Make a hit list for L.A.. Who do you know who's made it? Who can be a connection? "It's not about what you know," Harry heard his mother repeat forever, "it's who you know?" Only problem was that the who's were usually dicks and Harry didn't do dicks well. He sat at his desk, pulled out his agenda and started to write out his dick list.
Mathew "Nipple-Nose" Spitz
For sure the mole-on-the-noser BMOC cum schlocky game show producer would take Harry's call. After all, what are old high school friends for? Nipple-Nose, A decent egger, but not a go-to guy. Madly in love with himself, which ultimately turned out to be his greatest asset, more so than his ersatz-Travolta hairdo, more so than his grey wolf fur coat, or white Trans Am, or even his blondie, firm-titted sweetheart, Marli. Ole Nipple-Nose would take Harry's call just to have the opportunity to shmay ad infinitum about himself and his towering accomplishments. About his cheesy game show, Guess What's In My Pants?, about his Hollywood friends like Sonny Pinto and Diqué Ricardo, about his visits to the Playboy Mansion and hot tubbing escapades with Hef and the triplets, about the Ferrari he bought from Will Matlock, about, about, about. But would he give Harry a bonafide lead or introduction or invariably forget his wallet at the office when he took out him out to lunch?
Carla Weisel
Finkie's first cousin, now a up-and-comer hot shit PR agent counting among her B-List clients the likes of Macy Golden, Tara O'Neil and Jace Lowenthal . She might take his call, that is if she still didn't hold a grudge against Harry for (accidentally) farting in her face while going down on him. For chrissakes, they both ate onion soup that night, what did Carla expect? Besides, it's not like the pug-nosed tart had never experienced a misfire before during a fellatio expedition with any of the scores of pimply would-be Lotharios from high school, from ski school, from afternoon Hebrew school, from summer camp, from the park, from under the bleachers, from, from, from. Carla was always a busy gal, now she was just adult-busy. Busy on calls with stars, busy with meetings, busy on route to more meetings, busy having dinner with good friends, busy at the gym with her trainer, (also Pamela Anderson's), busy, busy, busy.
Teddy Slutsky
Harry's old football coach who led the Mustangs to two consecutive provincial finals only to get massacred because Jewish boys don't do well on frozen fields. Teddy with the fu manchu moustache, flowing silk shirts and clogs who barked orders from the sidelines and snuk smokes during time-outs. Dandy Ted was now a producer on kiddie sitcom House Hubbies and partied with Nick Tassos. Maybe Teddy never answered his home phone, but the message on his answering machine attested that he was now a Hollywood insider: "Hey there folks and strokes, I'm not in right now because I'm preparing my monologue for the Tonight Show. Leave a message and I'll have my buxom assistant, Brandy, call you back...Hee hee hee, Brandy. Knock it off, I'm recording a message..." Fortunately for the millions of Tonight Show fans who like good comedy, Dandy Ted got bumped off the guest list at the last minute and never got called back. Would Teddy remember Harry Starr, former quarterback whom he taught how to throw a screen pass, run a bootleg, call an audible? Unfortunately however, Teddy's memory of his head coaching days had faded into oblivion. "Yeah, I remember the Mustangs. Always tripped on the logo. Man, that's going a long way back. Haven't watched a football game in years. Does Denver still have those ugly orange uniforms?"
What a list.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Friday, March 11, 2011
Calling Gomez Glickman
Harry rummaged through his sock-and-curiosa drawer and found Gomez Glickman's number scrawled on the inside of a matchbook from the wedding where they had met.
He studied the odd name -- Gomez plus Glickman equaled what? This had to be a guy with a story.
Indeed.
Gomez Glickman was born enigmatic, treasured, yet resented by his mother for:
Gomez Glickman:
Named after the Dominican fish-monger who delivered him in his store between the octopi and the smelts.
Gomez Glickman:
A mistake, an epilogue to a brood of four fussing older sisters and a pallid sixty-nine year old father who, in order to provide for his little prince, was forced to delay his dreams of retirement until never.
Yes, Gomez Glickman was born to be confused.
Harry dialed the phone number.
"Hello Gomez, it's Harry Starr calling. We met at that wedding in Montreal..."
"Yes, Harry, of course. So when are you coming down to L.A.?"
"That's actually why I'm calling you. I finished my spec script, tying up some loose ends and plan on driving down the end of the month."
"Cool. Do you have a place to stay?"
"Not yet. Do you have any leads?"
"In fact, I do. This girl, Wendy, who I was seeing for a while..."
Harry held back a guffaw while slicing and dicing Gomez. Yeah right, like Gomez was seeing some girl...any girl...In his dreams, man. In his dreams.
Harry had his number; Gomez was a Mr. Platonic, the type of guy who goes around befriending almost-cute girls and try to pass them off as ex-girlfriends. The reality of his unfulfilled gay existence too painful to confront. No doubt the reason Gomez moved to L.A., to reinvent himself, to rewrite his history.
"...is renting out rooms in this big house she's got in Santa Monica. Before her father got arrested for fraud and tax evasion, he put the house in her name and she's renting out rooms because the IRS froze all of her dad's assets..."
And like all the Mr. Platonics he knew, always full of crazy stories.
"...Wendy works as a lousy paid production assistant on Sheza the Amazon Warrior -- whose tits are real by the way..."
And a friend-of-a-friend connection to fame.
"...Anyhow I could speak to her..."
A nice guy who will always go out of his way to do a favor. Knows many people, an invaluable friend in a new city.
"...I think she's charging like $400 a month and you don't have to sign a lease..."
And deals, knows where to get the best deals in town on anything. Born with the innate skill of a purchasing agent, but with the character of a Barbra Streisand.
"...And the house is in a real cool area, a couple blocks from Montana..."
Of course, a Mr. Platonic always hangs out where the beautiful people go.
"Sounds great, Mi-- err...Gomez. Can you speak to her?"
"Sure, we're going out for dinner tonight. Call me back tomorrow. Just a word of warning. She's got six dogs and three cats, not to mention four other boarders, so you gotta be able to handle that. It can get a little messy and chaotic there at times."
Caveat emptor, the underbelly of the deal.
"That's okay. I grew up with dogs and a big noisy family..."
But it was more like an "okay until I can find something better," or an "okay as long as the place doesn't smell like the SPCA."
