Last updated on March 9th, 2019 at 03:55 pm

I never thought of getting a poker game together as such an exhibition. It never used to be; in high school, in college, we’d decide on the when/where/time, and then spend 10 minutes making calls. Within 30 minutes, we’d hear back from 95 percent of the people. In or out. See you there or catch you next time.

You could say those were simpler times. Now, everyone has more responsibility to juggle and things come up at the last minute. Ask any assistant or executive how things are at the office, and they’ll tell you, “oh, it’s crazy busy. Crazy crazy busy.”

Crazy busy is not an excuse for lack of accountability.

Life if complicated, but isn’t that why you have all those fancy apps on your phone? Your iCal and your six alarms, your international text messaging and GPS. Don’t these tools exist so you can make a commitment — yes or no — or if you have to break a commitment, you can communicate in a timely manner?

So what’s with the lack of accountability? Why do people consciously decide they’re not going to bother with a response? Why do we accept the behavior with the admission that, “well, this is how things just are…”?

We see others do it, and that makes it okay
The executives, the agents and all the other power players leverage time as their weapons. Canceling and rescheduling are tools in their arsenal to remind others that compared to them, they’re insignificant. Suddenly, “feeling tired” and “I don’t feel like it” are valid reason to cancel appointments. I remember rescheduling a half-an-hour general interest meeting that’d already been pushed literally, a dozen times — the original appointment was over a year ago.

If a meeting is pushed back one whole calendar year, then (one) the issue at hand either resolved itself and (two) the meeting wasn’t important to begin with. Why not cancel it?

Instead, I push it back another month, without explanation of the logic behind the decision. I bask in the wisdom of the decision, and nod my head as I observe “how business is done.”

Then I emulate the behavior in my personal life, with my personal relationships. If I’m called out on it, I justify my lack of accountability by saying, “this is how business gets done.”

There’s an implied pecking order when it comes to accountability.
The relationship is easy to follow: if they’re higher than you, then you’re the model of accountability and commitment. If they’re lower than you, you remind them of their status by not bothering to respond. That’s not precisely how the train of thought choo choos through the mind, but it’s close.

Every time someone fobs you off, they commit a specific transaction: they bet this show of superiority (“I am so powerful, so well-connected, that I can’t be bothered to respond to you”) is more valuable than any potential retribution (“…and there’s probably nothing you can do about it.”) On a conscious or unconscious level, blowing you off was a justified opportunity cost.

Ease of access translates to an easing of accountability
Our wonderful communication applications put our entire network just a few keystrokes away. That barrier to connect is so low, that in turn, the perceived opportunity cost of failing to connect is non-existent (“I choose to ignore this message because I know if I need something, I can always reach out.”) Plus, generally speaking the “higher” the technology, the more indirect and greater the anonymity. So by relying heavily on e-mailing and texting, we shield ourselves from the emotional consequence: we don’t respond to an e-mail; we cancel last minute via text.

In short, if I don’t feel like an ass for canceling then it’s easier to cancel.

The lack of accountability can be frustrating if you let it be. Is this how everyone treats one another? Is this really how business gets done? You can mope about it. You can get out of the game.

Or you can treat each one of those tiny injustices like chips on your shoulder. They can serve as nettling reminders that you’ve got something to prove — that they miscalculated when they decided blowing you off was a justified opportunity cost.

And then you go do something about it.

Photos credit: fahad Al-Muhanna

Last updated on March 9th, 2019 at 03:55 pm

I’m in the room, exec producer on my right, director to my left, and casting director across the table from me, and they’re swapping stories about girls they’re seeing and asses they’re tapping. I wish I met them years ago to better reap the benefits of their wisdom, because I see it: they can flip a switch the second an actress enters, and suddenly they’re charming, powerful, suave. The switch returns to off when the door closes, and it’s back to the “Vaseline story” about the prostitute in Mexico.

I have friends who’d be great in that room, armed with an encyclopedia of sexual conquests to contribute; guys who can weave sex stories into epics, turning a weekend tryst into an underdog tale, with antagonists and rising action and of course, a climax.

Theirs is a skill set I haven’t refined. When pressed to contribute, I tell them about my girlfriend, Amy. She lives in Ireland. I haven’t seen her in months but she’s visiting for Christmas and New Years. I’ll visit in April, and then she’s going to move to Los Angeles in the fall.

It’s a lovely story. But it’s not what the audience wants to hear. Which is understandable: when you want to see WILD THINGS you don’t settle for YOU GOT MAIL.

The general response is “that’s cute,” which looks like a compliment on paper, but is dismissive and belittling when heard aloud. “That’s cute” is an appropriate response to crazy cats and swearing babies you see on YouTube. Not two people trying to keep a relationship intact from halfway across the world. It’s a backhanded compliment with an unsaid implication:

That’s cute… that you think it’s going to last.
That’s cute… that you think anyone stays faithful these days.
That’s cute… that you think your relationship is a fairy tale, and you’ll live happily ever after.

