Shorty.

“How long have you been writing?” asked the short, bald, aging man seated across from me. “Just a couple years,” I lied. “You’re good,” he said. Not someone who takes compliments well, I mumbled out an “Um, thanks.” Then he said, “But there are some issues about the story that concern me.” So we settled down and talked about the script. My script—the one I spent nearly a year of my life on. The one I’ve been trying to get into the hands of a “Hollywood player” for the last few months. Out of the sixty snail-mail queries that I sent out, Shorty was the only one who’d actually responded. When all was said and done, I wasn't at all sure how he got himself in the Hollywood Creative Directory (which is where I found his contact information). His second floor office wasn’t much to speak of. On the fringes of Hollywood, the place smelled of old carpet and cigar smoke. There was cheap, dusty art on the wall, a few signed glossies of actors I didn’t recognize, as well as a few framed and unframed posters for movies I’ve never heard of. But whatever. Point is, he was an actual producer and—hallelujah, brothers and sisters!—he asked to meet me. Now here he was, grilling me on my own script: “Why is your main character so old? Couldn’t he be in his early twenties?” “Why does the girl have to die? She’s the only real connection your main character has.” “That bar scene goes on far too long. Couldn’t you trim that up? Better yet, you should consider cutting it altogether.” There were other questions and other points of contention, but after a while his voice just sounded like an adult from a Peanuts cartoon. Twenty minutes later I was out the door. Did Shorty want to buy my script? No. Did he even want to option the script? No. Did he want me to do a rewrite and get back to him with the new draft? To be honest, I’m not at all certain. All he said was, “Think about doing a rewrite on this. You’re good, you can do it.” Then he walked me to the door and said, “Thanks for coming in, buddy.” That’s it? I got all charged up for that? Why did he go to the trouble of calling me, setting up the meeting, and sitting with me for half an hour? Is he so desperately bored, so utterly out of the Hollywood loop, that he thought, “Let’s screw with this kid a little. I’ll sit here behind my big desk, play Mr. Big Shot, and pretend I know everything there is to know about how movies are made.” Sorry, Shorty, you might have an edge over me on cheap cigars and tacky office decor, but you don’t know Jack about screenwriting. You might be old and “wise,” but the points you brought up about my script were completely invalid. No, I won’t rewrite my script. I like it just the way it is. In fact, two script consultants, three of my closest friends and my uncle the college professor said it was a solid script. So there, ya old fart, go blow it out your rear end. (Alternately, if ol’ Shorty were to show me a little green, I’d make petty much any changed he required. I admit it, I’m a whore.) Well, I hold no grudges, no ill feelings about any of it. Who knows, maybe he just wanted to throw me a bone, let me know I was on the right track. I suppose I should be appreciative. It might even be a good idea to keep the door open on this one. Maybe I should send Shorty a nice letter of thanks for the meeting. Come to think of it, sending along a box of cheap cigars might be nice. Some paper towels and air freshener also couldn’t hurt. In Hollywood ya gotta play the game.

Adieu, Claire.

