For the past four months I’ve been working with a production company in an attempt to get a TV pilot I wrote (http://home.comcast.net/~boundandgags/facade.htm) some interest and things were going as well as things like this go. Not being my first time at the dance, I had my moves down and you’d be hard pressed to know I was pretending it was exciting.
In the end, they went with another project. They chose to go with a half hour sitcom set in a bar. Groundbreaking, I know. But so much of this business isn’t about quality (and I’m not insinuating the sitcom they chose is bad. I’ve never read it but these guys do have a good ear for dialog so I have to assume it’s pretty good) it’s about fit and comfort. Like loose fitting jeans or a seizure controlled by thorazine.
Sure, I was disappointed but I’m also disappointed my dick doesn’t touch the ground unless I squat really low. So, as you can see, it’s all a perspective thing. I moved on and took my next call.
This one was from a guy who asked if I’d come over to look over some potential work for his company. Being a whore and needing the work, I said yes. But when I got there it seemed his daughter had a school assignment to interview someone and he didn’t think I’d mind.
I’m sure by the guy’s expression he could see I did. I know it wasn’t the kids fault but 1) I hate being brought into something under false pretenses 2) I like to be prepared for everything I do so if she had to pay a little for her father’s idiocy, so be it.
I know it may not seem like much to talk about myself but when I think I’m going to work I’m in a different mindset then getting interviewed. Things like this have happened in the past and I never react well. I have no idea why people feel they have to try to pull things over on me. It never works out to their advantage. Plus, with the news I got earlier, I’m not in the mood for tom foolery as you’d imagine.
Before we sit down I could see the guy was shitting his pants. He realized, too late, it may get ugly. I was pretty monosyllabic and not giving the kid (around 11-13 – I know, I thought that was very tall too) much. I’m pissed, not in the mood for subterfuge and asked if we could do this over email. Of course, that wasn’t an option. Having tried to be nice I now just want out.
And the kid gives me a slight opening. I didn’t know it was an opening at the time but it shut just as quickly as it opened.
“Are you working on anything new?”
“Yes,” I responded. “I’m working on updating the songs of world war two. For example, I’m changing Don’t Sit Under The Apple Tree (With Anyone Else But Me) to Don’t Sit Under The Anus, Steve (With Anyone ‘Cause It’s Gross). I don’t think you’re old enough to hear what I have in mind for Minnie The Moocher.”
The guy gets up and begins shutting us down. I smile, for the first time since I’ve arrived, as I stand I say,
“I’m going for a Shel Silverstein with tourette’s thing.”
“Okay, Chris has to go.”
I shake the kids hand and tell her if she has any other questions to send me an email. I turn to the guy and tell him if he ever pulls a stunt like that again the therapy bills for his family and the next generation will bankrupt him. Heeding my advice and attempting to halt any further ugliness, he gave me $100 and promised to avoid me with impeccable accuracy.
Finally, I got home. It was good to know my disappointments from here would be few. I’d have the chance to see my girlfriend, pet the cats, open a beer and head out to the yard for an hour or so of yard work.
It’s good to keep active and actually accomplish something on a day when things haven’t been going your way. Besides, with a lawn mower roaring and my headphones on, I can’t hear anyone complain. Or sneak up on me as it turns out.
It wasn’t too startling but it did cause me to snap out of my thoughts (I was thinking that hookers could sell sluttery tickets. Buy a ticket, scratch it off, and whatever turns up that what she’ll turn out. Perfect for sex addicted gamblers! See? Many of my thoughts should be snapped out of). My neighbor wandered over to say hi. I like Norm and enjoy catching up with him.
He’s just come from his air conditioned house so is crisp and comfortable. I, having spent the last hour wandering up and down the hillside, was moist and itchy.
“You’re sweating,” Norm informs me.
“Nah,” I respond moving the mower around a flower bed. “My body’s crying. It wants to be inside watching the ball game.”
After a few minutes of pleasantries I go back to and quickly complete my task. I stand there surveying the yard and feel good that I could accomplish something and reap the benefit immediately.
I put the mower away, grab a cold beer, head back to sit in the yard with my feet up and contemplate my day. It’s quiet and can give you time to reflect on your life. Sure, I didn’t sell my scripts but, you know, I got to be in the game. I got to be heard. I got a bunch of people to sit around a table and talk about something I created out of thin air.
I’m sitting there not being disappointed for the first time in a few hours. Even without the sale I’ve accomplished something. To trudge through page after page; tweak and pound phrases until they ring true; then, finally, complete it. Yeah, there’s nothing to feel bad about.
And that’s when I felt it.
Two ripe, moist, disease filled mounds of bird shit covered my chest.
All I could do was laugh. At least it wasn’t the bullshit I was just voiding. It just goes to show, even after you’ve done the best you can, even if it’s mowing the lawn, those in charge will still find a way to shit on you.