Well it’s been months and months since Steven and I got the news that THIS LITTLE PIGGY was not going to go to series and I think I’m finally getting my head above water. But that first few weeks after hearing the “Great Job, but no thanks” of it all, was not fun. Suffice it to say that alcohol was my constant companion and there was some concern that if I didn’t change the miserable face I kept wearing it might stick that way, adding insult to my already injured looks. Anyway, I’ve had many requests from the folks who were reading this blog to add a little closure to this chapter. Apparently, many of you want to know what happens to a TV writer when both of his projects crap out. Well since the sting has finally faded, I thought I’d take a moment to try and answer that question. Here goes…
Initially, I decided that a good idea would be for me to spend some time with pals that I had neglected during the pilot madness. You know, to get my mind off it all. I remember having a great lunch with my friend Mark who sat with me over plates of barbeque and listened to me ramble like a mad man about the unfairness of this filthy, dirty, lying carnival of a business. And a dinner with my buddy Matt and his son Greg, who sat with me over burgers and beers and listened to me bitch about the same. Greg is a toddler, he wasn’t drinking beer or, at the time, speaking (he says avocado now!) and I remember him just staring up at me silently. I must have looked like a loon to him as I prattled on and on without as much as a comma to break up the crazy. No doubt there was some truth to this. I’m lucky to have patient friends who don’t mind red meat and maudlin talk.
My agent Jack once told me that getting a television show on the air is like winning several lotteries in a row. First you have to pitch your show, and out of a sea of ideas, the development people have to choose yours. That’s lottery number one. Then they pay you to write it and the work begins. You have to figure out how to best tell your story in the most effective and efficient way you can. Eventually you do (or you do your best anyway) and you turn it in and wait for the results of lottery number two. If they choose your script, out of dozens and dozens of other scripts they’ve also paid for, you get to make a television pilot. For the uninitiated… and there are few of you out there… a pilot is a one time episode of television about people America doesn’t know or care about yet, that needs to somehow be entertaining while clearly setting up the premise, stakes and tone of any future episodes… you know, if the network chooses to make them… which, of course, there is no guarantee they will do.
And with that little mission laid before you, you set off to make your show (or in our case, shows). You go through a half dozen other mini-lotteries (getting a director, hiring a producer, casting the damned thing, etc) and then you shoot it and turn it in and wait for the results of lottery number three. The odds are never good. In fact you are more likely to win a football parlay at the OTB than you are to get a show picked up for series on the ABC. I believe there were more than 100 pilots (drama and comedy) made by all the networks, cable and broadcast. Of that number, maybe 20 of them got picked up to series. The rest, including our little gems, will never see the light of day. That’s the deal. That’s how it works. The rest is whiny blogs, barbeque and beer. So what now?
Well part of that question is answered by the fact that Cragg and I were offered and agreed to a two year overall deal with ABC Studios. That means they pay us a lovely salary, give us an assistant and an office on the lot, and we give them dibs on anything we write as well as the right to assign us to any show they have on the air or in development (in fact we're "consulting producers" right now on a mid-season comedy called HAPPY ENDINGS). Basically we’re their willing slaves. But this is the “good” kind of slavery. The kind that many writers hope for and do not get a chance to achieve. And it’s a miracle really for two guys who, eighteen months ago, were virtually unknown. So yes, in the fantastically complicated logic of Hollywood, you can spend ten million dollars of their money making two failed pilots (one of them TWICE!) and instead of kicking you to the curb they give you a whole bunch more money to think up more pilots which, according to the lottery theory, will probably fail as well. So… there’s that.
But that’s just the mechanics of the business. The real answer to the question of what’s next for us lies in the same shabby place it always has: our brains, our noodles, our thinkin’ meat. At some point, whether it’s in a fancy office on the lot or, as has frequently been the case with me, on the shitter, we have to come up with a new idea and start this entire process over again. And that, my brothers and sisters, is the hard part. This difficulty is partially due to exhaustion (for more information on that please read my previous whiny blogs) and partially due to some reticence to jump back into this whole maddening system again. Hollywood is a massive meat grinder into which you jam good ideas and everyone’s best intentions and if you don’t like the sausage that oozes out the other side, well it’s hard to get excited about making more. But that’s the deal. And the willingness to do just that is what separates the men from the boys. Absorbing that truth is about the most important thing you can do. And I’m trying. I really am. But lately I’ve been thinking that I need to be more like my cat. Was that a horrible transition? You bet it was. But stay with me here!
You see my cat is obsessed. Our neighborhood is home to two or three scraggly “outdoor” cats who make their scraggly way here and there all day long. There is one skinny gray tiger striped kitty whose territory includes our yard. He (I think it’s a he) saunters by in intervals throughout the day like a bored soldier on patrol. And whenever he does, Chani (our fat gray tabby) runs to the sliding glass door in a state of keen alarm. As he passes, Chani will track his path, moving from window to window until he is out of her eyesight. This scenario plays itself out seven or eight times a day, but she never seems to tire of it or get used to it or get bored with it or get discouraged buy it. In fact, aside from eating and sleeping, this activity seems to be her sole focus. And to be honest, I envy her. She doesn’t care how many times she fails to make contact with the other cat. It doesn’t discourage her that her last attempt, the one she really thought was going to succeed, ended up just like the other two thousand puffy tailed, stand offs she’s had through that screen door. She is a machine. She is focused. She is driven. Granted, this is probably because she has a brain the size of a walnut, but I like her chutzpa just the same. And, I believe, she will have her scratchy brawl with the gray cat some day. And when that happens I hope her show goes to series and is a big hit… I mean, I hope the, uh, cat fight goes well… for her.
So there you go brothers and sisters, that’s the answer to what happens to you after your pilots shit the bed and you are left wondering why. You get sad, complain a lot, drink too much and then realize you have to be more like your cat. Except for the anus licking. She licks her anus a lot. Too much in my opinion.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Thursday, May 6, 2010
THE FINAL MIX
I’m here on an overnight flight from Kauai to Los Angeles. It’s 3:14am (LA Time) and everyone around me is sleeping. For whatever reason most of those people (save my lovely wife) are super old and when they sleep, their mouths hang open in a “not sure if they’re dead” kind of way. It’s chilling. And since I can’t sleep on planes, I get to witness this. Like the last living human man on the airplane of the damned. To stave off my horror, I thought I would try a little bloggy-poo.
I am returning from six beautiful days in Kauai where Audrey and I lived like Roman Gods. We threw everything on the floor. We ate whatever we wanted. We ordered drinks with stupid names and even stupider prices. I barely peed in a toilet all week, finding the pool at the Hyatt to be a perfectly acceptable place to relieve myself. It was heaven. And now the return home and the zombie flight and the having to use normal toilets again… it’s all so sad.
We went to Kauai because I looked at a calendar. And that calendar, which included all that I’ve been through in these last few months and all that I might begin to go through in the coming months (if we get a show ordered), revealed this time… this little chunk of time… when it might be okay for me to have vacation. The first real one that Audrey and I have ever taken in our entire time together. Does that seem crazy?
