Amber Night (rebooted)

It’s just been this kind of week.

One of my little side hobbies is writing—or trying to write—screenplays. I have about 3 printer paper boxes¹ full of stuff in varying degrees of finished, which is to say unfinished, states. The script for Kind of a Big Deal, for example, was a squishing and re-shaping of about 5 different of these abandoned pieces. It also has the dubious distinction of being one of the few I’ve completed.

Anyway, last week I cashed a check that turned my side hobby into a below-minimum wage job with no benefits. Someone actually bought an original script from me. No shit. Seriously, no shit. So last week I found myself in, of all places, that magical mystery land known to those of us in the biz as Hollywood. It also goes by Hollywood for people outside the biz, which—now that I’m in the biz—is complete bullshit. I think I might start an insider movement where we in the biz start calling it “The ‘Wood” or “The H-Wuh” or something pretentious like that. I’m gonna see what Steve thinks. That would be Stephen Spielberg. You know, one of my fellow insiders.

This just in…I’m being told that there is already an insider name for Hollywood…which is…I’m being told that I’m not actually an insider, so I don’t get to know the name. Also…Steve…sorry—Mr. Spielberg—eats krill like me for breakfast.

I’ll bet they call it The H-Wuh. Fuckers.

In the interest of truthiness I have to admit that I was actually in L.A, not Hollywood proper. But I wanted to do the H-Wuh shtick.

Anyway, everything you think you know about how movies are pitched? Absolutely true. Except there are no Velociraptors or Richard Gere, which I thought was strange. But there is a blond chick with faux Prada and faux boobs toting a real clipboard, just like I always imagined as a child.

Since my script doesn’t actually belong to me anymore (*Sob!* And yet…yay!) all I can really tell you about it are those two little words that will send you fleeing from this blog like roaches from a 2am refrigerator light: Romantic Comedy. See? I knew it. Fine. You can run but you can’t hide. I have your goddamned IP address, ok? Alright then, take your seats again please.

Anyway, as I was saying, movie pitches are teh scary. I should know, I’ve been to exactly one of them and they’ve all been scary. You are sitting in front of a bunch of (well, 2) producers who make no secret of the contempt they feel right now towards you for making them late to their avocado nostril dip or their anal hair waxing or whatever the hell it is that producers are pissed at you for making them late to, and you can’t help but think of that episode of Star Trek where Captain Kirk is trying to explain to the little glowing brains about the Constitution (We!..THE PEOPLE!) or some bullshit like that, and they’re all betting fucking quatloos about how much more perspiration her foundation can soak up before she just starts ripping her script into little pieces of confetti while collapsing into a sobbing puddle of Max Factor goo like so many before her. Meanwhile Prada chick just keeps scribbling away into her goddamned clipboard every time you take another belt of Evian. And you’ve been drinking a LOT of Evian, so now you have to pee.

And of course they’ve read the script, so they already know what you’re going to say. (The joke’s on them because they have absolutely no idea that the first word out of your mouth is going to be “cock,” followed by 17 seconds of absolute silence. Cuz that’s how me and Sanya roll, bitches.) They also know what they’re going to say after your pitch, and it is this: We love it. We think it’s absolutely perfect. Don’t change a thing. Except for just a few small things. And those few small changes would be pretty much everything in between the title sheet and the back page. Everything else is perfect. Oh except the title. The title sucks. So does your font.

Ernest Hemingway once wrote a story that reads in its entirety:

For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

He called it his best work ever.

Fortunately Hemingway didn’t have to pitch it to a tiny conference room full of (2) producers and a bimbo with fake boobs and a clipboard while he had to pee so desperately bad he was starting to jaundice. I, on the other hand, will be locked away in my apartment for the next 4 days, wishing I were leveling my Hunter, but instead gutting my own best work ever in order to turn it into something more “commercial.” Have I mentioned I’d pretty much sell out my own mother for a minimum wage job as a writer? Well I would.

Tangentially, I’m pretty sure I saw Andy Dick. Which is strange because I always had him figured for New York. Whatevs. He (or someone who looks a lot like him only shorter) was ahead of me and my agent² at Subway. He ordered a 6 inch tuna on Italian Herb and Cheese. No cheese, untoasted, with lettuce and tomato. I also ordered the tuna on Italian Herb and Cheese, thinking maybe I could say something clever like “hey…um…we both ordered a sandwich. With…um…bread…and stuff.” Instead I said “cock,” whereupon an uncomfortable silence settled in.

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¹Yeah I could keep it all on CD, and I do. But there’s something magical about a box of paper that you can not only peruse through when the mood and alcohol strikes, but you can thow your back out with it on moving day too.

² By the way, my agent, who I only met in person last week because he’s never made any money off me until now, hates my blog. He says it’s a drain on my creative energy. He’s going to be so pissed when he reads this post. Giggle.