"So how's your pilot, Leftovers, going?
"Aw you know, development hell, especially when you're dealing with washed-up stars. Duane Day dropped forty pounds since his Feldman days and he's just not funny if he ain't fat. Face it, the guy's just butt ugly. Meanwhile he dumped Cindy Saffron for some amateur porn star. So now Miss Saffron, who hasn't worked in ten years if you don't count dinner theaters, wants to quit. Meanwhile Sonny Pinto's trying to get the movie made of Mr. Nanny, and will drop this project if that ever happens. At least Wenzday Wilson's still hysterical, even if he hates my guts because I asked him to pay me back the fifty bucks I lent him. I mean fifty bucks is fifty bucks, it's not like I've got this series in production where I'm taking home a hundred grand an episode. I only made twenty grand so far off this pilot and who knows when the next pay check will come. Meanwhile I may have to take a job in telemarketing. But aside from that, everything is great."
Harry was too busy cracking up. This Gomez guy was hysterical. They'd be good friends. Even if he was full of shit.
"Yeah...So I'll call you back tomorrow, Gomez. Thanks."
"Oh fuck, I just felt a tremor...Gotta go..."
He studied the odd name -- Gomez plus Glickman equaled what? This had to be a guy with a story.
Indeed.
Gomez Glickman was born enigmatic, treasured, yet resented by his mother for:
- His late arrival in her life. Millie Glickman was forty-four years and seven months when she gave birth to Gomez.
- Stretching her innards with his huge egghead to the point where only a custom-made girdle could keep her distended floppy lips from tumbling out of her undergarments.
Gomez Glickman:
Named after the Dominican fish-monger who delivered him in his store between the octopi and the smelts.
Gomez Glickman:
A mistake, an epilogue to a brood of four fussing older sisters and a pallid sixty-nine year old father who, in order to provide for his little prince, was forced to delay his dreams of retirement until never.
Yes, Gomez Glickman was born to be confused.
Harry dialed the phone number.
"Hello Gomez, it's Harry Starr calling. We met at that wedding in Montreal..."
"Yes, Harry, of course. So when are you coming down to L.A.?"
"That's actually why I'm calling you. I finished my spec script, tying up some loose ends and plan on driving down the end of the month."
"Cool. Do you have a place to stay?"
"Not yet. Do you have any leads?"
"In fact, I do. This girl, Wendy, who I was seeing for a while..."
Harry held back a guffaw while slicing and dicing Gomez. Yeah right, like Gomez was seeing some girl...any girl...In his dreams, man. In his dreams.
Harry had his number; Gomez was a Mr. Platonic, the type of guy who goes around befriending almost-cute girls and try to pass them off as ex-girlfriends. The reality of his unfulfilled gay existence too painful to confront. No doubt the reason Gomez moved to L.A., to reinvent himself, to rewrite his history.
"...is renting out rooms in this big house she's got in Santa Monica. Before her father got arrested for fraud and tax evasion, he put the house in her name and she's renting out rooms because the IRS froze all of her dad's assets..."
And like all the Mr. Platonics he knew, always full of crazy stories.
"...Wendy works as a lousy paid production assistant on Sheza the Amazon Warrior -- whose tits are real by the way..."
And a friend-of-a-friend connection to fame.
"...Anyhow I could speak to her..."
A nice guy who will always go out of his way to do a favor. Knows many people, an invaluable friend in a new city.
"...I think she's charging like $400 a month and you don't have to sign a lease..."
And deals, knows where to get the best deals in town on anything. Born with the innate skill of a purchasing agent, but with the character of a Barbra Streisand.
"...And the house is in a real cool area, a couple blocks from Montana..."
Of course, a Mr. Platonic always hangs out where the beautiful people go.
"Sounds great, Mi-- err...Gomez. Can you speak to her?"
"Sure, we're going out for dinner tonight. Call me back tomorrow. Just a word of warning. She's got six dogs and three cats, not to mention four other boarders, so you gotta be able to handle that. It can get a little messy and chaotic there at times."
Caveat emptor, the underbelly of the deal.
"That's okay. I grew up with dogs and a big noisy family..."
But it was more like an "okay until I can find something better," or an "okay as long as the place doesn't smell like the SPCA."
"So how's your pilot, Leftovers, going?
"Aw you know, development hell, especially when you're dealing with washed-up stars. Duane Day dropped forty pounds since his Feldman days and he's just not funny if he ain't fat. Face it, the guy's just butt ugly. Meanwhile he dumped Cindy Saffron for some amateur porn star. So now Miss Saffron, who hasn't worked in ten years if you don't count dinner theaters, wants to quit. Meanwhile Sonny Pinto's trying to get the movie made of Mr. Nanny, and will drop this project if that ever happens. At least Wenzday Wilson's still hysterical, even if he hates my guts because I asked him to pay me back the fifty bucks I lent him. I mean fifty bucks is fifty bucks, it's not like I've got this series in production where I'm taking home a hundred grand an episode. I only made twenty grand so far off this pilot and who knows when the next pay check will come. Meanwhile I may have to take a job in telemarketing. But aside from that, everything is great."
Harry was too busy cracking up. This Gomez guy was hysterical. They'd be good friends. Even if he was full of shit.
"Yeah...So I'll call you back tomorrow, Gomez. Thanks."
"Oh fuck, I just felt a tremor...Gotta go..."
Thursday, March 10, 2011
The Homestretch
SCENE I
EXT. THE STREET – A LITTLE LATER THAT EVENING
GARY AND HERB ARE WALKING DOWN THE STREET. GARY IS WHISTLING, STROLLING JAUNTILY.
HERB
How can you be happy at a time
like this?
GARY
Oh relax, Herb. Someday you’ll look
back on this and laugh.
HERB
Great. The way my life has gone, I’ll
have to live to two hundred to get
in all the laughing.
GARY
And that’ll only cover the high
school years.
HERB
At my funeral, instead of a eulogy,
they’ll just play a laugh track.
Would it offend the gods so much to
make me a winner just once? Even
Charlie Brown won a baseball game
last year.
GARY
Maybe that’s your problem, Herb.
All your role models seem to be
cartoon characters. Robin, Jughead,
Charlie Brown. You’re comparing
yourself to ink!