As I’ve mentioned before Audrey and I have had to work pretty hard over the years. Circumstances, a few bad decisions and a lack of a convenient trust fund or family money to bolster our accounts meant that we’ve both been working shitty jobs since we graduated college with our useless theatre degrees. I cooked in restaurants, Audrey managed a costume shop and we both worked at theme parks, did corporate entertainment and shitty little regional theatre plays to make ends meet. Basically, we didn’t start making any real money until the last five years when Audrey settled in at her job and I started writing for television. And during that time we had a number of other circumstances come up that precluded any real vacation time. Basically life happened… a lot… and HARD. So back to that calendar…
It was a couple of weeks ago and I was feeling pretty tired. The process on both pilots had nearly completed. HOW TO BE A BETTER AMERICAN had ended kind of sadly (that’s another blog) while THIS LITTLE PIGGY, its confident and smiling older brother, was shaping up nicely. The grind of casting, pre-production, writing and re-writing along with the near constant negotiation of network and studio politics had really taken its toll. So I called Audrey to ask for permission to spend money, something I’ve been doing since the first time I’d bounced a check way back in the early part of our relationship. But before I could begin to make my case she agreed. Quickly. Too quickly. The kind of quickly that often, in my experience, precedes a trick. But there was no trick. We had the cash and she too wanted a break. So quicker than I’ve ever spent a penny we booked ourselves an ocean front room and some airfare to a beautiful little island in the Tropic of Cancer. The only thing left was the final mix.
The final mix is the very last step before you turn in your pilot to the network. You go to a mix stage (in our case on the Warner Bros lot) and fix all the little sound things that have been bothering you for weeks. You make this actor’s slurred speech a little more intelligible and that actor’s weird non-lingual utterance disappear with the magic of digital editing equipment. It takes several hours to complete. Then the studio comes and watches the show and they have notes, the very last notes you’ll get on this thing that you’ve been working on so hard for so long, and then you feel sad. At least I did. Sad about the little things that just can’t be fixed. Sad about the shots you wish you’d had the presence of mind to get on the night. Sad that no one noticed that extra who was mouthing your leads dialogue in the party scene. But mostly you just get sad that it’s all over. You and your friend thought of this funny thing together. You wrote it down. Some people with money to throw down the toilet liked it. You went through a long and tricky process. You shot it and edited it and color corrected it and mixed it down and now you have to hand it in and just wait. Well having found myself in this position once before (after we completed the first version of Piggy last year), I wasn’t about to wait it out in Culver City.
The last six days in paradise have given me a lot of time to think. True, most of that thinking had to do with whether it’s gross to drink hard liquor before lunch ( it is… wonderfully gross) and whether I should put on the 50 sunscreen or just say fuck it and throw the 30 on and let the demon sun do it’s worst. But there were plenty of times that I just found myself staring at the ocean too. I mean really fucking staring at it… like a crazy man. It was the quietest I’d been in years and it was kind of strange. See I’m the kind of person who always needs to be using my brain. I read two or three books at a time. I see tons of movies and watch disgusting amounts of TV. And then I write. And then I hang out with friends or do chores. If I don’t have a magazine to read while I’m on the toilet, I will read the back of a shampoo bottle. This is the life of a man with full on ADD. So suddenly finding myself with nothing to do but sit on the balcony of that hotel room and watch the waves crash was sort of amazing. And terrifying.
I started thinking about where I’d been and how I’d arrived here. I thought about what I could have done better on the pilots and what we got just right. I thought about what it would be like if we got a series and what it would feel like if they finally said “No thanks”. In short I started getting kind of existential. Of course checking Nikki Finke’s heinous blog and watching my pilot’s fortunes get “hot” and “cold” and “hot” again wasn’t making things easy either. I’d come here to relax, but what I was doing was what I always do: getting worried. I am the kind of “funny person” whose insides are mostly alternating layers of self-loathing and doubt. Even my recent successes seem like trickery. Like God is just setting me up so he can REALLY screw with me. And let me tell you, if this is the kind of person you are, then waiting on judgment about your pilot is the perfect situation for you to really spiral out of control. I started seeing signs of my eminent failure everywhere. Here’s a great example…
One morning while we sat on a terrace eating some breakfast and watching the ocean, a crazed woman with binoculars came running at us babbling madness. I clenched the plastic fork I was using to pick the good fruit from the stuff I hate, thinking I might need to poke a bitch if she got too close. “Did you see it?! Did you see the whale?!!” Now living in LA, I have grown accustomed to the mentally ill bringing things to my attention that are clearly not there, so I didn’t exactly jump to my feet and scan the horizon for a fluke. But Audrey did (she’s more trusting… she might be part angel or something…. it’s kind of gross actually) and, sure enough, she saw that fluke. Saw it flapping about in the blue Hawaiian sea. But not me. NOT ME. I was so sad. I really wanted to see that fucking whale. I unclenched the fork and followed the lady to a pair of mounted binoculars that the hotel provides for children to look out at the passing boats and such. I squatted there scanning the water for a few moments but the whale never resurfaced. Just my luck I thought. And just another sign that NBC was NOT going to pick up my pilot. It’s obvious right? You can see the connection. Anyone can. I know, it’s crazy. I’m crazy. I can’t help it.
Later that day we were baking in the sun down by the pool and we noticed a crowd gathering down by the beach. We assumed the whale was back and dashed down to the shore get a look. I was stoked. Here was my second chance to see some serious nature AND assure my continuing career as a television writer. What we found instead was a hotel employee driving a tiny tractor on the sand. There was a chain attached to the tractor and that chain was attached to a decaying carcass of… yep… a whale. Not our friend from the morning, but some old, tired whale who’d probably departed at sea weeks ago and washed up (inconveniently) on the Hyatt’s little beach. They were dragging the thing, now just chunks of meat, across the sand to a hole they’d dug where they intended to bury it. Meanwhile, a huge fat woman in a muumuu stood by mumbling some kind of prayer in Hawaiian. It was crazy and sad and hilarious and kind of great all at the same time.
Now, normally I would have taken this as further confirmation of my less than fortunate status. As a sign that I was, once again, going to be close but not get the cigar. But for some reason, maybe the pre-noon cocktails or the trade winds and sunshine, but this whole thing just started to make me laugh. Instead of spiraling further, I suddenly felt better. Because it occurred to me that it’s all a joke. There are no signs. There are no omens. It is what it is. It’s all just stuff happening to you and because of you and in spite of you. Sometimes you get the majesty of a live whale in all its glory and sometimes you get part of a spine and some gnawed on bits of blubber with a fat lady praying over it. Either way it’s kind of great. And either way you’re alive and stomping ground and things could be so much worse. Then we sauntered back to the pool and I ordered a Mai Tai. At 11:23am.
I am returning from six beautiful days in Kauai where Audrey and I lived like Roman Gods. We threw everything on the floor. We ate whatever we wanted. We ordered drinks with stupid names and even stupider prices. I barely peed in a toilet all week, finding the pool at the Hyatt to be a perfectly acceptable place to relieve myself. It was heaven. And now the return home and the zombie flight and the having to use normal toilets again… it’s all so sad.
We went to Kauai because I looked at a calendar. And that calendar, which included all that I’ve been through in these last few months and all that I might begin to go through in the coming months (if we get a show ordered), revealed this time… this little chunk of time… when it might be okay for me to have vacation. The first real one that Audrey and I have ever taken in our entire time together. Does that seem crazy?
