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Miracle On Wilshire Boulevard: III |
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An L.A. Story: Part III
DAY 3 – WEDNESDAY
So let’s just recap: Here I am. No money. No work. No shampoo. No food. No credit. NO CAR. No dignity. No hope. Basically, I have nothing but a roof over my head & my health (both which I am extremely grateful for—especially since I also have no health insurance). The all-consuming sense of desperation settles in, waiting to strike when I’m weak.
And sure enough, just at my weakest, brokest moment, something arrives on the wings of hope: an offer for my show. A 100%-real, with-a-contract-and-everything, completely legitimate offer.
The day after the contract comes, the harassment begins. The Muscle calls. He leaves a long, rambling message that actually does sound like Japanese in a thick Brooklyn accent, coming from the bottom of a fishbowl.
Apparently, some Hip, Gay Showrunner from NYC wants to meet with me. But before he meets with me, I have to sign off on the entire deal with Slimy Production Company.
Oh-and HBO wants to hear the idea but they need to hear it NOW. Oh—and FOX is developing a show just like it, so we have to beat them in the race to network or we could end up Shit Out of Luck.
I’m scared—the pressure is on. I don’t want to make the wrong move. I have a completely original concept, but no pilot. No agent. No manager. No guidance. No protection. & at the moment, absolutely no faith in myself. Nothing. & as if I couldn’t grasp the absolute nothingness of the situation, I don’t even have my frickin’ car.
Actually that’s not entirely true. I do have one thing left—my gut instinct. It screams: something isn’t right. & over the course of the short years I’ve been allowed to breathe, I’ve learned a very important lesson: When in doubt, especially when you don’t trust your own judgment, do nothing. So that’s what I do. Nothing.
Well, actually, I stall like a mother-fucker.
I call The Muscle and tell him I’m going to seek my own legal counsel as I think it may be a Conflict of Interest due to the fact that Sketchy Lawyer represents both him and Slimy Production Co.
Jersey calls. At least her message is short & sweet. I need to call Slimy Production Co. to set up a time to meet with the Hip, Gay Showrunner.
Sketchy Lawyer calls. Again. He assures me he does NOT represent The Muscle or Slimy Production Co. Aside from my saved voicemails from him corroborating exactly that, he claims he has nothing to do with either one of them. He and The Muscle have clearly been talking. Now I really don’t trust any of them. Not that I ever did.
They’re all liars. The Muscle is just that—the muscle. Slimy hides behind him and takes a hands-off approach, all the while calling all the shots. Sketchy Lawyer just makes sure Slimy wins and The Muscle gets a cut. This is classic Mafia warfare. I know this approach well. I have an Italian mother for crying out loud.
The Muscle calls again. Again. He tries to guilt me into calling Sketchy Lawyer by saying that…knowing the dire financial circumstances I was in… he was doing me a favor…how could I be so ungrateful…etc…
Like I said, I have an Italian mother. I am impervious to these kind of back street tactics. Slimy’s people bombard me with about 6 phone calls and messages throughout the course of the day, reiterating the urgency of the situation.
The only urgent situation in my life is my car. I constantly search for it, gridding Santa Monica, letting the phone go straight to voicemail.
In the same way I search for my car, I seek knowledge, immediately putting out the call to every friend & client I can think of for help negotiating Ho-Wood. Turns out, I know a lot of fuckin’ people in the industry. And it turns out they are very, very helpful. Their counsel--invaluable.
I send the contract to my friend at one of the big agencies in town. It then gets forwarded to someone in the TV department to look over. They return the contract to my friend with a bunch of counter-offers that confirm my instincts that I am indeed about to take it up the bum-bum. It includes a clause saying if the deal goes down, they’ll represent me and take 10%. Of course they will…
DAY 4: IS THAT A BANANA IN YOUR POCKET…?
…Or are you just happy to hip pocket me? Ah yes…this is when I was first introduced to the time-honored tradition in Tinseltown known as “hip-pocketing”. Agencies resort to this tactic when, instead of manning up and representing you, they act like they’re your agent—until you sell something—and then they magically grow some balls and become your agent for real; your agent who, all the sudden, really believes in you. But until then, they don’t publicly acknowledge your existence. It’s a catch-22. Very few agents are willing to take a chance on “baby writers” like me* because I can cost them their job. But no one wants to get fired for letting the next big thing walk out the door, either. So everyone draws their bananas & waits for someone else to shoot first.
Some of the biggest, ass-kissing pussies in the world, work in Hollywood. The fear that created “hip-pocketing” is the very fear that runs this town. This fear is responsible for some of your favorite shows getting canceled and some of the worst crap ever getting made.
*For the record, the only thing you need to be off the “baby writer” list is ONE SALE. That’s it. It has nothing to do with time put in or experience. Although by the time you sell a script, you’ve had a lot of fuckin' experience.
FLASH FORWARD: THE END GAME
I can’t blame the system entirely though. When creative types like me sell out, it feeds this system. And this is the position I currently find myself in—dead broke, with an opportunity to sell out. My friend reads between the lines of the their offer for me.
In layman’s terms, it’s a 100%-real, with-a-contract-and-everything, completely bullshit offer. Essentially, they’ll buy me out of the concept. I’ll be pushed aside almost immediately & they’ll bring in a hip, gay showrunner. They’ll throw me a bone and hire me as a writer for half a season before they politely let me go.
As for the moronic, meathead with not an original thought in his Roid-rotting little brain, The Muscle? He will have a bigger cut and ultimately be involved with the show longer than me…the freakshow who created the whole world and developed the thing for the past 7 years.
It’s like giving your child up for adoption to incapable child abusers and then getting hired by them to be the nanny they mistreat. And all you can do is watch in horror as they destroy your child—while they manipulate and use you until they decide to toss you aside.
“Wouldn’t you rather have 10% of something than 100% of nothing?” asks The Muscle.
Um that’s funny, because the way I see it, I would still have nothing. Just 10% of it.
I think I'll keep my 100% of nothing, thanks.
Article Series
This article is part 3 of a 4 part series. Other articles in this series are shown below:
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Miracle On Wilshire Boulevard
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Miracle On Wilshire Boulevard: II
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Miracle On Wilshire Boulevard: III
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Miracle On Wilshire Boulevard: IV
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