply. Then I get this email inviting me to a "creating memorable characters" seminar at USC that she is teaching. Not only is stepping on the campus of USC the filmic equivalent of making an atheist go to church, but I'd rather take deepthroat lessons from Ron Jeremy than attend a intro to screenwriting seminar. But what are my fucking options? So I respond in the affirmative.
Fast forward 2 weeks...I get there and the place is packed. She's there with a friend of hers who is an agent/producer and an author (funny how that works) and they are reminiscing on all the great script that have been written in the history of film (the implication being that we'll never be that good) and what we can learn from them. The eagerness of the other "writers" to lick these pussies is not sitting well with me. When I'm handed the first of several worksheets I feel the urge to drop trou and take a massive dump on the conference room table and shout "art knows no bounds".
But on second thought, I just stuff my mouth with the Sour patch kids I'd smuggled in and try to remain calm. I need to approach this woman and get my career back on track. But at every juncture that I can interject into...some 20 something, runny nose kid keeps asking questions and answering them himself. I had seriously considered putting the Vulcan neck brace into action...but he's on the other side of the table...so I'm fucked.
Suddenly it's breaktime. All the tweeners (I'm so not joking with that) make a B-line for the restroom and I approach her. Now keep in mind that she's shot me a number of looks during this "seminar"...I'm not sure if she recognizes me or is picturing me under her desk, kissing the kitty in an attempt to get representation. As soon as I introduce myself she smiles and says "yes..yes.. I knew you looked familiar". Not only is that insincere, it's predictable. But I push on cause that's what my mother expects of me. Trying to hide the anger and rage inside of my artistic loins I causally explain to her that I submitted my script to her and have not heard so much as a peep. She looks around and snaps her fingers (literally) and the wet nosed, brown-nosing dude who wouldn't shut up literally runs up to her side. Mr. Let-me-impress-you is her assistant. Seriously????
Not only is allowing your assistant to participate in your seminar a huge conflict of interest, it cast serious doubt on his ability to read and evaluate scripts (does he have to take a nap between each act?). Next come all the apologies and the "sorry we missed your script" statements. I am unimpressed.
He is now my main point of contact and assures me that if I sent the script to him, that he'll see that she gets it.
...so I resubmit...and weeks pass. And then I get his email. His condescending, cliche filled, writing tips dense email telling me that I'm obviously new to screenwriting. Those who know me personally will be amazed to know that I opted not to tell him what I really thought of his comments and his community college education (it's a joke...fucking relax night students). I wasted 7 months on this fruitless enterprise...awesome!
So why am I telling you this? Because I want to underscore the two rules of film that I live by:
1) You can't get anywhere by playing by the rules
2) Anything is possible.
This blog was brought about by the simple fact that Valentines day just passed (my love life sucks cock)...it's Oscar weekend and I can't believe all these people who I am more talented than are being nominated for an Oscar (Inception... really?...Christopher Nolan uses the same, literary devices, plot points and schtick in Memento and the following). I'm bitter, horny and out of weed... so that's what you get.
..This blog is dedicated to Richard Lui.. who sent me a very nice email and has convinced me to return to writing.
COOPRDOG
"why the fuck did I set the alarm" I thought to myself as I tried to wipe the crusty sleep from my eyes. It's raining, that's just fucking awesome. Let's add that to the fact that I'm doing time in Koreatown and I'm living with my ex-girlfriend...the only thing this party is missing in nuclear waste and a toy breed that won't shut the fuck up. The only thing I can think of is that I must have been a son-of-a-bitch in a previous life and thus I am being punished. But on second thought that's absurd cause I don't believe in reincarnation or original sin...life is probability, cause and effect so I should just deal with it.
Rising to my feet I felt the wooziness of the 5 Corona's I drank the night before. You know I'm broke when I can't afford Guinness. Note to self: life is to short to drink cheap beer...when you die you wanna die happy. Last night was chill though, I kicked it with Johnny Sabado and smoked a gang of blunts while we talked about how much we like strippers and how we can't presently afford the habit. The recession is a motherfucker.
Brushing my teeth and attempting to not die of hypothermia of the cold ass floor I began to formulate a plan. "This is not my stop" I barked into the mirror. I'm not really one for pep talks but this franchise is starting to exhibit the signs of self-pity...so pep talks it is.
I heard her rise to her feet. It's a slow process with lots of exhaling and "oh my god's". Really? The sun rises every fucking day and yet it still catches you by surprise...I've got to get the fuck outta here.