As I’ve mentioned before Audrey and I have had to work pretty hard over the years. Circumstances, a few bad decisions and a lack of a convenient trust fund or family money to bolster our accounts meant that we’ve both been working shitty jobs since we graduated college with our useless theatre degrees. I cooked in restaurants, Audrey managed a costume shop and we both worked at theme parks, did corporate entertainment and shitty little regional theatre plays to make ends meet. Basically, we didn’t start making any real money until the last five years when Audrey settled in at her job and I started writing for television. And during that time we had a number of other circumstances come up that precluded any real vacation time. Basically life happened… a lot… and HARD. So back to that calendar…
It was a couple of weeks ago and I was feeling pretty tired. The process on both pilots had nearly completed. HOW TO BE A BETTER AMERICAN had ended kind of sadly (that’s another blog) while THIS LITTLE PIGGY, its confident and smiling older brother, was shaping up nicely. The grind of casting, pre-production, writing and re-writing along with the near constant negotiation of network and studio politics had really taken its toll. So I called Audrey to ask for permission to spend money, something I’ve been doing since the first time I’d bounced a check way back in the early part of our relationship. But before I could begin to make my case she agreed. Quickly. Too quickly. The kind of quickly that often, in my experience, precedes a trick. But there was no trick. We had the cash and she too wanted a break. So quicker than I’ve ever spent a penny we booked ourselves an ocean front room and some airfare to a beautiful little island in the Tropic of Cancer. The only thing left was the final mix.
The final mix is the very last step before you turn in your pilot to the network. You go to a mix stage (in our case on the Warner Bros lot) and fix all the little sound things that have been bothering you for weeks. You make this actor’s slurred speech a little more intelligible and that actor’s weird non-lingual utterance disappear with the magic of digital editing equipment. It takes several hours to complete. Then the studio comes and watches the show and they have notes, the very last notes you’ll get on this thing that you’ve been working on so hard for so long, and then you feel sad. At least I did. Sad about the little things that just can’t be fixed. Sad about the shots you wish you’d had the presence of mind to get on the night. Sad that no one noticed that extra who was mouthing your leads dialogue in the party scene. But mostly you just get sad that it’s all over. You and your friend thought of this funny thing together. You wrote it down. Some people with money to throw down the toilet liked it. You went through a long and tricky process. You shot it and edited it and color corrected it and mixed it down and now you have to hand it in and just wait. Well having found myself in this position once before (after we completed the first version of Piggy last year), I wasn’t about to wait it out in Culver City.
The last six days in paradise have given me a lot of time to think. True, most of that thinking had to do with whether it’s gross to drink hard liquor before lunch ( it is… wonderfully gross) and whether I should put on the 50 sunscreen or just say fuck it and throw the 30 on and let the demon sun do it’s worst. But there were plenty of times that I just found myself staring at the ocean too. I mean really fucking staring at it… like a crazy man. It was the quietest I’d been in years and it was kind of strange. See I’m the kind of person who always needs to be using my brain. I read two or three books at a time. I see tons of movies and watch disgusting amounts of TV. And then I write. And then I hang out with friends or do chores. If I don’t have a magazine to read while I’m on the toilet, I will read the back of a shampoo bottle. This is the life of a man with full on ADD. So suddenly finding myself with nothing to do but sit on the balcony of that hotel room and watch the waves crash was sort of amazing. And terrifying.
I started thinking about where I’d been and how I’d arrived here. I thought about what I could have done better on the pilots and what we got just right. I thought about what it would be like if we got a series and what it would feel like if they finally said “No thanks”. In short I started getting kind of existential. Of course checking Nikki Finke’s heinous blog and watching my pilot’s fortunes get “hot” and “cold” and “hot” again wasn’t making things easy either. I’d come here to relax, but what I was doing was what I always do: getting worried. I am the kind of “funny person” whose insides are mostly alternating layers of self-loathing and doubt. Even my recent successes seem like trickery. Like God is just setting me up so he can REALLY screw with me. And let me tell you, if this is the kind of person you are, then waiting on judgment about your pilot is the perfect situation for you to really spiral out of control. I started seeing signs of my eminent failure everywhere. Here’s a great example…
One morning while we sat on a terrace eating some breakfast and watching the ocean, a crazed woman with binoculars came running at us babbling madness. I clenched the plastic fork I was using to pick the good fruit from the stuff I hate, thinking I might need to poke a bitch if she got too close. “Did you see it?! Did you see the whale?!!” Now living in LA, I have grown accustomed to the mentally ill bringing things to my attention that are clearly not there, so I didn’t exactly jump to my feet and scan the horizon for a fluke. But Audrey did (she’s more trusting… she might be part angel or something…. it’s kind of gross actually) and, sure enough, she saw that fluke. Saw it flapping about in the blue Hawaiian sea. But not me. NOT ME. I was so sad. I really wanted to see that fucking whale. I unclenched the fork and followed the lady to a pair of mounted binoculars that the hotel provides for children to look out at the passing boats and such. I squatted there scanning the water for a few moments but the whale never resurfaced. Just my luck I thought. And just another sign that NBC was NOT going to pick up my pilot. It’s obvious right? You can see the connection. Anyone can. I know, it’s crazy. I’m crazy. I can’t help it.
Later that day we were baking in the sun down by the pool and we noticed a crowd gathering down by the beach. We assumed the whale was back and dashed down to the shore get a look. I was stoked. Here was my second chance to see some serious nature AND assure my continuing career as a television writer. What we found instead was a hotel employee driving a tiny tractor on the sand. There was a chain attached to the tractor and that chain was attached to a decaying carcass of… yep… a whale. Not our friend from the morning, but some old, tired whale who’d probably departed at sea weeks ago and washed up (inconveniently) on the Hyatt’s little beach. They were dragging the thing, now just chunks of meat, across the sand to a hole they’d dug where they intended to bury it. Meanwhile, a huge fat woman in a muumuu stood by mumbling some kind of prayer in Hawaiian. It was crazy and sad and hilarious and kind of great all at the same time.
Now, normally I would have taken this as further confirmation of my less than fortunate status. As a sign that I was, once again, going to be close but not get the cigar. But for some reason, maybe the pre-noon cocktails or the trade winds and sunshine, but this whole thing just started to make me laugh. Instead of spiraling further, I suddenly felt better. Because it occurred to me that it’s all a joke. There are no signs. There are no omens. It is what it is. It’s all just stuff happening to you and because of you and in spite of you. Sometimes you get the majesty of a live whale in all its glory and sometimes you get part of a spine and some gnawed on bits of blubber with a fat lady praying over it. Either way it’s kind of great. And either way you’re alive and stomping ground and things could be so much worse. Then we sauntered back to the pool and I ordered a Mai Tai. At 11:23am.
Monday, April 19, 2010
This Day Off...
Okay, let's clear the air here. I haven't exactly lived up to my promise of blogging about the good, bad and the ugly of going through pilot season. I haven't even blogged about the "okay" or the "sort of attractive". I just haven't blogged at all. So, to all the lovely people who've sent me messages wondering when I might throw together a new entry, I'm sorry for the delay. I have, in fact, been busy. But I have a day off today... sort of... and a few hours ago, while I lay on the couch watching ESPN, my lovely wife sent me a gentle text: "u should write a blog today". I have to do the things she says. That's kind of our deal. So here you go suckers.
