Miracle On Wilshire Boulevard: II
http://www.phetasy.com/articles/197/1/Miracle-On-Wilshire-Boulevard-II/Page1.html
Bridget Phetasy
By Bridget Phetasy
Published on 09.15.09
DAY 1 - MONDAY CONT.
As I drive Maggie’s mom-mobile to Slimy’s office, a single thought runs through my mind: No matter what they say and what they offer, SAY NO TO IT. At least for now. For now, I am unable to trust my own judgment about anything. I lost my fuckin’ car. And clearly, I have lost something else (other than my mind)--the right to make good, capable decisions.
So here I am, driving to Century City, all the while scanning the gray matter of my brain for the last recollection of where my car might be. In between that and trying not to psyche myself out, there wasn’t much time to pump myself up for a pitch meeting. I am too humbled by my irresponsibility to get excited about anything.
As I drive Maggie’s mom-mobile to Slimy’s office, a single thought runs through my mind: No matter what they say and what they offer, SAY NO TO IT. At least for now. For now, I am unable to trust my own judgment about anything. I lost my fuckin’ car. And clearly, I have lost something else (other than my mind)--the right to make good, capable decisions.
So here I am, driving to Century City, all the while scanning the gray matter of my brain for the last recollection of where my car might be. In between that and trying not to psyche myself out, there wasn’t much time to pump myself up for a pitch meeting. I am too humbled by my irresponsibility to get excited about anything.
An L.A. Story: Part II
DAY 1 - MONDAY CONT.
As I drive Maggie’s mom-mobile to Slimy’s office, a single thought runs through my mind: No matter what they say and what they offer, SAY NO TO IT. At least for now. For now, I am unable to trust my own judgment about anything. I lost my fuckin’ car. And clearly, I have lost something else (other than my mind)--the ability to make good, capable decisions.
So here I am, driving to Century City, all the while scanning the gray matter of my brain for the last recollection of where my car might be. In between that and trying not to psych myself out, there wasn’t much time to pump myself up for a pitch meeting. I am too humbled by my irresponsibility to get excited about anything.
I meet The Muscle at the office. He gives me a nice trainer-like pep talk on the way up the elevator. He might as well have been speaking Japanese with a thick Brooklyn accent. I can only hear one thought still running through my mind—I lost my fuckin’ car. I LOST my fuckin’ CAR. I’m retarded. Don’t believe anything they say, because you’re interpreting it. And you are clearly retarded. In fact, don’t believe anything you think, at all. Ever. Don’t even believe this.
I like to believe this is the thought that will eventually make me millions.
We head into the waiting room. I stand silently, taking it all in while Jersey tells Slimy all about the Playboy shoot she just got back from. Slimy dishes some gossip on one of his famous clients. It all seems about right…right out of a movie.
At last, we are summoned by Slimy.
Slimy: So what’s this idea, kiddo?
Me: Well, it’s about [SORRY, IF I TOLD YOU I’D HAVE TO KILL YOU].
Slimy: I love it. Brilliant. Original. Timely. You have anything more than just the treatment?
Me: Yeah, the episode guide for two seasons.
Slimy: Well, get that to me. I want to move fast on this.
Me: Wow. Really?
Slimy: You bet!
Me: What does that mean?
The Muscle: That’s a good thing, kid. That’s a real good thing.
I’m still not exactly sure what “a real good thing” means in show biz lingo, but if what follows is any indication, I’m guessing it’s never going to be "a real good thing" for me.
I go home, semi-elated, (as elated as a person who lost her car can be), & I tell Maggie the whole story…while we grid yet another sector of Santa Monica, still searching hopelessly for my car.
Me: I think they’re going to make an offer.
Maggie: Really? That’s great!
Me: No. It’s not. I can’t sell that show before I write the pilot!! I’m supposedly a frickin’ writer!! I have to write it!!
Maggie: Oh shit. What are you gonna do?
Me: Stall. And write for my life.
DAY 2 – TUESDAY
The phone calls start. On two fronts. The primary concern being my car, I go through my routine: I call the tow companies. I call my insurance company. I grid the neighborhood and beyond, beyond. Again. Still no car. I decide to go to the police station to see if any tickets have been issued & find out if I should report it stolen. Yet another incredibly humbling experience.
Me: Um, hi....my....friend lost my car.
Sassy Female Cop: (laughing) I bet he did.
Me: (hopefully) No…um, well, maybe it was stolen!!
Sassy Female Cop: No. You lost it. Despite what you might think, 60% of cars reported stolen are usually just lost.
Me: 60%! Well, I don’t feel like a total jackass anymore.
Sassy Female Cop: (laughing) You should.
Me: What do I do?
Sassy Female Cop: It will turn up eventually. Tickets usually take a week to process. Within three days it will get ticketed, booted or towed.
Me: Great.
Sassy Female Cop: Unless it was stolen.
Me: Well when will I know?
Sassy Female Cop: Well I guess you’ll know in a week, now won’t you, sweetie?
I shuffle out, head hanging in shame. The phone rings. It’s The Muscle. He wants me to talk to his entertainment lawyer. I should expect his call. The lawyer calls 10 minutes later and leaves a message. “Hi, this is Sketchy Lawyer, I represent Slimy Production Co. I’m here with The Muscle, who mentioned that you might be needing someone to look over a contract from Slimy Production Co. Let me know when you would like to come in.”
Hm. I’m not an expert in legal ethics, but that sure does seem like a conflict-of-interest to me. I don’t really see how anyone could possibly have my best interests at heart in that situation. Not to mention, I haven't even seen a contract yet.
It comes that evening. One tiny page. It almost looks as if it were cut and pasted from internet samples. I have a sick feeling the minute I look at it. A number jumps out at me immediately.