I broke the fuck out (of the bathroom), donned a somewhat offensive T-shirt and one of the two pairs of baggie jeans that I owned and laced up the kicks...I gots shit to do. Not 4 min's latter I started catching text messages from women I really should be avoiding. Sex has become like baseball for me...and I'm playing in the bush leagues. Not that I can't lure (operative word) a fine piece of ass...but I'm 41 and kind of not in the mood for the bullshit and misrepresentation. I'm looking for sex that's so good it nearly kills me. If you ain't got that...then what's the point? I can damage my credit rating and amass parking tickets all by my lonesome.
Let's see who we've got on the incoming (note to the occasionally reader: incoming refers to the direction of data coming into the handset I.E. smartphone, so it's a text (sms/mms), email or google talk volley (I'm on android bitches)...it's my Turkish hottie. Looks like she's requesting another round of the on again, off again...first we fuck, then we argue...then we ignore each other. Predictable...but her ass is the bomb so maybe I'll hit her back...but who are we kidding...this is about my shoulders and her furniture that needs to be picked up @ Ikea and moved into her new apartment. I'd prefer a rate sheet...and yes, she can pay me in panties.
I descend the steps like it's xmas morning and head into my office, if you can call it an office. I've got papers scattered everywhere, dirty dishes and a few dirty socks strewn about. Looks like an outtake from "First 48"...which is kinda disgusting, but it keeps the ex the fuck outta here. Yes I'm deploying psychological strategies up in this piece...it's like that homey!
Opening my email on the google browser (I've learned that it's easier to read bullshit on a full size screen) I see that I have a response from a literary manger who I'll leave nameless. My last request to for submission has been denied because it's pilot season. Like I give a fuck about TV. Honestly, I'd rather she respond that unless I'm willing to come over here and clean the clam for a few hours I can forget about representation. At least that would be honest. This entire situation with her is entirely fucked by the way. I met her at a producers conference that I shall also leave nameless (don't complain.. I might actually make/sell something and the last thing I need is this blog to show up on TMZ like a pair of stank panties when your ex-girlfriend is cleaning the apt (yes.. .that really happened).
..anyways, back to the story. I sat through three days of this producers festival where I was pitching a reality tv show. That in and of itself was a huge mistake because I'm a filmmaker. My dick gets super hard when we start to talk about shots, angles and dialogue. What I cut and submitted was light years from what I said I would... everyone was pissed and refused to entertain the thought of us working for them...whatevers...you can only hide your art for so long, so I should be happy. So in the middle of this producers conference which is quickly beginning to resemble a bad horror movie (the black guy is going to die soon) I get access to this literary manager. I get to the meeting early and there's like 3 people there...and wouldn't you know it they are actors. This manger manages actors and writers which I personally hate. It means that people who are better looking than me will be offering sex and doing anything to get her attention. The one thing I like about being a writer is that we have integrity. We'll only go so far...not true for actors (and I love actors so easy on the hate mail). So as I'm waiting for the meeting to begin I get on my smart phone and research her a little bit. I find a slew of interviews of her and she's abrasive in each one. Not that I'm particularly worried, I'm from the east. I'm as comfortable with abrasive people as I am with cold weather...but I'm not really in the mood for either presently.
cue the beginning of the meeting and it's business as usual. She recounts how dedicated she is to art and how difficult it is to find good writers...blah...blah...blah. It's the typical bullshit and I seem to be the only one at this table that understands this. Oh great it's story time. For those of you who aren't familiar with story time it's when an actor segues from asking a question to telling a story to subtly indicate their acting chops and how special they are. It's almost as exciting as watching your dog lick his cock...only without the smacking.
She lays into him, rips off one of his arms and begins to chew on it. The entire table is mortified..except me. I knew there was gonna be some dismemberment up in this piece...the goal was not to be chewed up first. After a short story by her and another uncomfortable silence (there were many) another actor tries to pitch themselves. This chick is really cute, petite and looks like she could fuck all night. Too bad she wasn't prepped for the question "what kind of acting would you like to do?"... there was a seriously uncomfortable silence (I'm talking 4 Mississippi) before she stammered out an incomprehensible answer...she got murdered on the spot. I'm talking chainsaw dismemberment. I even think I got some blood on my glasses. It's not looking good for the rookies, and the entire table is looking shook. I could care less. I came to pitch.
She then asked for pitches, which was kind of strange. Most people of her....status.. hate to be pitched to.. they tend to think it's tedious. But she seems to like stories and more importantly writers (or so I thought). No one was willing to step onto the killing floor... and then I raised my hand. I swear to fucking god (and this is coming from an atheist) the assembled "artists" nearly all snapped their necks looking over at me and my fearlessness. What a bunch of pussies! "...only the man who thinks his arm can be cut off will actually get his arm cut off". I pitch my new script, my new female action script that I wrote for one of my actors that I'm in love with (she's female and I love women so don't read into it). A few seconds goes by and her face lights up.. "that's a script I'd definitely like to read". The room can't believe that I just pulled that off. Their heads are spinning like cheap rims in Inglewood. She congratulates me and goes on to lecture for a few more minutes before she asks for another pitch. Again silence falls over the table.