HOW TO BE A BETTER AMERICAN has been finished for some time now and we shot THIS LITTLE PIGGY exactly a week ago. After a week of editing, studio notes, audience testing and more editing we turned our first network cut of that show into NBC last night. Notes will be tonight at around 7pm and then it's right back into the fray. So while we wait for their damning judgment I am sitting at home, still in my pajamas at 2pm, and contemplating (and rejecting) all the important stuff I should probably be doing to catch up with my life. And I do have a whole bunch of ideas for blogs (casting, the post process, agents trying to poach, being the boss, etc), but I'm not gonna write any of them right now. I just can't.
Just looked out my window in time to see a forty-five year old mentally disabled man shout out with glee, "THIS IS FUN!" There is a center for adult care right next to where we live here in Culver City and we frequently see groups of folks from there, along with their care takers, strolling by. They all seem so happy, shuffling along, laughing and picking flowers from our rose bush. I gotta say, I sort of envy them. I'm not saying I'd like to be mentally disabled, but what I've been up to lately doesn't exactly seem like the actions of a man in full control of his faculties either. And picking flowers on a sunny day sure as hell beats sitting in a darkened editing room trying hard not to let your jokes get less and less funny as you trim around them. Plus I think they do a lot of singing and puzzles over there, and I like both of those things, so...
Actually, we've been doing a fair bit of puzzle solving ourselves lately. In fact, I would say that most of what you do as a writer/producer in TV is about solving puzzles. Half hour comedy actually means about twenty-one minutes of content. The other nine minutes belongs to Nike and Ford and Progressive Insurance. Our task, then, is to try and tell a satisfying story in three or four acts, with tons of laughs that, ideally, doesn't offend, polarize, alienate or enrage the many, MANY easily offended viewers sitting at home. Also included in that task is the caveat that we must avoid law suits for the network. That means we need to "clear" everything through broadcast standards and sales. And that means we must avoid product names, references to pop culture, "bad" language and anything at all that might cause some mouth breather to call a lawyer. And all of this would be a paralyzing morass if you didn't have to do everything so goddamned fast. The momentum of the entire thing is very often the only thing that saves you. There are fifteen different deadlines to consider and, no, you can't have more time.
Of course, I get it, that's the job. No one makes a secret of it or tries to advertise it as something that it's not. Doesn't matter the hurdles in your path, your job is be successful. So you get up in the morning, contemplate calling in sick, then remember that you're the boss now and that those days are over. Then you shit, shower and shave and get back into the game. But I have to admit that sometimes I wish I was a dude with a 78 IQ and an agenda that included pudding and coloring. And yeah, on my day off, I really don't want to fold laundry or go to the grocery store or return those shirts that don't fit because I'm a fat ass whose been living on peanut m&m's and red wine. Instead I want to kill zombies on the xbox and watch the same hour of Sports Center over and over again. I don't want to make any decisions today. Like, for instance, what to write about in a blog. And I really don't feel guilty about this. Here's why...
I once heard Mike Nichols talk about his process. He's known as kind of a hard working dude. When he directs a film or a play everyone knows that rehearsals can sometimes last well into the night. And working straight through weekends is not unusual. And while he acknowledged that there is some truth to this reputation, he also said there was a huge part of his process that had not been described. And that part is rest. Doing nothing. Listening to music. Watching TV. He said that these things were as integral to what he does as the long hours and intensity. Because, very often, after you've run into a brick wall on a problem, the only way to solve it is to just stop thinking about it. And then, after you've slept for twelve hours or napped in the afternoon or walked around a book store or watched three episodes of "The Pacific" in a row, the answer comes fully formed into your head like it's always been there. Suddenly the line comes or the bit of action you need or the edit that will solve your time problem. And if Mike Nichols, the creator of "The Graduate" and a hundred works of art I won't ever come close to, can justify an afternoon of watching his cat sleep, so can I. Fuck it. Why not?
I've got two pilots in the can. And there's a lot more shit to come before it's over. I'm pretty proud of all of that. I'll be a better blogger tomorrow. Until then I'm gonna peel a clementine and sit on the porch. Suck it internet!
All My Considerable Love,
b
HOW TO BE A BETTER AMERICAN has been finished for some time now and we shot THIS LITTLE PIGGY exactly a week ago. After a week of editing, studio notes, audience testing and more editing we turned our first network cut of that show into NBC last night. Notes will be tonight at around 7pm and then it's right back into the fray. So while we wait for their damning judgment I am sitting at home, still in my pajamas at 2pm, and contemplating (and rejecting) all the important stuff I should probably be doing to catch up with my life. And I do have a whole bunch of ideas for blogs (casting, the post process, agents trying to poach, being the boss, etc), but I'm not gonna write any of them right now. I just can't.
Just looked out my window in time to see a forty-five year old mentally disabled man shout out with glee, "THIS IS FUN!" There is a center for adult care right next to where we live here in Culver City and we frequently see groups of folks from there, along with their care takers, strolling by. They all seem so happy, shuffling along, laughing and picking flowers from our rose bush. I gotta say, I sort of envy them. I'm not saying I'd like to be mentally disabled, but what I've been up to lately doesn't exactly seem like the actions of a man in full control of his faculties either. And picking flowers on a sunny day sure as hell beats sitting in a darkened editing room trying hard not to let your jokes get less and less funny as you trim around them. Plus I think they do a lot of singing and puzzles over there, and I like both of those things, so...
Actually, we've been doing a fair bit of puzzle solving ourselves lately. In fact, I would say that most of what you do as a writer/producer in TV is about solving puzzles. Half hour comedy actually means about twenty-one minutes of content. The other nine minutes belongs to Nike and Ford and Progressive Insurance. Our task, then, is to try and tell a satisfying story in three or four acts, with tons of laughs that, ideally, doesn't offend, polarize, alienate or enrage the many, MANY easily offended viewers sitting at home. Also included in that task is the caveat that we must avoid law suits for the network. That means we need to "clear" everything through broadcast standards and sales. And that means we must avoid product names, references to pop culture, "bad" language and anything at all that might cause some mouth breather to call a lawyer. And all of this would be a paralyzing morass if you didn't have to do everything so goddamned fast. The momentum of the entire thing is very often the only thing that saves you. There are fifteen different deadlines to consider and, no, you can't have more time.
Of course, I get it, that's the job. No one makes a secret of it or tries to advertise it as something that it's not. Doesn't matter the hurdles in your path, your job is be successful. So you get up in the morning, contemplate calling in sick, then remember that you're the boss now and that those days are over. Then you shit, shower and shave and get back into the game. But I have to admit that sometimes I wish I was a dude with a 78 IQ and an agenda that included pudding and coloring. And yeah, on my day off, I really don't want to fold laundry or go to the grocery store or return those shirts that don't fit because I'm a fat ass whose been living on peanut m&m's and red wine. Instead I want to kill zombies on the xbox and watch the same hour of Sports Center over and over again. I don't want to make any decisions today. Like, for instance, what to write about in a blog. And I really don't feel guilty about this. Here's why...