HERB
(WITH RESIGNATION) You’re right. I’m
I’m aiming too high. Hey, what the hell’s
going on here?
GARY AND HERB HAVE ARRIVED AT THE MILK BAR. THERE IS A CROWD OF PEOPLE MILLING ABOUT. POLICE TAPE IS BARRING THE ENTRANCE.
TERRI (OC)
The whole place is infested with vermin.
GARY AND HERB WALK OVER TO ELAINE.
HERB
Great – I’ve lost my girls, and now
I’m not even gonna get ice cream.
TERRI
Lost the girls? Where’s Jana and Jill?
GARY
Listen to this! Jana, my girlfriend,
tells me that she likes Herb better
than me.
TERRI PUSHES GARY.
TERRI
Get out! She liked Robin better than you?
HERB
You haven’t heard the best. They both
liked me so much, they dumped me.
GARY
Rather than fight over Herb, they
thought it’s be best to break it off.
Pulaski, this charm of yours...it’s
a curse. HERB
You are so right, my friend. Why is
it that with women, I’m either Valentino
Charlie Brown? They either become totally
obsessed with me, to the point of
suicide, or I turn them into nuns?
GARY
You're godly, Herb.
HERB STOPS TO THINK FOR A BEAT.
HERB
Godly, yes. A new angle!
END OF ACT TWO.
END OF STORY.
CUT TO MONOLOGUE:
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Inequality Among Friends - (Continued)
One thing to write a script; getting it in the right hands is another story. Time to suck in the pride and pander for favours. Call Mike Winikoff. Maybe him and Barry Newsome née Nudelman, kissed and made up and had his number?
Harry tracked down Barry Newsome née Nudelman's number in the Yellow Pages:
Barry J. Newsome
Chartered Insurance Broker
5900 Shetland Blvd., Suite 306
Harry knew that address well. Uncle Lou ran his crappy kosher candy operation out of there. The building burnt down every few years either due to slap-dash repairs or a sketchy tenant hopeful to cash in on his fire insurance policy. No one ever got caught.
Barry J. Newsome. Harry rolled his eyes. Right. He sighed and took a deep breath before dialing the number. As expected, no secretary, Barry Newsome née Nutkovitch answered the phone.
"Barry Newsome," he said in his best radio voice.
"Hello, Barry."Three years together in the same bunk at camp, the days when everyone called Barry, "Stiff," the Human Erection. Barry Newsome. This was what being an adult was all about. "It's Harry Starr calling. Howya doing?"
"Oh man, Harry. Good to hear your voice. Doin' great here, just great. What's up?"
"A bunch of things. For one thing, I've been doing some TV writing and plan on going down to L.A. to see if I can get something going down there."
"Good idea. Say hello to Mick Winkle if you see him."
"Mick Winkle?"
"Yeah, that's Mike's new Hollywood name. And he gives me shit for changing my name! Fucken hypocrite--"
"Oh...so I guess your still not talking. I thought that you guys probably made up by now."
"I tried, Harry. Sent him a card when he had a kid. The putz never even acknowledged it."
"Shit...You guys were so close. Mike was such a great guy..."
"Yeah, but Mick's an asshole...But you should still try to call him. Maybe he'll be okay with you. Try his parents. They're in the phone book and still live in the same house."
"O-kay..."
An uncomfortable silence.
"Say, Harry." Barry said. "Do you have travel insurance?"
Now for the parents:
Awkward "Hello, Mrs. Winikoff, it's Harry Starr. Old friend of Mike's from camp."
"Oh yes, I remember you, Harry. You were over at our house a few times. Nice boy."
"That's me, very nice."
Crackling silence. Uncomfortable Parent chat.
"...So I'm going down to live in L.A. for a while and wanted to call up Mike. Would you be able to give me his number?"
"...Aha...yes...I don't mean to be impolite, Harry, but I'll have to speak Michael first. His rules. Michael gets so many calls now, you can imagine."
"...Yes, umm, I understand...so..."
"Why don't you call me back in a couple of days? I'll be speaking with Michael tomorrow."
"Sounds good, Mrs. Winikoff. I'll call you then."
Well, not really good. Feeling a bit putzy, but you gotta do what you gotta do.
Two days later, Harry copped the number.
That was a Sunday night.
Monday night: Mondays are always a bad day to call.
Tuesday night: Too tired. Killer day at work.
Wednesday night: Three aborted dials. Tried.
Thursday night: They tape Mike's show that night, Mike unavailable. Would've tried.
Friday night: Shabbos. Never call on shabbos.
Saturday night: Only losers call on a Saturday night.
Sunday night: Fucking do it already! Mike's probably home with the family. Best chance to catch him.
Need a drink.
A shot of vodka...another one...and another.
Make the call already. What do I call him? Mike or Mick? Or sir? It's not the same anymore. Should've taken the role in his student film. Should've, could've. I'm such a putz.
Pacing, pacing.
Deep breaths.
Sit down, get a pad and pen.
Doodle caricature of Mike, as grungy as ever. Draw bees buzzing around his ass.
Vodka shot.
Dial, man, dial.
Busy signal. Phew.
Pacing, pacing.
Look in the mirror. You're so handsome, Harry. So handsome.
Dial...A ring. Butterflies in the tummy. Another ring.
"Hello..."
A woman's voice. Must be wife. What's her name. Mrs. Winkle? Deep breath, strong acting voice.
"Hi, can I speak to...uhh...Mike, please?"
Yeah, Mike.
"Who should I say is calling?"
The guy who used to smoke grass with Mike behind Bunk 24.
"Harry, his old friend from camp, Harry Starr."
"Okay, hold on a sec, I'll go get him. He's doing some editing work now."
She sounds so nice. Am I bugging him...Too late to bang down and hide under pillow.
"I can call back at another time if he's busy."
Don't sound so fucking submissive, Harry.
"No, it's okay, Mike could use a break. He's been working all day. I'm sure he'd like to hear from an old friend."
He would? Nice girl...Mike, call him Mike.
"Sure, thanks."
"Miiiiiiiike...." wife calls out.
Tic toc, tic toc...What's taking so long? Maybe he really doesn't want to speak to me? I wouldn't want to speak to me.
"Hello...?"
"Mike?"
"Mick."
"Mick?"
