From the Cage to the Plains (A Camel Conversation with my LA Agent)

A Camel in Hollywood

Humper in Hollywood

My agent had an idea. He was calling a number of his clients. I’m not sure where I fell between the first and last call. Not that it mattered.

The Phone Call

AGENT: I’m thinking you need to find a different name for your screenplays. Just a single name and something that pops like ‘Bopper’ or ‘The Drill.’

DAVID: They both sound mildly pornographic.

AGENT: Even better.

DAVID: I think my own name is fine.

AGENT: Little story for you, David. I was at the Wild Animal Safari Park in Escondido the other day. Continue reading

Socrates Gone Mad in Southern California

Slomo at the Acropolis

‘Slomo’ at the Acropolis

Slomo is a 69 year old man who roller blades in slow motion along the boardwalk in Pacific Beach, California. He does this daily, unceasingly, and is known by nearly everyone who frequents the beach, bars or coffee shops. Many discount him as drug-addled, schizophrenic, or crazy. But he is not so easily dismissed.

For Slomo is Dr. John Kitchin, a former neurologist and psychiatrist, who abandoned his lucrative career in order to live in a studio apartment by the beach and pursue “a kind of divinity” through skating. Slomo is not crazy. He is a clear eyed, articulate, and bright man who has forsaken the lifestyle of the “typical institutionalized, educated, Western man.” Continue reading

Sharks in Coach (Talking about my Novel with my LA Agent)

Hollywood Shark

My LA agent had been sitting on my book for a couple of months.  I’d gotten no feedback from him, only the studied silence of a poised insect.  I decided to breach the stillness and give him a call.

The Phone Call

David:  Happy New Year.  It’s David.

Agent:  Know how many Davids I know?

David:  I know my full name shows up on your phone.

Agent:  So kill me.  What’re you calling me for?

David:  Did you read my book yet?

Agent:  Sure, I loved it.  Some great s— in there.

David:  So you want to represent the dramatic rights?

Agent:  Hold on.  I’ve a phone call coming in.

Papers shuffling in the background.  The Agent cups the phone and yells at his Assistant.  A minute or two later.

Agent:  What were we talking about?

David:  You representing the dramatic rights of my novel.

Agent:  Yeah, no, well, I’m not sure just yet.

David:  You didn’t read it, did you?

Agent:  F— no.  It’s over 200 pages.

David:  That’s short for a novel.

Agent:  The only thing I ever read over 10 pages is a lawsuit.

David:  What about screenplays, do you read those?

Agent:  I read the coverage.

Note: Coverage is the appraisal of a book or screenplay by a reader and usually includes the plot, characters and commercial potential.

David:  And you’re looking at the coverage for my novel right now, aren’t you?  That’s what your assistant just brought in.

Agent:  A dolphin, a fireman, fishermen, Greece.  Not exactly Iron Man.

David:  The female lead is very intriguing.  You could find an actress involved in environmentalism and animal rights and start from there.  Actually, I think it’s a timely and resonant story that-

Agent:  -Know what you need… a shark.  A shark on a f—ing plane.  There’s your title too.  That I could sell.  The thing starts from the back and eats only people in coach.  Write that.

David:  I’ll think about it.  In the meantime, my novel…?

Agent:  I give you a million dollar idea and you ask about your f—ing novel?  Put some orphans on the plane, and an old lady with an oxygen tank, and a cute little dog.  All sitting in coach.

David:  If you’re trying to make a statement about economic inequality with a, uh, shark thriller, maybe it should eat the people in first class instead?

Agent:  That’s the dumbest f—ing thing I’ve ever heard?  Think about it.  If the shark eats the people in first class, who will finance the f—ing film?

My novel, THE LAST ISLAND, can be purchased here.

Prostitutes and Playwrights (Another Conversation with my LA Agent)

Woo Ho

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, 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.


You can buy my debut novel, ‘THE LAST ISLAND’ here.

 

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‘Pitching and Kissing’ (Meeting Producers with my LA Agent)

My agent organized pitch meetings with a few production companies.

“Make it short and sweet,” he said. “Just give them your f—ing pitch and see if they bite.“

“So you know,” he added. “The more important they are, the worst dressed they’ll be. You meet a d—–bag in a Speedo and flip flops, their last film probably made a 100 mil. Meet a s—head in a suit, their last film was probably seen by less people than one of your f—ing plays.“

I went to the meetings. No one was wearing a Speedo. I did meet with one guy in a Hawaiian shirt and board shorts. True enough: he was the development guy for a comedy team with a string of hits.