I once heard Mike Nichols talk about his process. He's known as kind of a hard working dude. When he directs a film or a play everyone knows that rehearsals can sometimes last well into the night. And working straight through weekends is not unusual. And while he acknowledged that there is some truth to this reputation, he also said there was a huge part of his process that had not been described. And that part is rest. Doing nothing. Listening to music. Watching TV. He said that these things were as integral to what he does as the long hours and intensity. Because, very often, after you've run into a brick wall on a problem, the only way to solve it is to just stop thinking about it. And then, after you've slept for twelve hours or napped in the afternoon or walked around a book store or watched three episodes of "The Pacific" in a row, the answer comes fully formed into your head like it's always been there. Suddenly the line comes or the bit of action you need or the edit that will solve your time problem. And if Mike Nichols, the creator of "The Graduate" and a hundred works of art I won't ever come close to, can justify an afternoon of watching his cat sleep, so can I. Fuck it. Why not?
I've got two pilots in the can. And there's a lot more shit to come before it's over. I'm pretty proud of all of that. I'll be a better blogger tomorrow. Until then I'm gonna peel a clementine and sit on the porch. Suck it internet!
All My Considerable Love,
b
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Screen Tests and Spectaculars
NOTE: This blog was written over a week ago. I'm lazy. The actor discussed in it is Jason Jones, from The Daily Show. He's the lead of one of our pilots now and we're stoked!
As always... typos... grammar.... terrible writing.
Enjoy!
b
Sitting here in a hotel room in
I’m in
Yikes, that was dark! Not sure where that came from. But perhaps it’s indicative of how I feel about the business of show right now. Of course I don’t mind coming to
Now before you start judging me for being spoiled or, if you’re a member of the ABC or NBC comedy development teams, start doubting that I can handle the responsibility of it all… let me explain. I’m good to go. I come from hard working people. Judging from my build and genetics, I think it’s fair to say that my Scots-Irish ancestors were manual laborers from way back. No kings or chieftains in the Bradley clan. I’m willing to bet my people were peat digging, bog striders with lots of hair on their backs who died with shovels in their hands. My point is I will work until I fall over. But Steven and I have been going non-stop since November of 2008. We re-wrote the first PIGGY script, did the pilot, went on the SCRUBS staff, wrote two eps of a show for IFC, re-wrote PIGGY for ABC and then NBC and then wrote and re-wrote BETTER AMERICAN. It truly has been an amazing run. But don’t kid yourself my friends, getting to do the thing you’ve always wanted is hard mother fucking work. And, to be honest, some days you feel it more than others.
And that’s kind of how I was feeling when the plane touched down at JFK. That long plane ride, and a lot of free wine, makes a man think. At 38 I’m not exactly an over night success. Audrey and I have worked so hard, and have gone through so much drama to get to this place. We spent a lot of years working crazy jobs, shitty jobs and sometimes, no jobs at all. We just kept plugging away. We kept our minds and hearts bent toward our goals. And it wasn’t really until 2005, and MADtv, that things started to ease up at all. Of course, it hasn’t been all gloom and doom. I mean we were doing it together. We had the pleasure of each others company and if you know Audrey Kearns, you know that’s some pretty great company. We’ve been involved in one single, hilarious, sad, wonderful, fucked up and perfect conversation for sixteen years. And that truly has sustained us.
But the main thing on my mind as I floated down the escalator to baggage claim, was this screen test. In three short weeks of casting we’d already been through the ringer. Three separate dalliances with three separate “BIG NAME” celebrities had left us feeling like Lindsay Lohan after her tenth vodka and Red Bull: a little haggard and questioning our choices. On the up side we’d been able to re-visit the idea of an actor that we’d been excited about since the beginning. A little less known (at least on network TV) and a little less famous (because of not doing network TV) he was, none the less, hilarious and, to our minds anyway, perfect for the role. Anyway, after a whole bunch of maneuvering we’d finally gotten permission to head to
I met the guy from the car service in baggage claim and we both stepped out into the chilly east coast night. I could see patches of filthy, filthy snow clinging stubbornly to the ground all around and I pulled my “
As we started the drive in to
I looked up from the cell phone I’d been pretending to check messages on and found his blue eyes centered perfectly in the rear view mirror. “Excuse me”, I said. “This. I am not this. I am not driver. This I do for money. But this is not who I am.” I’ve been an actor for a long time now and I knew my cue, so I said, “Oh. Well what is it that you do?” His eyes lit up and I could see that he was going to tell me all about it. He told me he was a theatre director and that back in
For the next thirty minutes he told me how he’d come to
He was talking non-stop now. And even though the accent and the rapid subject changes (ranging from the greatness of the Lithuanian language to Eugene O’Neil to the crimes of Josef Stalin) made it difficult to follow, I was thoroughly enjoying the conversation. And he was positively beaming. I think that’s why I didn’t mind when he clearly drove past my hotel and around the block two more times before dropping me off. I didn’t mind because I’ve been there. I’ve had my hands in a sink full of dish water in the back of a café at
When we pulled up to the hotel I got out and awkwardly grabbed my own bag out of the trunk. Then I tipped the guy with a twenty, shook his hand and watched him drive off with all of my exhaustion, self-pity and fear trailing behind him. I was hoping for him to get everything he ever wanted. I didn't know him at all (he might have been a serial killer or a con man) but for some reason I had a feeling he deserved good things. Then I checked in to my classy hotel, ate a little dinner and walked up to Rockefeller center with some cash in my pocket, an appointment on the books to do what I was born to do and a fucking smile on my face.
Spectacular.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Job Fair
It takes a village to raise a pilot. And when I say village I mean that the "How to Be A Better American"/"This Little Piggy" operation is starting to look like a compound. Two buildings and a dozen offices. Lots of hard working and earnest looking people coming and going. Some of them pacing around each other in a parking lot, repeating a script to themselves as if their lives depended on it. All we're missing is an apocalyptic religious vision and five crates of automatic weapons. Perhaps we're not ready to get into a stand off with the FBI just yet, but there are moments when I could see myself instructing Andrew, our office PA, to put down the Trader Joe's bags, hand me the peanut M&M's and ready himself to, "smite our enemies with the fifty cal we mounted near the post production offices."
Okay, that went into a weird place. I apologize. Here's the real blog...
I once described my life as an actor/writer as a long series of slightly desperate job interviews with some spec work in between to break up the monotony. And I was reminded of the truth of that statement this week. Because this was a week of hiring (or rejecting) lots of people. Dozens of aspiring PA's, creative folks, designers, actors and accountants all passed through our door. And their earnest and hopeful faces are burned into my thinking meat. Some left happy and relieved and others left with that "fuck... what did I do wrong?" look on their mugs. But that's the name of the game I suppose. And while this particular aspect of producing can be either joyful or sad, it's never boring.
Quick example (and this actually took place last week). We had one gentleman come into interview with us for a very important position. I won't say what the position was, but I will say this: many jobs on a television show do not require you to enjoy the material being presented. It's not absolutely necessary for the grip, camera operator, transportation guy or the lady that makes those rad cookies for the the crafty table to be super invested in the story. But it's kind of a basic requirement for the job that this turd was vying for. If we hired him we would be working every day with him on the most intimate and important details of the project. So there was a part of me (and not even a desperate, needy part) that wanted him to open with something like, "Great script guys. It's really funny." Instead this man flopped on the couch in my office and proceeded to make snarky comments about the state of comedy, TV execs and humanity in general. He rambled on with the bitterness of a bored college professor who is still kicking himself for taking that first teaching gig instead of staying in Paris with that hot waitress and finishing his novel. It was an amazing thing to behold. He clearly didn't want to be in the room with us, or possibly, to be working in television at all. And of course, in observance of my personal policy of needing to be liked by EVERYONE, the more horrible the interview became, the more I seemed to prolong it.