"Was Mike."
"Hi Mi-Mick, it's Harry."
"Larry?"
"No, Harry. Harry Starr."
"Hey man, Harry! Just teasing. Howya doing, Harry Starr?"
"Doin' fine...and you?"
"Can't complain. Married. Kid. Writing on Outta Town."
"It's all good, all good..."
Awkward moment of silence.
"So what's up with you, Harry. It's been a while."
"Yeah, it has. Not married. Not near married. I've been working in sales..."
"That's cool..."
"I'm not acting anymore, but started writing..."
"..."
"Yeah, remember Ronnie Finkelstein? He went to film school with you."
"Oh yeah, Ronnie...How's he doing?"
"Well, not so hot lately. But he got me into writing scripts. I'm actually finishing off a Feldman spec script now and planning on taking it down to L.A. with me."
"Cool..."
"I guess...That's kind of why I'm calling. I'm gonna see if I can get something going writing for sitcoms and was wondering if you wouldn't mind...taking a look at it?"
"No problem, Harry. I can read it and give you back some notes."
Oh, man, fucking great, amazing.
"That would be great, Mike--"
"Please call me Mick..."
"Right, Mick."
"So look, Harry. Send me your script when it's finished and we'll take it from there. Might take me some time to get to it, things are crazy busy now."
"I can imagine..."
"...Yeah..."
"Anyhow, I won't keep you longer, M-Mick. I should be finished the script this week and then I'll send it to you..."
"Great."
"Yeah, great. I really appreciate this, Mick. Thanks a lot."
"My pleasure."
Really?
"Well, take care, we"ll be in touch. Bye."
"Bye, Harry."
Harry crashed out on the sofa and bathed in sweet thoughts all night.
Harry tracked down Barry Newsome née Nudelman's number in the Yellow Pages:
Barry J. Newsome
Chartered Insurance Broker
5900 Shetland Blvd., Suite 306
Harry knew that address well. Uncle Lou ran his crappy kosher candy operation out of there. The building burnt down every few years either due to slap-dash repairs or a sketchy tenant hopeful to cash in on his fire insurance policy. No one ever got caught.
Barry J. Newsome. Harry rolled his eyes. Right. He sighed and took a deep breath before dialing the number. As expected, no secretary, Barry Newsome née Nutkovitch answered the phone.
"Barry Newsome," he said in his best radio voice.
"Hello, Barry."Three years together in the same bunk at camp, the days when everyone called Barry, "Stiff," the Human Erection. Barry Newsome. This was what being an adult was all about. "It's Harry Starr calling. Howya doing?"
"Oh man, Harry. Good to hear your voice. Doin' great here, just great. What's up?"
"A bunch of things. For one thing, I've been doing some TV writing and plan on going down to L.A. to see if I can get something going down there."
"Good idea. Say hello to Mick Winkle if you see him."
"Mick Winkle?"
"Yeah, that's Mike's new Hollywood name. And he gives me shit for changing my name! Fucken hypocrite--"
"Oh...so I guess your still not talking. I thought that you guys probably made up by now."
"I tried, Harry. Sent him a card when he had a kid. The putz never even acknowledged it."
"Shit...You guys were so close. Mike was such a great guy..."
"Yeah, but Mick's an asshole...But you should still try to call him. Maybe he'll be okay with you. Try his parents. They're in the phone book and still live in the same house."
"O-kay..."
An uncomfortable silence.
"Say, Harry." Barry said. "Do you have travel insurance?"
Now for the parents:
Awkward "Hello, Mrs. Winikoff, it's Harry Starr. Old friend of Mike's from camp."
"Oh yes, I remember you, Harry. You were over at our house a few times. Nice boy."
"That's me, very nice."
Crackling silence. Uncomfortable Parent chat.
"...So I'm going down to live in L.A. for a while and wanted to call up Mike. Would you be able to give me his number?"
"...Aha...yes...I don't mean to be impolite, Harry, but I'll have to speak Michael first. His rules. Michael gets so many calls now, you can imagine."
"...Yes, umm, I understand...so..."
"Why don't you call me back in a couple of days? I'll be speaking with Michael tomorrow."
"Sounds good, Mrs. Winikoff. I'll call you then."
Well, not really good. Feeling a bit putzy, but you gotta do what you gotta do.
Two days later, Harry copped the number.
That was a Sunday night.
Monday night: Mondays are always a bad day to call.
Tuesday night: Too tired. Killer day at work.
Wednesday night: Three aborted dials. Tried.
Thursday night: They tape Mike's show that night, Mike unavailable. Would've tried.
Friday night: Shabbos. Never call on shabbos.
Saturday night: Only losers call on a Saturday night.
Sunday night: Fucking do it already! Mike's probably home with the family. Best chance to catch him.
Need a drink.
A shot of vodka...another one...and another.
Make the call already. What do I call him? Mike or Mick? Or sir? It's not the same anymore. Should've taken the role in his student film. Should've, could've. I'm such a putz.
Pacing, pacing.
Deep breaths.
Sit down, get a pad and pen.
Doodle caricature of Mike, as grungy as ever. Draw bees buzzing around his ass.
Vodka shot.
Dial, man, dial.
Busy signal. Phew.
Pacing, pacing.
Look in the mirror. You're so handsome, Harry. So handsome.
Dial...A ring. Butterflies in the tummy. Another ring.
"Hello..."
A woman's voice. Must be wife. What's her name. Mrs. Winkle? Deep breath, strong acting voice.
"Hi, can I speak to...uhh...Mike, please?"
Yeah, Mike.
"Who should I say is calling?"
The guy who used to smoke grass with Mike behind Bunk 24.
"Harry, his old friend from camp, Harry Starr."
"Okay, hold on a sec, I'll go get him. He's doing some editing work now."
She sounds so nice. Am I bugging him...Too late to bang down and hide under pillow.
"I can call back at another time if he's busy."
Don't sound so fucking submissive, Harry.
"No, it's okay, Mike could use a break. He's been working all day. I'm sure he'd like to hear from an old friend."
He would? Nice girl...Mike, call him Mike.
"Sure, thanks."
"Miiiiiiiike...." wife calls out.
Tic toc, tic toc...What's taking so long? Maybe he really doesn't want to speak to me? I wouldn't want to speak to me.