I get this call at 1:00 in the A.M. It’s Claire. She sounds upset. She asks to meet me at our favorite 24/7 diner. I’m there in about fifteen minutes. (I was up anyway, working on my script. So what else is new?) I walk into the diner and she’s there, in a booth against a far wall, looking as sad as I’ve ever seen her. Hold it. I should probably back up a little. Claire and I had become rather friendly in recent weeks. More than friends. Yes, we’d had sex. At one point she’d even mentioned something about saving money on rent and sharing a place. Hey, I liked Claire. I was crazy about her. But move in together? Not sure if that would work. My place was far too small and her apartment was the hub of her social life. Lots of friends; more than a few of them guys. It was like episodes of Seinfeld—someone always coming in through the unlocked front door. I can’t handle all that traffic. I must note, however, she’s certainly loyal to those friends. (I’m at Claire’s one night and we’re in bed. The phone rings. She answers and talks to whomever it was for ten, maybe fifteen minutes. All this is going on while I’m quietly having my way with her!) But Claire and I had become quite close and very, um, in sync. She read one of my scripts early in the relationship. Read it in one sitting, in fact. When she was finished, we had the most amazing conversation about it. Her recall for details of character and scenes was extraordinary. But still, there could be a great distraction in her eyes. Sometimes she’d be in her own little world. More than once I knew she had been crying for some prolonged period of time. And now, here in the 24/7 diner, she looked downright miserable. So, I sat down, ordered a cup of coffee, and Claire proceeded to tell me what was up. Contrary to what she told me, it seems she never actually broke things off with her boyfriend. He moved out of town and wanted her to go with him, but she wouldn’t budge—she liked it here in Hollywood. She did her best (or so she claimed) to sever ties but found it quite impossible. Unbeknownst to moi, she occasionally managed to slip off to his new digs (about an hour outside of L.A.) and...well, you get the picture. Anyway, it seems he’s coming back to town and getting a place together. So as far as yours truly goes, it’s over. She made it completely clear that it’s nothing that I said or did. She also made it clear that she’d still be with me if it weren’t for Him. But she loves loves loves the ex and absolutely, positively has to be with him. She’ll die without him. But oh, she hopes she and I can still be good friends. Sure, babe, I’ll call you at midnight and you can talk to me for ten minutes while you’re getting busy with Whatshisname! Well, it was sure nice while it lasted. I was even developing a real taste for vegan food! But as some of you might know, things turned around a bit for me. In my recent entry (The Shindig on the Hill) I mentioned Liza, a sleek, oh-so-incredible young lady that had, um, potential. I’ve come to learn that “potential” is an understatement. But you’ll have to wait for all the details on that one. Right now I gotta get my butt over to The Ivy for dinner with Ms. L. I’ll tell you...for an on-the-edge screenwriter with barely eight cents to rub together, I sure as hell get around.

The Shindig on the Hill.

Still no luck with my new screenplay. I’ve sent queries to something north of 150 production companies and agents. I got three requests for the script, but have heard nothing back. It’s only been two weeks. I suppose I need to be more patient. They say patience is a virtue. “They” don’t need to pay the rent and keep Hot Pockets in the toaster oven. Damn. I think I’m discovering that maybe, just maybe, this screenwriting thing isn’t for me. It’s not like I even get any real pleasure from filling those 100 pages of pure white. No, not true. I do love it. I love all of it. I want to be a screenwriter! Wait, I already AM a screenwriter. I guess what I really mean is: A SCREENWRITER WHO MAKES A LIVING AT IT. Or at least enough to pay off some of my credit card bills. Stop thinking about this, pal. Don’t drive yourself more over the edge than you already are. Oh, something interesting happened to me last weekend. I was at one of those trendy Hollywood clubs with a buddy of mine last Thursday night. We were five minutes from walking out the door when I got to talking to some lovely young thing. Her name was Tanya. Not my type at all, but very friendly. (The way she was twirling that straw across her lips made me crazy. Crazy in a good way, mind you.) She tells me she works for one of the big talent agencies here in L.A. I eventually get to telling her I’m a screenwriter. I could see the look on her face: “Oh, great, ANOTHER screenwriter.” One thing led to another and she invites me to this shindig up in the Hollywood Hills a couple nights later. She says there’ll be food, booze, women, and a smattering of legit Hollywood players. “You should definitely go,” she said. So Saturday night rolls around. I slipped into my best duds and I get my ass up to this house high in the Hollywood Hills, just below the Hollywood sign. This place was pretty huge. 10,000 square feet if it was a square foot. Three floors and perched, seemingly precariously, on a hill with a 100 foot drop below. So I give my name to the guy at the front door. Thankfully, Tanya made sure I was on the invite list. The first thing I do is grab a glass of sparkling wine from a large table with a white tablecloth. Then I head over to another table and grab some strawberries and cream and a handful of red grapes. So far so good. If nothing else, at least I’ll be well-fed. So I get to mingling. No exactly a strong suit, but I force myself. First I talked to a mid-50s bald guy. I think he was gay. He kept touching my arm. I’m not a homophobe, but still. He was nice enough and he gave me his card: “I have an art gallery downtown. Come by sometime.” OK, moving on. Next I get to chatting with a gorgeous 30-something woman. Blonde hair down to her ass, flawless skin, bright blue eyes. In her high heels, she topped out at about six-one. She works for an ad agency here in town. She must’ve gotten bored with me because after about two minutes, she was off to “check up on a friend.” Maybe I turned her off when I told her I was a screenwriter. That wasn’t the problem. No, the problem came when she asked, “Oh? Have you written anything I’ve seen?” Man, this sucks. PLEASE...LET ME GET ONE SCRIPT PRODUCED! Ten minutes after leaving the presence of the Amazon Woman, I’m talking to this really cute gal in a black mini-skirt. She’s in film finance. And oh, sometimes she’s an actress. We talked for a good ten minutes before her boyfriend swept her away from me. But I did get a business card. Not sure what I’ll do with it, but whatever. I chatted up a few more people as I made my way through this humongous house on the hill. I spoke with one man who claimed to be a producer. “What sort of stuff do you write?” he asked. I told him. He then blathered on and on about “first look deals,” “letters of intent,” and “international gross.” He gave me a card (all these people have cards; maybe I should get some too!) and asked me to call him. But oh, not in the next two week because he’s off to Germany for some conference on film finance. After hanging at this shindig for almost 90 minutes, I met Liza. No not Liza Minnelli. This Liza was mid-20s, about 5’ 7”, slim, clad in black sweater, black skirt, black boots, and this ultra-daring Pageboy haircut. Her red lipstick outlined her perfect—absolutely perfect—white teeth. She had this come hither look that...well, frankly, it drove me nuts. We talked for about twenty minutes. Oddly enough, we talked very little about the film business. We talked about camping. Camping?? Yup, she went on and on about who she loved being out in nature. (Damn. I kept having all these visuals of her walking topless through the woods.) She told me how insects and crapping in the woods didn’t bother her at all. I admitted that I had only been camping once, when I was in the Cub Scouts. Frankly, I hated it. But if this chick had asked me to go on a month-long camping excursion, I’d have gone! She eventually asked if I had a girlfriend. I quickly—perhaps too quickly— blurted out that I didn’t. At that moment, I saw something light up in her eyes. Now, why would a girl like this be interested in a man of my, um, lack of means? Hey, I’m not bad looking, mind you. I think I’ve mentioned that I’m no Brad Pitt, but I’m sure no Barney Fife. (I’ve had more than a few people tell me I look exactly like Paul Rudd. I’ve seen pictures. I guess there’s more than a passing resemblance.) So this girl whips out a pen and writes her phone number on the palm of my hand. Shit, this sort of thing really only happens in the movies...doesn’t it? She said she’d be out of town for most of the following week, but I should give her a call. Three things you can believe in, ladies and gentlemen. One, the sun’s gonna rise tomorrow; two, Oswald shot Kennedy; and three, I’m calling this chick the moment she’s back in town. I mean, if I can’t get any of my scripts sold, at least I can get laid...right?