Now in polar opposition to this miserable man is every single actor in Hollywood. They don't flop on couches and look bored. They look ridiculously eager, and in some cases, straight up crazy. They don't just want this job, they want every acting job available. And your job. And to be loved. And to prove things to doubting family members back home. This, of course, can manifest itself in some pretty weird behavior. Some enter like they were shot out of a cannon after smoking a ton of meth. Anxious and tweaky, they come at you so hard that you start readying yourself for a physical fight. And then there are those that arrive in a hurry and unprepared. They march through the audition with all the passion of a 43 year old truck stop prostitute plying her trade in a sleeper cab. And still others just seem angry. One man spent five minutes telling us how the previous actor (a well known guy) had "taken" every role from him for last five years. He read the audition piece very, VERY sadly and then walked out mumbling to himself.
But these are the exceptions. Most people we interview are highly qualified and excited to work. And 97.45% of the actors that audition are amazingly talented. It's actually very encouraging. And as far as I can tell, the thing that makes the difference in whether we hire, reject, call back or dismiss someone has nothing to do with talent. Instead it is usually some aspect or essence in the person that just sets them apart. You can look at resumes all day, but ultimately it comes down to the "right" person walking in the door. It's a kind of magic that can't really be quantified but it's critical. Because, all other things being equal, I need to be able to see myself working with this person for months... and in success... years. In short, we need to click in some way. It's not something an actor can prepare for or "do better". It just is. And though that might seem a little capricious (or even unfair), it should really be a balm to all those folks auditioning or interviewing. After all this whole fucking thing is basically just one big crap shoot.
That being said, it wouldn't kill some of you to put on deodorant. Or, conversely, to take it easy on the very, VERY powerful perfume you're wearing. Don't be an hour late. Don't insult the script. And try to make a little eye contact. Also, don't be someone who was a huge douche bag to me two years ago and then pretend, awkwardly, that we are pals. That's kind of turns my stomach. Anyway, those are just some tips.
As always, the previous blog is full of typos and mistakes.
Also... I love you.
Okay, that went into a weird place. I apologize. Here's the real blog...
I once described my life as an actor/writer as a long series of slightly desperate job interviews with some spec work in between to break up the monotony. And I was reminded of the truth of that statement this week. Because this was a week of hiring (or rejecting) lots of people. Dozens of aspiring PA's, creative folks, designers, actors and accountants all passed through our door. And their earnest and hopeful faces are burned into my thinking meat. Some left happy and relieved and others left with that "fuck... what did I do wrong?" look on their mugs. But that's the name of the game I suppose. And while this particular aspect of producing can be either joyful or sad, it's never boring.
Quick example (and this actually took place last week). We had one gentleman come into interview with us for a very important position. I won't say what the position was, but I will say this: many jobs on a television show do not require you to enjoy the material being presented. It's not absolutely necessary for the grip, camera operator, transportation guy or the lady that makes those rad cookies for the the crafty table to be super invested in the story. But it's kind of a basic requirement for the job that this turd was vying for. If we hired him we would be working every day with him on the most intimate and important details of the project. So there was a part of me (and not even a desperate, needy part) that wanted him to open with something like, "Great script guys. It's really funny." Instead this man flopped on the couch in my office and proceeded to make snarky comments about the state of comedy, TV execs and humanity in general. He rambled on with the bitterness of a bored college professor who is still kicking himself for taking that first teaching gig instead of staying in Paris with that hot waitress and finishing his novel. It was an amazing thing to behold. He clearly didn't want to be in the room with us, or possibly, to be working in television at all. And of course, in observance of my personal policy of needing to be liked by EVERYONE, the more horrible the interview became, the more I seemed to prolong it.
Now in polar opposition to this miserable man is every single actor in Hollywood. They don't flop on couches and look bored. They look ridiculously eager, and in some cases, straight up crazy. They don't just want this job, they want every acting job available. And your job. And to be loved. And to prove things to doubting family members back home. This, of course, can manifest itself in some pretty weird behavior. Some enter like they were shot out of a cannon after smoking a ton of meth. Anxious and tweaky, they come at you so hard that you start readying yourself for a physical fight. And then there are those that arrive in a hurry and unprepared. They march through the audition with all the passion of a 43 year old truck stop prostitute plying her trade in a sleeper cab. And still others just seem angry. One man spent five minutes telling us how the previous actor (a well known guy) had "taken" every role from him for last five years. He read the audition piece very, VERY sadly and then walked out mumbling to himself.
But these are the exceptions. Most people we interview are highly qualified and excited to work. And 97.45% of the actors that audition are amazingly talented. It's actually very encouraging. And as far as I can tell, the thing that makes the difference in whether we hire, reject, call back or dismiss someone has nothing to do with talent. Instead it is usually some aspect or essence in the person that just sets them apart. You can look at resumes all day, but ultimately it comes down to the "right" person walking in the door. It's a kind of magic that can't really be quantified but it's critical. Because, all other things being equal, I need to be able to see myself working with this person for months... and in success... years. In short, we need to click in some way. It's not something an actor can prepare for or "do better". It just is. And though that might seem a little capricious (or even unfair), it should really be a balm to all those folks auditioning or interviewing. After all this whole fucking thing is basically just one big crap shoot.
That being said, it wouldn't kill some of you to put on deodorant. Or, conversely, to take it easy on the very, VERY powerful perfume you're wearing. Don't be an hour late. Don't insult the script. And try to make a little eye contact. Also, don't be someone who was a huge douche bag to me two years ago and then pretend, awkwardly, that we are pals. That's kind of turns my stomach. Anyway, those are just some tips.
As always, the previous blog is full of typos and mistakes.
Also... I love you.
Friday, February 5, 2010
THE PROCESS
Friday, February 5, 2010
It's 5:22am. 5-fucking-22am! Can't sleep. Instead I am wide awake and wondering if the CELEBRITY FILM STAR we made an offer to yesterday is really the best choice for our lead. There are half a dozen reasons why I think he's not. So why am I hoping and praying that he reads our script and accepts our offer? That, my friends, is the strange math of pilot season.
Someone commented on the scant bloggery that I've already posted, saying how excited they were that I might be "demystifying" the pilot process. But I have to say, after only a week in the trenches, the notion that I am going to be able to untangle the knobby, chunky, clusterfuck of making a television pilot is kind of hilarious to me. I mean sweet Jeebus, even that last sentence contained a mixed metaphor. It started out in the "trenches" of a war and then wandered into untying "knobby knots". What does that even mean? Is pilot season like being a World War I soldier, sitting in a fetid, blood drowned trench in the middle of battle, desperately trying, for some reason, to untie a very, very badly knotted length of rope? Well, actually, that's not bad. I mean it's not great. But I think it actually goes a fair distance toward describing how it feels some times.
Though that description might be just the tiniest bit dramatic (it's very early), there are a lot of moving parts (metaphor) involved. A lot of considerations to consider. A lot of angles to be calculated (metaphor). And everyone... I MEAN EVERYONE... has an opinion about what you should do. Uh, oh... this is the part of the screed where I tell you how idiotic TV execs are. Get ready for a hard core evisceration of the empty headed turds that run the television industry. Nope. Not happening.