"Hello...?"
"Mike?"
"Mick."
"Mick?"
"Was Mike."
"Hi Mi-Mick, it's Harry."
"Larry?"
"No, Harry. Harry Starr."
"Hey man, Harry! Just teasing. Howya doing, Harry Starr?"
"Doin' fine...and you?"
"Can't complain. Married. Kid. Writing on Outta Town."
"It's all good, all good..."
Awkward moment of silence.
"So what's up with you, Harry. It's been a while."
"Yeah, it has. Not married. Not near married. I've been working in sales..."
"That's cool..."
"I'm not acting anymore, but started writing..."
"..."
"Yeah, remember Ronnie Finkelstein? He went to film school with you."
"Oh yeah, Ronnie...How's he doing?"
"Well, not so hot lately. But he got me into writing scripts. I'm actually finishing off a Feldman spec script now and planning on taking it down to L.A. with me."
"Cool..."
"I guess...That's kind of why I'm calling. I'm gonna see if I can get something going writing for sitcoms and was wondering if you wouldn't mind...taking a look at it?"
"No problem, Harry. I can read it and give you back some notes."
Oh, man, fucking great, amazing.
"That would be great, Mike--"
"Please call me Mick..."
"Right, Mick."
"So look, Harry. Send me your script when it's finished and we'll take it from there. Might take me some time to get to it, things are crazy busy now."
"I can imagine..."
"...Yeah..."
"Anyhow, I won't keep you longer, M-Mick. I should be finished the script this week and then I'll send it to you..."
"Great."
"Yeah, great. I really appreciate this, Mick. Thanks a lot."
"My pleasure."
Really?
"Well, take care, we"ll be in touch. Bye."
"Bye, Harry."
Harry crashed out on the sofa and bathed in sweet thoughts all night.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Inequality Among Friends
It was a killer to see Finkie this way. Fat, chain-smoking, disheveled. Harry felt guilty about it, but couldn't wait to leave the home. Finkie drew close to Harry and whispered in his ear.
"We're leaving for L.A. next Monday, don't say anything to the yokels here. Gary Feldman called me last night and offered us staff writing jobs. We're gonna be stars Harry, stars."
What was there left to do anymore but finish the script?
SCENE H
"We're leaving for L.A. next Monday, don't say anything to the yokels here. Gary Feldman called me last night and offered us staff writing jobs. We're gonna be stars Harry, stars."
What was there left to do anymore but finish the script?
SCENE H
INT. GARY’S APARTMENT - A LITTLE LATER.
GARY AND HERB. HERB IS PACING ABOUT THE APARTMENT EXCITEDLY. GARY IS SITTING ON THE COUCH WATCHING THE SPORTS NEWS ON TV.
HERB
I’m telling you Gary, last night
Was the most wonderful night of my life.
GARY
(NOT PAYING ATTENTION TO HERB)
Tell me something. When they show
figure-skating highlights, why do
they only show the falls?
HERB
Figure skating? I’m telling you about
a defining moment of my life and all
you can think about is men in make-up
doing pirouettes?
GARY
Who would want to be in a sport where
you have to fall down to get some
attention? What do they think to
themselves when they make a few
triple-axels and toe-loops? “Phew
I made it. Phew I made it.” Where’s
the joy? Where’s the satisfaction?
HERB
My thoughts exactly!
GARY
(BLOWING UP) My God, man, do even your
thoughts have to be the same as mine?
A BEAT
HERB
Okay Gary, spit it out. What’s wrong?
GARY
Nothing’s wrong.
HERB
(MAKING A SUDDEN REALIZATION) I know
What it is! It’s the Black Diamond
Yo-Yo Syndrome all over again!
GARY
Herb, you’re a mental case.
HERB
Usually, Gary, I grant you that, but
not this time. I’m on to something here.
It’s like when we were eleven. You used
to play day and night with your Black
Diamond yo-yo – until I got one. Then
you threw your away. It’s the same
here – when I get something that you
have, it loses its luster for you.
(TRIUMPHANTLY) Jana and Jill are the
Black Diamond yo-yos!
SFX. THE BUZZER RINGS. GARY GETS UP TO ANSWER.
SFX. THE BUZZER RINGS. GARY GETS UP TO ANSWER.
GARY
Well, there are the yo-yos now.
HERB
So you admit it. I’m right.
GARY
I admit nothing. The evidence is
all circumstantial.
HERB
You think of me as nothing more than
a sidekick...an appendage...comic
relief. Is that what I’m destined for?
A life in sidekick land? Me, Jimmy
Olson and Jughead Jones sitting
Around with no dates?
GARY
I always pictured you more as Alfred,
the butler.
SFX. A KNOCK AT THE DOOR.
GARY (CON’T)
Get that, please.
THE GIRLS ENTER. AD LIB GREETINGS.
HERB
So tell me – who did you like better,
Batman or Robin?
JILL
Pardon me?
HERB
You know, the Caped Crusader or the
Boy Wonder? Who’d you rather take to
see Miss Saigon?
JANA
Well, we always kind of likes Robin.
JILL
He was so cute and earnest...kind of
like you, Herb.
HERB
(TO GARY) You see, you see,
Mr. Top Banana.
JANA
Well...there’s something we need to
tell you first.
GARY
Do you think the Boy Wonder is old
enough to hear it?
HERB
If I’m old enough to match wits
with The Riddler, then I’m old enough
to hear this.
JILL
Actually, what we have to say is
Actually, what we have to say is
mostly about you, Herb. (A BEAT)
I find you very attractive.
JANA
...The problem is – so do I.
HERB IS SHOCKED AND EXCITED.
GARY
Come again.
JILL
It’s true. We’re both irresistibly
attracted to you, Herb.
HERB
So...you want to date me simultaneously?
JANA
Not exactly, Herb.
JILL
Herb, you don’t understand. We think
it’s best if we don’t see either of you.
HERB
No! This cannot be! This is unacceptable!
GARY IS QUIETLY RELIEVED.
JILL
We’ve been in this type of situation
before and it’s just too much of a
strain on our relationship. On top of
that, with the two of you being such
good friends...
HERB
We’re not such good friends. Actually,
I’m more like Gary’s sidekick.
GARY PUTS HIS ARM PATRONIZINGLY AROUND GEORGE’S SHOULDER.