10%.
Hm. I’m no expert in TV series deals either, but that sure does seem pretty low for the creator. There are some other clauses, too. The Muscle gets a producer credit. I get a chance to write for my own show.
Gee. Thanks...
I realize these turds think they have a snow job. They think I’m just another broke, down-on-her-luck hometown girl from little ol’ Rhody with big dreams of being a writer/starlet/yoga instructor/aide to kids with autism/rock star/entreprenactivist/weblebrity.
On the one hand, I’m glad to know I haven’t lost any of my acting skills over the years. On the other hand, I’m petrified.
The wrong decision...? Artistic (and actual) suicide.
The car…? Still missing.
As I drive Maggie’s mom-mobile to Slimy’s office, a single thought runs through my mind: No matter what they say and what they offer, SAY NO TO IT. At least for now. For now, I am unable to trust my own judgment about anything. I lost my fuckin’ car. And clearly, I have lost something else (other than my mind)--the ability to make good, capable decisions.
So here I am, driving to Century City, all the while scanning the gray matter of my brain for the last recollection of where my car might be. In between that and trying not to psych myself out, there wasn’t much time to pump myself up for a pitch meeting. I am too humbled by my irresponsibility to get excited about anything.
I meet The Muscle at the office. He gives me a nice trainer-like pep talk on the way up the elevator. He might as well have been speaking Japanese with a thick Brooklyn accent. I can only hear one thought still running through my mind—I lost my fuckin’ car. I LOST my fuckin’ CAR. I’m retarded. Don’t believe anything they say, because you’re interpreting it. And you are clearly retarded. In fact, don’t believe anything you think, at all. Ever. Don’t even believe this.
I like to believe this is the thought that will eventually make me millions.
We head into the waiting room. I stand silently, taking it all in while Jersey tells Slimy all about the Playboy shoot she just got back from. Slimy dishes some gossip on one of his famous clients. It all seems about right…right out of a movie.
At last, we are summoned by Slimy.
Slimy: So what’s this idea, kiddo?
Me: Well, it’s about [SORRY, IF I TOLD YOU I’D HAVE TO KILL YOU].
Slimy: I love it. Brilliant. Original. Timely. You have anything more than just the treatment?
Me: Yeah, the episode guide for two seasons.
Slimy: Well, get that to me. I want to move fast on this.
Me: Wow. Really?
Slimy: You bet!
Me: What does that mean?
The Muscle: That’s a good thing, kid. That’s a real good thing.
I’m still not exactly sure what “a real good thing” means in show biz lingo, but if what follows is any indication, I’m guessing it’s never going to be "a real good thing" for me.
I go home, semi-elated, (as elated as a person who lost her car can be), & I tell Maggie the whole story…while we grid yet another sector of Santa Monica, still searching hopelessly for my car.
Me: I think they’re going to make an offer.
Maggie: Really? That’s great!
Me: No. It’s not. I can’t sell that show before I write the pilot!! I’m supposedly a frickin’ writer!! I have to write it!!
Maggie: Oh shit. What are you gonna do?
Me: Stall. And write for my life.
DAY 2 – TUESDAY
The phone calls start. On two fronts. The primary concern being my car, I go through my routine: I call the tow companies. I call my insurance company. I grid the neighborhood and beyond, beyond. Again. Still no car. I decide to go to the police station to see if any tickets have been issued & find out if I should report it stolen. Yet another incredibly humbling experience.
Me: Um, hi....my....friend lost my car.
Sassy Female Cop: (laughing) I bet he did.
Me: (hopefully) No…um, well, maybe it was stolen!!
Sassy Female Cop: No. You lost it. Despite what you might think, 60% of cars reported stolen are usually just lost.
Me: 60%! Well, I don’t feel like a total jackass anymore.
Sassy Female Cop: (laughing) You should.
Me: What do I do?
Sassy Female Cop: It will turn up eventually. Tickets usually take a week to process. Within three days it will get ticketed, booted or towed.
Me: Great.
Sassy Female Cop: Unless it was stolen.
Me: Well when will I know?
Sassy Female Cop: Well I guess you’ll know in a week, now won’t you, sweetie?
I shuffle out, head hanging in shame. The phone rings. It’s The Muscle. He wants me to talk to his entertainment lawyer. I should expect his call. The lawyer calls 10 minutes later and leaves a message. “Hi, this is Sketchy Lawyer, I represent Slimy Production Co. I’m here with The Muscle, who mentioned that you might be needing someone to look over a contract from Slimy Production Co. Let me know when you would like to come in.”
Hm. I’m not an expert in legal ethics, but that sure does seem like a conflict-of-interest to me. I don’t really see how anyone could possibly have my best interests at heart in that situation. Not to mention, I haven't even seen a contract yet.
It comes that evening. One tiny page. It almost looks as if it were cut and pasted from internet samples. I have a sick feeling the minute I look at it. A number jumps out at me immediately.
10%.
Hm. I’m no expert in TV series deals either, but that sure does seem pretty low for the creator. There are some other clauses, too. The Muscle gets a producer credit. I get a chance to write for my own show.
Gee. Thanks...
I realize these turds think they have a snow job. They think I’m just another broke, down-on-her-luck hometown girl from little ol’ Rhody with big dreams of being a writer/starlet/yoga instructor/aide to kids with autism/rock star/entreprenactivist/weblebrity.
On the one hand, I’m glad to know I haven’t lost any of my acting skills over the years. On the other hand, I’m petrified.
The wrong decision...? Artistic (and actual) suicide.
The car…? Still missing.
To be continued...again.
Sorry guys...
Sorry guys...