I'm going to do something BOLD here and admit that I think a lot of television executives are pretty darned smart. The vast majority of them are very good at their jobs and have a lot to contribute to the process. The problem isn't their intelligence. The problem is the sheer NUMBER of them. There are so many people allowed to contribute to the process, and all of them want...no... NEED to be heard. And each of these myriad people have a theory as to the best way to proceed. And each of those theories sounds more reasonable than the last. They all have a good point. Well, not all. That's just crazy. But a surprising number of the people involved have an excellent point to make. And seemingly all of those people leave messages with our assistant (yes we have one... his name is Jeff) asking us "to return" as soon as possible so that they can avail us of their excellent idea. Now add to this the brutal fact that any one of these people can, at any moment, get their feelings hurt and throw a wrench into the works (metaphor) and very quickly one can see that, in this environment, making anything resembling a funny half hour of television can be, well, tricky.
It's no wonder that they refer to this whole bunch of shenanigans as a "PROCESS". That is not a very fun word. Think about it for a moment. What else has a process? Making plastic golf tees has a process. Extruding and shaping chicken McNuggets has a process. Paying your taxes, getting divorced, selling a car and anything to do with the legal system are all about process. Your script and best wishes go in one side of this thing and a comedy show come out the other. And what happens in between? (SHIVER)
And here's the sickest part of it: I LOVE IT. I mean I don't LOVE it like I love my daughter or my wife or scallops. But I kind of dig being a part of it. It's never boring and it's better than dancing with old ladies at a retirement home (which I did). And it pays nicely. I haven't been in this very long, but a strategy for dealing with this whirlwind (metaphor) is starting to take shape. The key, it seems, is to keep listening to your gut. It's pretty clear when something feels right or, conversely, when it feels really WRONG. And when your gut is telling you that the thing you're being asked to do or change is incorrect, you have to stand up for yourself. You have to push back. You have to, politely and with respect, defend your show. At least until it becomes very clear that standing up for yourself is a pointless bit of masturbation which will only leave your career in a crumpled heap (metaphor). At that point, the best you can do, is put your head between your knees, exhale and submit yourself to THE PROCESS.
Actual Progress This Week:
2 directors, 2 line producers, 2 casting directors, 1 assistant, 1 PA hired.
Offers out to a lead for "How To Be Better American"
Test deals set up for several actors on "This Little Piggy"
And there's still all of Friday to go. Not too shabby.
PS
This thing is probably lousy with typos and stuff. But you get the point.
It's 5:22am. 5-fucking-22am! Can't sleep. Instead I am wide awake and wondering if the CELEBRITY FILM STAR we made an offer to yesterday is really the best choice for our lead. There are half a dozen reasons why I think he's not. So why am I hoping and praying that he reads our script and accepts our offer? That, my friends, is the strange math of pilot season.
Someone commented on the scant bloggery that I've already posted, saying how excited they were that I might be "demystifying" the pilot process. But I have to say, after only a week in the trenches, the notion that I am going to be able to untangle the knobby, chunky, clusterfuck of making a television pilot is kind of hilarious to me. I mean sweet Jeebus, even that last sentence contained a mixed metaphor. It started out in the "trenches" of a war and then wandered into untying "knobby knots". What does that even mean? Is pilot season like being a World War I soldier, sitting in a fetid, blood drowned trench in the middle of battle, desperately trying, for some reason, to untie a very, very badly knotted length of rope? Well, actually, that's not bad. I mean it's not great. But I think it actually goes a fair distance toward describing how it feels some times.
Though that description might be just the tiniest bit dramatic (it's very early), there are a lot of moving parts (metaphor) involved. A lot of considerations to consider. A lot of angles to be calculated (metaphor). And everyone... I MEAN EVERYONE... has an opinion about what you should do. Uh, oh... this is the part of the screed where I tell you how idiotic TV execs are. Get ready for a hard core evisceration of the empty headed turds that run the television industry. Nope. Not happening.
I'm going to do something BOLD here and admit that I think a lot of television executives are pretty darned smart. The vast majority of them are very good at their jobs and have a lot to contribute to the process. The problem isn't their intelligence. The problem is the sheer NUMBER of them. There are so many people allowed to contribute to the process, and all of them want...no... NEED to be heard. And each of these myriad people have a theory as to the best way to proceed. And each of those theories sounds more reasonable than the last. They all have a good point. Well, not all. That's just crazy. But a surprising number of the people involved have an excellent point to make. And seemingly all of those people leave messages with our assistant (yes we have one... his name is Jeff) asking us "to return" as soon as possible so that they can avail us of their excellent idea. Now add to this the brutal fact that any one of these people can, at any moment, get their feelings hurt and throw a wrench into the works (metaphor) and very quickly one can see that, in this environment, making anything resembling a funny half hour of television can be, well, tricky.
It's no wonder that they refer to this whole bunch of shenanigans as a "PROCESS". That is not a very fun word. Think about it for a moment. What else has a process? Making plastic golf tees has a process. Extruding and shaping chicken McNuggets has a process. Paying your taxes, getting divorced, selling a car and anything to do with the legal system are all about process. Your script and best wishes go in one side of this thing and a comedy show come out the other. And what happens in between? (SHIVER)
And here's the sickest part of it: I LOVE IT. I mean I don't LOVE it like I love my daughter or my wife or scallops. But I kind of dig being a part of it. It's never boring and it's better than dancing with old ladies at a retirement home (which I did). And it pays nicely. I haven't been in this very long, but a strategy for dealing with this whirlwind (metaphor) is starting to take shape. The key, it seems, is to keep listening to your gut. It's pretty clear when something feels right or, conversely, when it feels really WRONG. And when your gut is telling you that the thing you're being asked to do or change is incorrect, you have to stand up for yourself. You have to push back. You have to, politely and with respect, defend your show. At least until it becomes very clear that standing up for yourself is a pointless bit of masturbation which will only leave your career in a crumpled heap (metaphor). At that point, the best you can do, is put your head between your knees, exhale and submit yourself to THE PROCESS.
Actual Progress This Week:
2 directors, 2 line producers, 2 casting directors, 1 assistant, 1 PA hired.
Offers out to a lead for "How To Be Better American"
Test deals set up for several actors on "This Little Piggy"
And there's still all of Friday to go. Not too shabby.
PS
This thing is probably lousy with typos and stuff. But you get the point.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
PANIC!!!
Sunday, January 31, 2010
This little missive is being typed up on the balcony of our room at the Hotel Del Coronado in San Diego. For those who don't know (or give a shit) this hotel is kind of famous. A lot of luminaries have shacked up here over the years, ranging from Charles Lindbergh to Madonna, blah, blah, blah. And it's expensive. Too expensive for the likes of Audrey and I. We should not be here. We are not rich. And we are neither the Prince of Wales nor Reese Witherspoon. Which brings me to the subject of this blog: panic. Let me explain.
So yesterday we met with Ted Wass in beautiful Beverly Hills, California. Ted has been working a long time in this whore's racket. He started as an actor (he was Blossom's dad and he played Danny Dallas on "Soap"), but somewhere along the line he got into directing. It was his directing services we were interested in. So, to that end, we sat down to chat with him over some eggs. Well, egg whites. This is L.A., nobody eats the WHOLE egg. Yolks are for assholes.