Charlie Kicks the Bucket.

After work today, I stopped at the local coffee house to get something done on the new script. When I got back to my apartment, there was a flurry of activity: police, fire department, onlookers...and a coroner’s van. I told the cop nearby that I lived there and he allowed me to pass. On the other end of the complex I saw the aforementioned personnel milling about outside apartment 207. I found a neighbor—Shirley, an older lady who always has a pleasant smile on her face. She didn’t have a nice smile on her face that particular moment. She told me that Charlie, the old guy who lived in 207, was found dead. Seems the neighbor in 206 smelled something foul earlier in the day. The manager was called and, after some investigation, entry was made into 207. And there was ol’ Charlie, dead as a doornail, rotting away. The last anyone saw him was three days prior. I met Charlie many times in the three years I’ve lived in the building. He was nice enough. A bad hip forced him to spend much of his time in that apartment. I remember he told me he had once been an actor. Nothing of significance, but a few bit parts here and there. Did some stage work here in town back in the 80s and 90s. Did some background (or extra) work to pick up a few bucks. As far as Shirley or anyone else knew, he never married and never had any kids. Wow, how fucking sad is that? You struggle to make it as an actor, never get close to making it, never have a wife or kid, live in some crummy Hollywood apartment, and one day you’re a moldering corpse and there's a headline in the L.A. Times that reads: Rotting Corpse Startles Neighbors. Kind of makes you think, doesn’t it? It’s making me think. It’s making me think I need to make some changes. Big changes. But change to what? Do I take the path that my buddy Carl took? Do I sell fucking life insurance? Do I sell used cars? Damn, shoot me now, put me out of my misery. No, I’m a writer. Like I told Carl not too long ago: I’m chasing a dream. So no cubicle at an insurance office, no tacky suit and tie and car lot. I’ve got my laptop and a head filled with images. If I happen end up like ol’ Charlie, well...

