I called my agent to tell him I’d finished another play. He wasn’t pleased. He thought plays stole time from screenplays that he might be able to sell. It was an ongoing debate.
One time, I mentioned the value of art for art’s sake. I thought he’d have a stroke. He popped Tylenol like Tic Tacs though – and that might’ve saved him.
The Phone Call
David: I wrote a new play.
Agent: What’s this s— about?
David: It’s about the Irish novelist, Flann O’Brien.
Agent: You wrote a f—ing play about a f—ing novelist? Where’s it premiering? In a black hole?
David: If it gets up in LA, I’ll comp you tickets.
Agent: No thanks. I mean, I’d love to see your f—ing play when it opens, David… but I don’t like sitting alone.
David: That’s a good one. You use that with other clients?
Agent: They don’t write f—ing plays. I don’t understand why you do.
David: Because screenplays rarely get made even when sold… but plays do. Believe it or not, I like seeing my work produced.
Agent: And I like to sleep with beautiful women, but you don’t see me going to all that trouble.
David: The trouble of actually sleeping with them?
Agent: You’re f—ing hilarious, David, you know that?
David: I’m your client, aren’t I?
Agent: Look, I can meet a semi-attractive woman and take her on dinners and dates and all that bulls—. Or I can sell a screenplay, not one of yours apparently, and buy a beautiful hooker.
David: Are you saying that writing a play is like dating a semi-attractive woman and writing a screenplay is like buying a beautiful hooker?
Agent: Which is less trouble?
David: You’re suggesting that I prostitute myself both professionally and personally?
Agent: Of course not. I’m advising you to prostitute yourself professionally… so you can buy a prostitute personally. Sometimes I think you don’t know which end is up.