The last meeting went like this.

Pitch Meeting

An office in Santa Monica. Impressionist art, movie posters, a red couch. I’m ushered into a conference room.

Their development guy is maybe 25, wearing black jeans and a Talking Heads tee-shirt. The usual small talk. I mention CBGB. He thinks it’s a government agency.

Eventually:

D-guy: I read that script.

David: I thought I was here to pitch it.

D-guy: You are. But I like to read the script before people pitch it so I already know what they’re going to say.

David: What’s the point?

D-guy: It’s like when the police ask questions that they already know the answers to.

David: Am I a suspect?

He coughs out a knowing laugh.

D-guy: Your only crime is a screenplay that feels like it was written in the 80’s.

David: When the Talking Heads were big?

He lets it slide, or else hasn’t yet realized that he’s wearing their shirt.

D-guy: If you’re going to write something like this, it has to have a modern feel… say like the Bourne series.

David: I see. You mean the Bourne series based on the books written by Robert Ludlum in the 80’s, right?

End of meeting.

Back at my agent’s office, I tell him what happened.

Agent: You gotta learn to kiss a–, David.

David: I don’t do that very well.

Agent: It’s not hard. I do it every day. All my clients are a—holes. Want to learn how to kiss a–? I’ll show you.

He walks around the desk and kisses me on top of the head.

Agent: How hard was that?

You can buy ‘THE LAST ISLAND’ here.

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“Get outa here!” (A Festival with my LA Agent)

The agent told me he was ‘astonished by the s—yness’ of a screenplay I wrote. So I entered it in a festival. It did well. Now, he told me I’d misunderstood. He loved it.

He asked me if I was going to the party at the festival. I said I didn’t know about the party. He said he’d put me on the list.

We did dinner first. The guests included a producer and his girlfriend: an exquisite actress recently divorced from a very rich man. A Svengali thing, I was told. He’d made her famous. She was suing him.

Dinner was fun. The agent was pleased with himself.  He was pitching a reality series for the actress.

We proceeded to the party in different cars. Private house. I gave my name and ID at the door and was indeed on the list. I’d been worried. You often can’t take the agent at his word.

The Festival Party

The entrance is through a garage or basement. Dimly dark (or darkly dim). DJ.

Round pillars three feet high with smoke pouring out. Atop each pillar is a dancer. They are, if not actually naked, at least supposed to look that way. The smoke obscures.

Upstairs is quieter. People drinking and talking. I grab a drink and spot the agent. He’s in a small circle, talking to the actress and her producer boyfriend, among others.

I stroll over to find the conversation circle closed. (We’ve all been there.) I ease a gentle shoulder in, trying to make my presence known.

The Actress sees me. I smile, friendly-like.

Actress: What are you doing here? Get outa here!

The Agent wheels around. He sees me but says nothing.

David: Are you talking to me?

She is.

Actress: It’s a private party!

From the wings, a Large Man starts coming my way. Laker jersey. Biceps.

David: I was on the list.

I look at the Agent for corroboration but get nothing. If I’m not mistaken (and I’m not), he’s enjoying this. Partygoers take notice. They circle round, attracted to the spectacle that is me.

I wonder if the Agent set me up.

Actress: Get outa here!

David: It’s me. David. We just went to dinner together…

I feel the Large Man’s hand on my shoulder. I’m going to be thrown out of the party. The Actress squints, steps a little closer.

Actress: Oh, David! I didn’t recognize you in your glasses. Why didn’t you say something?

The Actress hugs me. She’s taller than I thought and smells like apples. The Large Man walks away, his ‘World Peace’ jersey disappearing within the partygoers.

Actress: I’m sorry, David. I have to be so careful these days.

She kisses me on the cheek and hooks an arm around me. The conversation picks up again. The crowd disperses.

Later, the Agent catches me alone. He’s got a smirk on his face.

Agent: You’re good.

David: At what?

Agent: Getting a kiss and a hug like that. The center of the party. You planned that whole thing out, didn’t you?

David: Are you kidding me?  You think-

Agent: -You shrewd f—ing bastard. I’m going to give that s— screenplay of yours a big push when I get back.

—————————————

END NOTES:

The Agent did indeed push the script when he got back.

The Actress didn’t get the reality series but eventually got a hefty settlement from her former husband.

The Agent still thinks I planned it out.

You can buy ‘THE LAST ISLAND’ here.

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