The short version of this is that Ted turned out to be awesome. He is funny, smart, thoughtful and fired up about the script for "This Little Piggy". We talked at length about what this show is about and how we'd like the story telling to take shape. And it was clear within about twenty minutes that Ted was the perfect guy to direct our show and that we'd be lucky to have him. Which is good, because I am pretty sure that everyone concerned (ABC Studios and NBC) had already decided this for us. Our meeting was just to make sure we didn't hate each other or something. And even if we did hate each other, I get the feeling they would have said, "work it out". That's exactly how much power Steven and I have. :)
So after shaking hands and parting ways I jumped back into my car and called Kevin Plunkett (not sure of Kevin's actual title... it's something like Senior VP of Comedy Series at ABC Studios) to let him know the good news. We chatted for a moment and Kevin, quite innocently said, "Well enjoy the rest of your weekend. I think this will be the last free one you have for a LONG time." And that, dear readers, is when my old friend PANIC showed up.
I hung up with Kevin and started thinking about all the stuff that has to be done in the next three months. PANIC! I also started thinking about the late nights, the bad food and the bleary eyed self-doubt that will slowly morph into self-loathing. PANIC! I thought about how little time I was going to be able to spend with Audrey. PANIC!!! And then I looked at the clock and started thinking about getting out of town. NOW! PANIC!!!
I got home, jammed the key into the lock, walked inside and found my beautiful wife sitting in her pajamas, hair askew and messing around on her laptop. She didn't look panicked. She looked fine. She looked like a normal person enjoying her Saturday morning. But that's because she couldn't see the oncoming shit storm like I could. So I calmed myself, sat down on the couch and started to make my case.
ME: Honey, let's go up to Santa Barbara today.
AUDREY: (NOT LOOKING AT ME) I don't want to go to Santa Barbara.
ME: (REMAINING CALM) Okay. Well I kind of wanted to get out of town today.
AUDREY: Let's go hiking.
Hiking? What the? NO! That's work. I wanted booze and expensive food. I wanted to relax. And, further more, she never suggests shit like that. What the hell was happening? This was not going well at all. PANIC!! I needed to get this shit back on track right away.
ME: (VERY, VERY CALMLY) No. I don't think I want to go hiking. How about horseback riding?
What the fuck!? Did I just suggest horseback riding? She looked at me like I'd suggested we throw ourselves into a wood chipper, and rightfully so. That is NOT getting things back on track. That's just crazy. I was more fucked up then I thought. Then I hit on it. The magic word: spa. Even the sound of it is relaxing. spaaaaa. Also, ladies love spas. This I know. And Spa, along with her sidekick Overpriced Booze, can totally kick Panic's ass. So I suggested it and before I could finish the word (a very short word, by the way) she was starting to pack. An hour and half later we were on our way to San Diego to spend too much money. Which we did. And now the blog, so there's that.
So here ends my first bout of panic on this journey. The first of many, many similar bouts I imagine. I know it's gonna get weirder before it gets better. And I'm not always going to be able to (or afford to for God's sake!) just pick up and get out of town. I'm actually gonna have to sack up and get these shows made. I want them to be great and I want them on the air. And sitting here, looking out at that ocean, I gotta say, I'm ready for it. I am. I think. I mean, more or less.
I need to go eat my feelings.
This little missive is being typed up on the balcony of our room at the Hotel Del Coronado in San Diego. For those who don't know (or give a shit) this hotel is kind of famous. A lot of luminaries have shacked up here over the years, ranging from Charles Lindbergh to Madonna, blah, blah, blah. And it's expensive. Too expensive for the likes of Audrey and I. We should not be here. We are not rich. And we are neither the Prince of Wales nor Reese Witherspoon. Which brings me to the subject of this blog: panic. Let me explain.
So yesterday we met with Ted Wass in beautiful Beverly Hills, California. Ted has been working a long time in this whore's racket. He started as an actor (he was Blossom's dad and he played Danny Dallas on "Soap"), but somewhere along the line he got into directing. It was his directing services we were interested in. So, to that end, we sat down to chat with him over some eggs. Well, egg whites. This is L.A., nobody eats the WHOLE egg. Yolks are for assholes.
The short version of this is that Ted turned out to be awesome. He is funny, smart, thoughtful and fired up about the script for "This Little Piggy". We talked at length about what this show is about and how we'd like the story telling to take shape. And it was clear within about twenty minutes that Ted was the perfect guy to direct our show and that we'd be lucky to have him. Which is good, because I am pretty sure that everyone concerned (ABC Studios and NBC) had already decided this for us. Our meeting was just to make sure we didn't hate each other or something. And even if we did hate each other, I get the feeling they would have said, "work it out". That's exactly how much power Steven and I have. :)
So after shaking hands and parting ways I jumped back into my car and called Kevin Plunkett (not sure of Kevin's actual title... it's something like Senior VP of Comedy Series at ABC Studios) to let him know the good news. We chatted for a moment and Kevin, quite innocently said, "Well enjoy the rest of your weekend. I think this will be the last free one you have for a LONG time." And that, dear readers, is when my old friend PANIC showed up.
I hung up with Kevin and started thinking about all the stuff that has to be done in the next three months. PANIC! I also started thinking about the late nights, the bad food and the bleary eyed self-doubt that will slowly morph into self-loathing. PANIC! I thought about how little time I was going to be able to spend with Audrey. PANIC!!! And then I looked at the clock and started thinking about getting out of town. NOW! PANIC!!!
I got home, jammed the key into the lock, walked inside and found my beautiful wife sitting in her pajamas, hair askew and messing around on her laptop. She didn't look panicked. She looked fine. She looked like a normal person enjoying her Saturday morning. But that's because she couldn't see the oncoming shit storm like I could. So I calmed myself, sat down on the couch and started to make my case.
ME: Honey, let's go up to Santa Barbara today.
AUDREY: (NOT LOOKING AT ME) I don't want to go to Santa Barbara.
ME: (REMAINING CALM) Okay. Well I kind of wanted to get out of town today.
AUDREY: Let's go hiking.
Hiking? What the? NO! That's work. I wanted booze and expensive food. I wanted to relax. And, further more, she never suggests shit like that. What the hell was happening? This was not going well at all. PANIC!! I needed to get this shit back on track right away.
ME: (VERY, VERY CALMLY) No. I don't think I want to go hiking. How about horseback riding?
What the fuck!? Did I just suggest horseback riding? She looked at me like I'd suggested we throw ourselves into a wood chipper, and rightfully so. That is NOT getting things back on track. That's just crazy. I was more fucked up then I thought. Then I hit on it. The magic word: spa. Even the sound of it is relaxing. spaaaaa. Also, ladies love spas. This I know. And Spa, along with her sidekick Overpriced Booze, can totally kick Panic's ass. So I suggested it and before I could finish the word (a very short word, by the way) she was starting to pack. An hour and half later we were on our way to San Diego to spend too much money. Which we did. And now the blog, so there's that.
So here ends my first bout of panic on this journey. The first of many, many similar bouts I imagine. I know it's gonna get weirder before it gets better. And I'm not always going to be able to (or afford to for God's sake!) just pick up and get out of town. I'm actually gonna have to sack up and get these shows made. I want them to be great and I want them on the air. And sitting here, looking out at that ocean, I gotta say, I'm ready for it. I am. I think. I mean, more or less.
I need to go eat my feelings.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)