GARY
My little Boy Wonder. Don’t worry
about it, girls. We understand. I’m
sure this is for the best.
JANA
We’re glad to see you taking it
so well.
A BEAT OF SILENCE. HERB BEGINS TO WEEP WITH WRACKING SOBS.
CUT TO:
Fiction Break; Dreaming of India
Had an unusual dream last night that I kept on thinking about in my other dreams. Dreamt that I became Prime Minister of India, despite the fact that I'm obviously a non-native.was filled with wonder that such an unlikely situation could occur. I explained to several people that there are an infinite number of outcomes that can happen in life. Some are more likely to occur like going to work each morning and coming home,while others may have as unlikely an outcome as myself becoming Prime Minister of India. Then I tried to explain it in visual terms. Imagine that the infinite number of outcomes in life can be represented by blades of grass on a never-ending lawn. The blades of grass that are closest to you represent the most likely outcomes that you will experience,like going to work each day and coming home. The blades of grass farther away from you are less likely outcomes but still theoretically possible. So while the chances of myself becoming Prime Minister of India are extremely unlikely, almost impossible, it still could happen through an unusual chain of events. This could be represented by a blade of grass somewhere off the horizon. I was as thrilled with this concept and analogy as I was about becoming Prime Minister of India. Will think about this more in the days to come.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Man in the Mirror
Harry looked into his deep brown eyes in the mirror and squinted.
"I'm fucking done, Alvy, done." Harry pulled out his gun his sock drawer, aimed it point blank at his reflection in the mirror and then pulled the trigger.
Click.
Harry hadn't bought any ammo for the gun, nor did he intend to, he just loved handling it. The power to change the world by squeezing a stupid little trigger, nothing more than a metal part. On it's own as innocuous as a key, as part of a gun, a history-changer. Harry squinted again, slipping into his Clint Eastwood persona. To be cool like Clint; it could happen. In his refuge in the mirror, in his own little place.
"Go ahead, Alvy, make my day."
Click.
"What'd you say Alvy, what'd you say boy?"
"..."
"Louder, boy. I didn't hear you."
Click.
"I wanna hear you squeal like a piggy." Harry contemplated that line for a few seconds and then retracted it. Too Deliverance, too sick, too gay. That was the great thing about talking to a mirror. You could say anything, anything at all.
And tomorrow would Fuck-you Alvy Day. Go out in a blaze of glory.
Well...
As with so many experiences in life, reality kicks in and it is far less dramatic than imagined. Like no grand exit from Alvy. No squinting, no gun, no click. In any case, Harry way too buck bucking chicken to even take the gun out of his apartment. It was there for clicking in the mirror.
Click, click.
Quit day never materialized, because the Shugar Belt Building burnt down. And Alvy didn't do it. This time. At least not intentionally.
"Harry, if I had a gun right now, I'd shoot myself," Alvy confessed.
In this deli by the back-river, in this honky tonk neighborhood of garish signs and sex shops?
Harry was tempted to tell Alvy to wait in the booth while he drove back home to fetch his piece. At the same time he was both flattered and stunned that Alvy was actually confiding in him.
Alvy likes me, he really likes me.
"My business is finished, Two hundred and fifty four people -- if you count my wife, Frema, who's really just on the payroll -- out of work. All because after work I took a dump and lit a match to kill the stench."
Not mentioned about that fateful a dump: It happened in the bathroom behind the area where they painted the high-margin yielding artisan belts. That cancerous, toxic corner of the factory, leaking and reeking of spray paint and chemicals was time-bomb waiting to be set off.
"You left the can without stamping out the match?"
"...I left the can without stamping out the..." Alvy muttered.
Alvy leaned across the table, grabbed Harry and hugged him for dear life. "I'm fucking ruined Harry, it's all over..." Embarrassed by this surprising spontaneous show of emotion, Alvy released Harry from his grip as if he was hugging toxic waste. "Well, almost."
Without understanding his visceral reaction to Alvy's confession, Harry's heart went out to the Belt King. It really did. But he also felt contaminated from the hug.
"Rebuild," Harry advised. He had to say something relatively uplifting.
"East to say. I was already overextended from my retail venture. I had to cut most of my expenses, including insurance. I'm only covered for half a mil. The building alone is worth double that. And I'm not even talking machinery."
Alvy looked deep within Harry's big brown eyes and said, "I'm sixty-two, I don't know if I have the strength to start all over..."
Then something clicked and Alvy snapped his fingers.
"Then again, I'm not ready to roll over and croak. And I'm far from being destitute. I've been socking away cash from undeclared sales for years...Rebuild? Yes, we'll rebuild, Harry!"
"We'll?"
"You got it, Harry. I was gonna open a division for you anyways. I always saw you as partner material."
And I always saw you as an asshole, Harry did not say. Still, as much as he knew that any deal with Alvy would inevitably be a bad one for him, Harry felt himself getting sucked in to the black-hole of the Belt King. There was something magical about repulsive businessmen like Alvy. How else could one explain the success of vacuum-haired vulgarians like Donald Trump?
"Partner material?"
"Yeah Harry, you work hard, have talent and wouldn't screw me. And you're, family...not that that means anything. I don't speak to most of my family and if I could get away with it, I'd murder Frema's family one by one...with a fucking axe." Alvy cleared his throat and wiped the sweat off his brow with his grease-stained napkin. He threw it down on his empty plate and pouted.
Alvy snapped his finger at the waitress, who immediately approached the table.
"Where's my pickle? I ordered the smoked meat platter, but there wasn't a pickle."
"Yes sir, there was a pickle spear next to the cole slaw."
Alvy grabbed the menu and scanned it.
"There," he pointed to on the menu. "It says that the smoked platter comes with a pickle, not a pickle spear...What's a pickle spear anyways? A delicatessen weapon? Pickle spear."
The waitress inhaled deeply while brainstorming ways to get even.
"Sir, I can get you a pickle."
"Yeah, that would great. No spears or swords. Just a dill pickle..." Alvy winked at Harry, then turned to the waitress. "Make that two, sweetie."
"Yes, sir," she said walking towards the kitchen while figuring out how to get away with spitting on the pickle order.
"You see that Harry, I know how to get what I want."
"..." And look like an asshole in the process, Harry thought.