Time Goes By.

5:30PM: I called that producer two days ago. Her assistant said, “She’s in a meeting right now. Can she return the call?” Yeah, buddy, I’m here 24/7, I ain’t goin’ nowhere. So I waited for the return call. As I said, it’s been two days. This seems to be a common problem with “film” people. One day means a week. One week means a month. “Soon” means “never.” About two years ago I met this development executive with a prominent production company here in Los Angeles. I sent him a synopsis of one of my scripts. We went back and forth with some emails, even ultimately had one or two good talks on the phone. Then...not a word. Gone, like a wraith in the night. About two months later, I saw the guy at some industry mixer (he wore a name badge, so I knew who he was). So I approached him and said, “Hi! Been a while. Remember me?” I told him my name and how we had recently traded some correspondence. He gave me a deer caught in the headlights look, a quick brush off and promptly faded into the crowd. What the hell is it with these people? Apparently memory is very short in Hollywood. It seems more people in this town have forgotten me than have remembered. One day they’ll remember. Right now I’m nothing more than another wannabe trying to carve creative brilliance out of a mountain of 8 ½ by 11 paper. Anyway, I reckon this latest producer will call when she calls, if she calls. Nothing I can do about it. I also put in a call to Claire last night. Text message, actually. This was basically it:

Me: Hey, beautiful...how’d Pomona go?
Claire: Hey! Pomona really sucks. Sorry I had to bail like that.
Me: It’s cool. Enjoyed our chat and dinner. When can we go back? I’d like to try the vegan lasagna with kale and tofu. Mmm, yum.
Claire: HA HA! My schedule is crazy right now, but yeah. Have to see what my schedule is like.

That’s where we left it. Not detecting any great enthusiasm here. The cold shoulder from Ms. Producer isn’t helping my burgeoning paranoia. As for my writing, I’m halfway through the new script. I’m at the hard part. Act two. I’m stuck like an armless guy in quicksand. I ran some ideas by my buddy Carl. 95% of what he threw back at me was tripe, but the five-percent that actually made sense was pure gold. But don’t tell him or he’ll want a cut of the pie. If there ever is any pie. Damn, I can stop thinking about my vegan goddess. That smile, that skin, the look in her eye when she talks about “lesbian Twister”! I wonder if there even was a little sister in Pomona. Maybe it was just an excuse. I’ll lose her before I even get her! Listen to me, I should like I’m in fucking high school. I can’t keep thinking about this. I have to work on the script. I have to get through this second act. I’ve done it before, I can do it again. I have to. No choice. 5:37PM. OK...so the instant I wrote the words “no choice,” my cell phone went off. It was vegan girl. She wants to meet in an hour at the diner over on Los Feliz. Not sure what this is all about. She’s not breaking up with me, is she? No, she can’t break up with me—we’re not even dating! No time to even think about this. Gotta hop in the shower, gotta shave the stubble. Wait—do I even have a clean shirt? Screw it. Come on, get your ass in gear, jerkstick, your vegan goddess awaits!

The Vegan Goddess.