Today I was flying through San Jose, and saw the saddest thing. It was one of those mylar heart-shaped balloons that say “I Love You” or something like that, and a bouquet of roses. That’s not the sad part, jaded as I may be towards things heart-shaped and flowery. The sad thing was that the balloon had been popped, and was sitting in a trash can with the flowers.  The bouquet was upside-down, and there were rose petals laying around the bin.

Made me a little sniffly.

(Once my traveling schedule settles down, we will return to your normal non-Lifetime-channel format.  Bear with me!)

Thanks to reader Errol for sending in this one.  It’s da bomb.

I never got to go to Disneyland when I was a kid. But this made up for years of resentment.

Never wear a black blouse if you know they’ll have powdered donuts at the morning meeting.  I live, you learn.

One of the things I did in Denver last week (without being dead) was to finally have dinner with Trevor. I did this for you, gentle reader. You needed the closure.

If you’ve been hanging around this little shanty for awhile, you might remember Trevor was the insensitive clod who broke my heart and my tennis racket:

Part 1
Part 2

You also might be thinking to yourself that accepting Trevor’s dinner request is proof positive that girls are weak. You would be wrong. Not only did I stick Trevor with the bill, but I stuck him with the surcharge for extra sour cream on my 7-Layer Burrito. Oh yeah, I went there bitches.

Okay, that’s not true. For his role in the Ego-Bruising Tennis Racket Debacle, Trevor got to take me to The Sparrow, a fancy-schmancy restaurant in downtown Denver. I had the Tuscan Seafood Bouillabaisse, which was not only to die for, but also expensive. Not as expensive as the tennis racket I brained Trevor with some years earlier, but then my tennis racket didn’t come with bread. Life is a series of trade-offs.

Trevor’s best line of the night: “My girlfriend doesn’t know we’re here. She’s a softball player so I’m a little worried.”

I lol’d. Trevor doesn’t have a girlfriend. This makes me feel good, but there was a little part of me that would have paid money to see an angry girlfriend storm into the restaurant wielding a nicely balanced tube of aluminum. And by “part of me” I mean all of me. I told Trevor this, and he immediately ordered more wine. He wanted white, but I insisted on red. I think this says something about me.

I also got to see the scar I left on his head. It’s pretty cool. Smaller than I would have liked, but then anything that didn’t run from ear to ear would have disappointed.

I also learned something important about forgiveness. I learned that I am a small person and that while I can certainly let cheating asshole bygones be cheating asshole bygones, I simply can’t forgive myself for ruining (and losing) my racket on something stupid like Trevor’s head. I wish I’d had the presence of mind to grab my roommate’s electric guitar instead. What with it being a two-handed weapon, I’d probably have suffered a speed penalty but the DPS would have shot through the roof. Not to mention the cool factor of using an electric guitar to brain your cheating boyfriend. I’m pretty sure there’s an ’80′s rock ballad in there somewhere.

Thanks to readers Duncan and zottel for sharing this:

The Hello Kitty Island Adventures WoW Interface.

Now if they would only nerf snugglezerkers.

I would so play this game.

Granted, it’s early in the presidential campaign season. But Amber Night Megalomedia is ready to announce our backing of the one and only candidate that will truly make a difference: Lee L. Mercer Jr.

My platform for President of the United States Of America is Criminal Law. It is developed from my Method of Education. I was ordered to create and or invent by the United States Army that is now intact regulating the United States Government protecting it through Military Intelligence Computerization Management a new Disipline I invented and the Administration of Criminal Law Laws across the board.

Damn straight. Finally, a politician who tells it like it is. And while I’ll agree he’s nowhere near as charismatic as Barrack Obama, when was the last time you heard Obama take on “Military Intelligence Computerization Management?” Never, that’s when. Because Lee L. Mercer Jr. invented the goddamned thing. He’s also got deep insights into the current Iraq quagmire:

There is some concern about the war in Iraq. I know of U.S. government evidence that the war in Iraq is illegal and it can be solved through me representing the United States Government with a peace treaty. I know there are notations in my ROTC Biography of a guarantee from Iraq through me for peace to the war in Iraq and that Mr. Hussein is innocent of his charges.

And while you might argue that Mr. Mercer Jr. is yet another spineless Democrat advocating cut-and-run-and…um…acquiting Saddam Hussein, let’s take a moment to remember that none of the other candidates have ROTC experience.

This campaign season, vote Lee L. Mercer Jr. He’s going to “do what the President of the United States of America is supposed to do and complete the federal and military government biography and autobiography in development in Eye Spy Community-Military Intelligence (All Three) Business and Commerce Intelligence Education across the board National and International.”

And I think we can all agree, that’s what America needs right now. Let the healing begin. Vote Mercer Jr. And for chrissakes, somebody please give this man a Wikipedia entry.