"That's the key to business, bubbeleh, you gotta push. Push, push, push."
"..." Alvy was right about that, but who wants to push when crusing along is so much easier? Harry cleared his throat. Time to thwart this putsch.
"Here's the thing, Alvy. It's time for me to move on anyways, I never intended to sell belts all my life--"
The waitress brought Alvy his spit-glazed pickles. He pointed to one with his fork and looked at Harry.
"Pickle?"
Harry shook his head. No pickle please.
Alvy speared a glistening warty pickle with his fork. An arc of pickle juice squirted out hitting a chubby titty bullseye and staining his shirt.
"Fuuuuuck, fuuuuuck, fuuuuuck!" Alvy cried while wiping up the briny juice from his yellow silk Hugo Boss shirt. "This shirt cost me a hundred and eighty-five bucks plus tax!"
The waitress stood in the corner monitoring the situation. She smiled and let out a smug sigh of satisfaction . Chock up another notch on her bedpost of revenge.
"Y'thing I dream of belts?" Alvy asked while chomping with a full mouth. More pickle juice dribbled down his chin. Alvy shut his eyes, swallowed and took a deep breath. "I fucken eat too fast. My mother's always told me that." He cleared his phlegmy throat. "You think I grew up wishing to make belts for fucksakes? I mean what's a belt? You're not gonna win any Nobel prizes for making straps of leather that hold up your pants."
" ?"
"No! I wanted to be an architect. The emesse, my hand to God."
" !"
"Wanted I said, but couldn't. I don't have the head for it. I have a brain like a crocodile. He thinks, eat or not eat. I think, make money or...finagle. So I can't be an architect, I have to go with a realistic choice, my Plan B, to be a businessman. The point is Harry, for most of us, life is about the Plan B's. Your Plan A to be an actor, never made it out of the starting gate. You choked, I know the story. But that's history, now you gotta go for a Plan B, which in your case should be, B is for belts."
"Thanks Alvy, but I'm going there to be a TV writer--"
Alvy picked up a pickle and pointed it at Harry. "You and 16,000 others."
Harry clenched his fist. "Thanks for the encouragement."
"I wish you well, Harry. I really do. But you still need to eat," Alvy said and then bit off three inches of pickle.
"I've saved up enough money to keep me going for a year."
"Great, and then what? A year flies," Alvy said with his mouth full.
Harry rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes. "I'll worry about that when it happens."
Alvy pointed his fork at Harry. "I'd worry now. Have a Plan B."
"I can wait on tables till I make it."
"If you make it. Here's what I'm thinking, Harry." Alvy picked at the bread crumbs left on his plate and rolled them into a doughy booger-sized morsel. "I've sold a bit in states already and know I can do well there. I know some Koreans there who could produce for me until I get back on my feet again up here. Eventually I could open up my own plant there where there's lots of cheap labour. To get started I could I open up a showroom in the fashion mart there and you could run it...And still do your writing. If you make it in the boob tube, you're free to go. Just get me a replacement..."
"..."
"I'll pay you seventy-five grand plus two per cent commission..." Alvy offered while patting the bulging wallet in his pocket.
"..."
"One per cent for the majors."
"I dunno..." Harry instinctively grabbed for his pecker like a little boy.
"You can live it up a bit, LA's no place for schleppers with no money. You're gonna need a car, money to go out...I'll throw in a car in the deal." Alvy wiped off his sweaty brow, crumpled up the napkin and threw it on the table.
Harry understood the practical side to the offer. And there was a lot of downtime in writing and he'd probably have to kick around for a while before...if anything ever got going. And there was money and a car. He released his tight grip on his pecker.
"A car. A real car." Harry wanted to make sure he heard it right.
"Nothing fancy, maybe a good used one."
"..."
"Nu?"
"Fuck the Plan B. I'm going for the A-list."
Alvy sat there speechless.
"I'm fucking done, Alvy, done." Harry pulled out his gun his sock drawer, aimed it point blank at his reflection in the mirror and then pulled the trigger.
Click.
Harry hadn't bought any ammo for the gun, nor did he intend to, he just loved handling it. The power to change the world by squeezing a stupid little trigger, nothing more than a metal part. On it's own as innocuous as a key, as part of a gun, a history-changer. Harry squinted again, slipping into his Clint Eastwood persona. To be cool like Clint; it could happen. In his refuge in the mirror, in his own little place.
"Go ahead, Alvy, make my day."
Click.
"What'd you say Alvy, what'd you say boy?"
"..."
"Louder, boy. I didn't hear you."
Click.
"I wanna hear you squeal like a piggy." Harry contemplated that line for a few seconds and then retracted it. Too Deliverance, too sick, too gay. That was the great thing about talking to a mirror. You could say anything, anything at all.
And tomorrow would Fuck-you Alvy Day. Go out in a blaze of glory.
Well...
As with so many experiences in life, reality kicks in and it is far less dramatic than imagined. Like no grand exit from Alvy. No squinting, no gun, no click. In any case, Harry way too buck bucking chicken to even take the gun out of his apartment. It was there for clicking in the mirror.
Click, click.
Quit day never materialized, because the Shugar Belt Building burnt down. And Alvy didn't do it. This time. At least not intentionally.
"Harry, if I had a gun right now, I'd shoot myself," Alvy confessed.
In this deli by the back-river, in this honky tonk neighborhood of garish signs and sex shops?
Harry was tempted to tell Alvy to wait in the booth while he drove back home to fetch his piece. At the same time he was both flattered and stunned that Alvy was actually confiding in him.
Alvy likes me, he really likes me.
"My business is finished, Two hundred and fifty four people -- if you count my wife, Frema, who's really just on the payroll -- out of work. All because after work I took a dump and lit a match to kill the stench."
Not mentioned about that fateful a dump: It happened in the bathroom behind the area where they painted the high-margin yielding artisan belts. That cancerous, toxic corner of the factory, leaking and reeking of spray paint and chemicals was time-bomb waiting to be set off.
"You left the can without stamping out the match?"
"...I left the can without stamping out the..." Alvy muttered.
Alvy leaned across the table, grabbed Harry and hugged him for dear life. "I'm fucking ruined Harry, it's all over..." Embarrassed by this surprising spontaneous show of emotion, Alvy released Harry from his grip as if he was hugging toxic waste. "Well, almost."