OK, so I went out with Claire last night. She’s the bartender I told you about. The vegan bartender. We started things off by meeting at a Coffee Bean on Sunset Blvd. I got a brewed coffee and Claire got a soy something. We sat at a corner table and talked for about two hours. Two hours that seemed like two minutes. I even forgot about our dinner destination: the vegan place just down the street. I’ll get to that later. Over coffee, Claire told me about her favorite music (Coldplay, Christina Aguliera and...something else), her favorite movie (Mary Poppins), and her all-time favorite flavor ice cream (Rocky Road). Then she got into something a little more...um, well...personal. She related just about every sexual experience she’s had since “the first time.” I kid you not...we’re sitting in Coffee Bean and this chick’s rapping on and on about the BJ’s she gave her first boyfriend, her first doggy-style, an afternoon of “lesbian Twister” (she assured me, just an experiment), and a red hot Ménage à Trois in her freshman year of college! Now, I’m not the jealous type, so this topic of conversation didn’t bother me in the least. It actually turned me on. I would’ve taken her right then and there if I thought I could get away with it. (Actually, this being the heart of Hollyweird, I actually might’ve gotten away with it. Hmm, I’ll have to keep that in mind for next time.) I’m really not sure why this girl thought she could fill me in on her sexual past. Not that I’m complaining. I could never be as obliging about my own sexual history. Sure, maybe after a few adult beverages, maybe in the privacy of a dimly bedroom...but damn, in a Coffee Bean?? Well, that’s OK, Claire seemed perfectly happy telling about her erotic adventures. I’ve never met a girl like this. Never. I mean, the chicks in Los Angeles, Hollywood especially, tend to run a little kinky. Take my pal Angie, for instance. But vegan girl? She's hands down the supreme queen of blue chat! So, after nearly two hours of “let’s-make-this-guy-hot-and-horny” conversation, we were off to the vegan joint down the street. I won’t go into the uber-boring details of what we ate, but I’m pleased to say it wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought. Still, when all was said and done, I wanted a Fatburger like nobody’s business. But I endured the vegan faire. You would too if you had a goddess sitting across from you. By the way, have I given you the 411 on Claire’s looks? Well, she’s about 5’8”, maybe 120 lbs. shaggy dark hair, flawless light olive skin, ample chest and derrière, and a smile you could see for miles. I’d eat mud and straw if she asked me to. Anyway, just as we were leaving the restaurant, just when I thought it was next stop: my place, Claire got a phone call that took her from me. It was something about driving out to Pomona to pick up her little sister. Little sister? Pomona? Grudgingly, I walked my vegan goddess back to her car. After a promise that we’d do this again very soon (her words, not mine), after a too-brief hug and kiss...she was gone. That’s when I rushed home to spend some quality, um, “alone time.” Then I sat my ass at my desk (a rickety old card table, really) and got to work on my script. Cranked out page after page. It just poured out of me. Really good stuff, too. Damn, Claire is my muse! But wait, there’s more good news...I just received an e-mail from a producer I was dealing with weeks ago. Seems she’s finally had time to read my last script. “Call at your earliest convenience.” That’s pretty much all she wrote. What the hell does this mean? A “loved your script, let’s make a deal” would’ve been nice. But no, that’s not how this business works. Or so I’m told. Anyway, I’ll call her tomorrow. So maybe Claire is just the beginning of some very good things in store for me. I could use some good things. I really could.

Good News, Violent News.

Tonight I got into an argument with my buddy Carl. He says I need to get out more. Says I need to spend less time in my crummy apartment and seedy bars soaking up Budweiser. Says I should be out meeting Hollywood types. Ya know, Carl, I love you to death, but fuck you! You’re a fucking insurance salesman. Your dreams died long ago. You’ve been dead for years, you just don’t know it. I have a dream, one I’ve been chasing for seven years. At least I have that. But I get your point. I’ll try to get out more often. Remember that cute bartender? Well, I asked her out last night. She said, “Sure, I’d like that.” So we’re going out Thursday night. I’d prefer a Saturday, a night I don’t have to work the next day, but Thursday’s her night off. No complains from me. There’s one big drawback however. She’s a vegan. (That’s vegan, not virgin.) That can be a problem for a meat and potatoes guy like me. (I guess that would also be applicable if she were a virgin!) I wouldn’t be caught dead in some vegan joint. But this girl is pretty fuckin’ special, so I s’pose I gotta put up with it. Hey, Carl! I’m going out with a hot vegan bartender next Thursday night! Woo whoo!! Wrote furiously this morning before work. Got about four pages done. Not shit pages, either. Four really superior pages. Man, I was on fire! I owe it all to my hot vegan bartender baby. She’s put a new spark in my life. One that I’ve been missing for...well, a long, long time. I made the mistake of telling gal-pal Angie about vegan girl. Ohhh man, was she pissed. Flew into a tirade. But I let her. Then I told her, “Angie, we’re not even dating, not in any real sense. We’re all about fun and not about any sort of commitment.” Well, she blew up at me again and stormed out. When I checked my e-mail an hour or two later, I found about fifteen e-mails from her. To put it succinctly, here’s the gist: “Go fuck yourself!,” “You couldn’t write a grocery list!,” and “You’re a total loser!” Get this, two hours later ol’ Angie was on my doorstep. Fifteen minutes later we were going at it like rabbits. This is the true nature of our relationship. Sick? Twisted? Perhaps, but it’s pretty much all I’ve got right now.