I count to 5 and then I raise my hand. The table can't believe that I want to pitch again and neither does the manager. "You have another script?" she says quizzically?
"I came here to chew bubble gum and pitch some scripts and I'm all out of bubble gum". The John Carpenter reference is lost on the relatively young crowd and I pitch. This time I pitch her Sex, Love & Z-Parts...my favorite script. After another pause that seems to last longer than the CFA exam (google it) she smiles and responds that she'd like to read that one as well. In an instant I'm being slipped business cards from actors and writers...as if I have any power in here.
The meeting adjourns and I'm mobbed by people... "where did you learn to write?", "who do you write about?", "Do you have a writing partner?"....I mean what the fuck? What happened to losing graciously and then getting pissed and going home and writing a better script that I pitched?...kids today!
By the time I get to the hotel bar the word has spread. People are treating my like I just won the fucking lottery; little do they know that I'm going to have to write a check to get my car out of valet...this town is comedy.
Fast forward 4 months later. I submitted and hear nothing. 3 months pass and I'm climbing the walls. Det. Budd suggests that I just drop by her office and make my presence known under the guise that the squeaky wheel gets the oil. He has a point but I don't' think that that's the best approach. So I wait. Another month....still no fucking reply. Then I get this email inviting me to a "creating memorable characters" seminar at USC that she is teaching. Not only is stepping on the campus of USC the filmic equivalent of making an atheist go to church, but I'd rather take deepthroat lessons from Ron Jeremy than attend a intro to screenwriting seminar. But what are my fucking options? So I respond in the affirmative.
Fast forward 2 weeks...I get there and the place is packed. She's there with a friend of hers who is an agent/producer and an author (funny how that works) and they are reminiscing on all the great script that have been written in the history of film (the implication being that we'll never be that good) and what we can learn from them. The eagerness of the other "writers" to lick these pussies is not sitting well with me. When I'm handed the first of several worksheets I feel the urge to drop trou and take a massive dump on the conference room table and shout "art knows no bounds".
But on second thought, I just stuff my mouth with the Sour patch kids I'd smuggled in and try to remain calm. I need to approach this woman and get my career back on track. But at every juncture that I can interject into...some 20 something, runny nose kid keeps asking questions and answering them himself. I had seriously considered putting the Vulcan neck brace into action...but he's on the other side of the table...so I'm fucked.
Suddenly it's breaktime. All the tweeners (I'm so not joking with that) make a B-line for the restroom and I approach her. Now keep in mind that she's shot me a number of looks during this "seminar"...I'm not sure if she recognizes me or is picturing me under her desk, kissing the kitty in an attempt to get representation. As soon as I introduce myself she smiles and says "yes..yes.. I knew you looked familiar". Not only is that insincere, it's predictable. But I push on cause that's what my mother expects of me. Trying to hide the anger and rage inside of my artistic loins I causally explain to her that I submitted my script to her and have not heard so much as a peep. She looks around and snaps her fingers (literally) and the wet nosed, brown-nosing dude who wouldn't shut up literally runs up to her side. Mr. Let-me-impress-you is her assistant. Seriously????
Not only is allowing your assistant to participate in your seminar a huge conflict of interest, it cast serious doubt on his ability to read and evaluate scripts (does he have to take a nap between each act?). Next come all the apologies and the "sorry we missed your script" statements. I am unimpressed.
He is now my main point of contact and assures me that if I sent the script to him, that he'll see that she gets it.
...so I resubmit...and weeks pass. And then I get his email. His condescending, cliche filled, writing tips dense email telling me that I'm obviously new to screenwriting. Those who know me personally will be amazed to know that I opted not to tell him what I really thought of his comments and his community college education (it's a joke...fucking relax night students). I wasted 7 months on this fruitless enterprise...awesome!
So why am I telling you this? Because I want to underscore the two rules of film that I live by:
1) You can't get anywhere by playing by the rules
2) Anything is possible.
This blog was brought about by the simple fact that Valentines day just passed (my love life sucks cock)...it's Oscar weekend and I can't believe all these people who I am more talented than are being nominated for an Oscar (Inception... really?...Christopher Nolan uses the same, literary devices, plot points and schtick in Memento and the following). I'm bitter, horny and out of weed... so that's what you get.
..This blog is dedicated to Richard Lui.. who sent me a very nice email and has convinced me to return to writing.
COOPRDOG
posted by Cooprdog at 9:10 AM
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