Without understanding his visceral reaction to Alvy's confession, Harry's heart went out to the Belt King. It really did. But he also felt contaminated from the hug.
"Rebuild," Harry advised. He had to say something relatively uplifting.
"East to say. I was already overextended from my retail venture. I had to cut most of my expenses, including insurance. I'm only covered for half a mil. The building alone is worth double that. And I'm not even talking machinery."
Alvy looked deep within Harry's big brown eyes and said, "I'm sixty-two, I don't know if I have the strength to start all over..."
Then something clicked and Alvy snapped his fingers.
"Then again, I'm not ready to roll over and croak. And I'm far from being destitute. I've been socking away cash from undeclared sales for years...Rebuild? Yes, we'll rebuild, Harry!"
"We'll?"
"You got it, Harry. I was gonna open a division for you anyways. I always saw you as partner material."
And I always saw you as an asshole, Harry did not say. Still, as much as he knew that any deal with Alvy would inevitably be a bad one for him, Harry felt himself getting sucked in to the black-hole of the Belt King. There was something magical about repulsive businessmen like Alvy. How else could one explain the success of vacuum-haired vulgarians like Donald Trump?
"Partner material?"
"Yeah Harry, you work hard, have talent and wouldn't screw me. And you're, family...not that that means anything. I don't speak to most of my family and if I could get away with it, I'd murder Frema's family one by one...with a fucking axe." Alvy cleared his throat and wiped the sweat off his brow with his grease-stained napkin. He threw it down on his empty plate and pouted.
Alvy snapped his finger at the waitress, who immediately approached the table.
"Where's my pickle? I ordered the smoked meat platter, but there wasn't a pickle."
"Yes sir, there was a pickle spear next to the cole slaw."
Alvy grabbed the menu and scanned it.
"There," he pointed to on the menu. "It says that the smoked platter comes with a pickle, not a pickle spear...What's a pickle spear anyways? A delicatessen weapon? Pickle spear."
The waitress inhaled deeply while brainstorming ways to get even.
"Sir, I can get you a pickle."
"Yeah, that would great. No spears or swords. Just a dill pickle..." Alvy winked at Harry, then turned to the waitress. "Make that two, sweetie."
"Yes, sir," she said walking towards the kitchen while figuring out how to get away with spitting on the pickle order.
"You see that Harry, I know how to get what I want."
"..." And look like an asshole in the process, Harry thought.
"That's the key to business, bubbeleh, you gotta push. Push, push, push."
"..." Alvy was right about that, but who wants to push when crusing along is so much easier? Harry cleared his throat. Time to thwart this putsch.
"Here's the thing, Alvy. It's time for me to move on anyways, I never intended to sell belts all my life--"
The waitress brought Alvy his spit-glazed pickles. He pointed to one with his fork and looked at Harry.
"Pickle?"
Harry shook his head. No pickle please.
Alvy speared a glistening warty pickle with his fork. An arc of pickle juice squirted out hitting a chubby titty bullseye and staining his shirt.
"Fuuuuuck, fuuuuuck, fuuuuuck!" Alvy cried while wiping up the briny juice from his yellow silk Hugo Boss shirt. "This shirt cost me a hundred and eighty-five bucks plus tax!"
The waitress stood in the corner monitoring the situation. She smiled and let out a smug sigh of satisfaction . Chock up another notch on her bedpost of revenge.
"Y'thing I dream of belts?" Alvy asked while chomping with a full mouth. More pickle juice dribbled down his chin. Alvy shut his eyes, swallowed and took a deep breath. "I fucken eat too fast. My mother's always told me that." He cleared his phlegmy throat. "You think I grew up wishing to make belts for fucksakes? I mean what's a belt? You're not gonna win any Nobel prizes for making straps of leather that hold up your pants."
" ?"
"No! I wanted to be an architect. The emesse, my hand to God."
" !"
"Wanted I said, but couldn't. I don't have the head for it. I have a brain like a crocodile. He thinks, eat or not eat. I think, make money or...finagle. So I can't be an architect, I have to go with a realistic choice, my Plan B, to be a businessman. The point is Harry, for most of us, life is about the Plan B's. Your Plan A to be an actor, never made it out of the starting gate. You choked, I know the story. But that's history, now you gotta go for a Plan B, which in your case should be, B is for belts."
"Thanks Alvy, but I'm going there to be a TV writer--"
Alvy picked up a pickle and pointed it at Harry. "You and 16,000 others."
Harry clenched his fist. "Thanks for the encouragement."
"I wish you well, Harry. I really do. But you still need to eat," Alvy said and then bit off three inches of pickle.
"I've saved up enough money to keep me going for a year."
"Great, and then what? A year flies," Alvy said with his mouth full.
Harry rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes. "I'll worry about that when it happens."
Alvy pointed his fork at Harry. "I'd worry now. Have a Plan B."
"I can wait on tables till I make it."
"If you make it. Here's what I'm thinking, Harry." Alvy picked at the bread crumbs left on his plate and rolled them into a doughy booger-sized morsel. "I've sold a bit in states already and know I can do well there. I know some Koreans there who could produce for me until I get back on my feet again up here. Eventually I could open up my own plant there where there's lots of cheap labour. To get started I could I open up a showroom in the fashion mart there and you could run it...And still do your writing. If you make it in the boob tube, you're free to go. Just get me a replacement..."
"..."
"I'll pay you seventy-five grand plus two per cent commission..." Alvy offered while patting the bulging wallet in his pocket.
"..."
"One per cent for the majors."
"I dunno..." Harry instinctively grabbed for his pecker like a little boy.
"You can live it up a bit, LA's no place for schleppers with no money. You're gonna need a car, money to go out...I'll throw in a car in the deal." Alvy wiped off his sweaty brow, crumpled up the napkin and threw it on the table.
Harry understood the practical side to the offer. And there was a lot of downtime in writing and he'd probably have to kick around for a while before...if anything ever got going. And there was money and a car. He released his tight grip on his pecker.
"A car. A real car." Harry wanted to make sure he heard it right.
"Nothing fancy, maybe a good used one."
"..."
"Nu?"
"Fuck the Plan B. I'm going for the A-list."
Alvy sat there speechless.
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