There’s an inclination to challenge minority status if it’s flaunted, or presented without apology or embarrassment. Unapologetically aligning yourself with the minority is an affront to the status quo. It’s an attack on how others see the world, so they’ll get defensive. They’ll lash out in retaliation, with rebukes or belittlement.

The real insidiousness of their counter-attacks is that it springs from truth as they know it. “Believe, me,” they tell me. “I’ve had the unhappy marriages, the multiple divorces, the legal battles for money, for custody, for the dog. You, you’re young and naive, and what you’re talking about is a fairy tale.”

These are all facts. Irrefutable. I am young and I am naive, and when I tell people about Amy and our relationship that exists 6,000 miles apart with an 8-hour time difference, I wholeheartedly agree. We are chasing the fairy tale.
If you’re not, what would be the point?

Photo Credit: moniellain

Last updated on March 9th, 2019 at 03:55 pm

The scariest part about going collaborative with a project is the realization that once you bring another person on board, once you put out that innocuous question over coffee or drinks or a BBQ sauce stained napkin, “I got this project; you interested?” is that the project doesn’t belong to you anymore.

Now you share the project with your partner. It’s a joint-venture. Doesn’t matter how many nights you slaved over the concept, or how much money you sunk to get it from point “A” to its current manifestation. The scope continues to grow, you add more pieces, you bring on more people, and you own less tomorrow than you did today.

It can be a punch in the gut, watching your collaborators rip apart your meticulously constructed project, fumble with their individual pieces, and tweak that, adjust this, turn that knob and spin this dial, then try to reassemble the monstrosity. Don’t they know?! That’s your baby they’re so callously tweaking and manhandling, with absolute disregard for the sacred “process.”

Eventually, the torture ends. The collaboration is over, and it yields a product. The product is in the can and ready to ship, and so the rights revert back to you, right? You suffered through the butchering, but at least now your baby (your bloated, misshaped baby with 13 fingers and an ear for a nose) is back in your arms, right?

It is… right until the moment you ship. The second you put your project out to the world, it doesn’t matter what the byline reads or screen credit declares or contract states: the project once and forever more no longer belongs to you. Now it belongs to the world. It’s theirs to judge, to hate, to love, to critique, to ignore. If you’re not okay with that, you’re limiting your opportunities to create something greater than yourself.

I finished working on an independently financed television series, where I met a lot of talented people, but at times the project felt like a sinking ship. Production wrapped a month early when we came up short on the money. Once the dust settled and the strike days came and went, we could look past the issues of gross overspending, creative arguments, and constant rescheduling, and see these were the symptoms of the real problem: the project was never a true collaboration.

The project only ever belonged to a single person: the creator, who doubled as an executive producer, who tripled as the financier. He struggled to keep all the moving pieces together, clutching the reigns tightly in his fist, refusing to relinquish even an iota of control. Even as the pieces slipped faster and faster through his fingers, he continued to hold onto the illusion of control, because it was the only way he knew how to respond. It was both frustrating and heart breaking to watch.

I try to bear that in mind as I plunge into collaborations: any project of mine with a chance at denting the universe was never “mine” to begin with.

Photo Credit: shindz

Last updated on November 2nd, 2021 at 05:17 pm

What be the path now? Keep swinging for homeruns, hoping to get lucky with a feature written on spec? Because hey, even suckers eventually draw to that inside straight, long as they keep chasing it down. Or take a leaf from the electron’s notebook: hit it up with some “V” to the “IR,” and march down Easy Street, aka The Path of Least Resistance. You’ll hit different resistors, some in parallel, some in series, but at the end of the circuit at least you’ll find a paycheck and the stability of solid ground.

Option One is to stick to the Status Quo; there’s an appeal to keeping doing what’s doing. Stephen King said writing’s like sailing across the Atlantic in a bath tub, so why make waves? You’d be crazy to start drilling through porcelain unless you want to be a rub-a-glub-glub. Instead, keep on with the internships, hit up a few more companies, and earn experience points slow and steady – go for the level up by trolling though Mideel for Head Hunters, instead of setting off for Ruby Weapon. Give yourself cushion by waiting tables on the side, and most importantly, keep writing, keep producing art, keep pursuing what you came out to do. Some asshole’s going to hit the long shot – might as well be you.

Long Shots

1.       Nicholl Fellowship

2.       Zoetrope

3.       Slamdance

4.       Austin Film Festival

5.       Nantucket Film Festival

6.       Page

7.       Scriptapalooza

Option Two is setting sights on the writer’s room. It’d require a shift in gears, coming at the craft at a slightly different angle. The medium and the approach would change: writing specs for existing shows, and sending them off to get into a writing program, but you’re still writing. You could continue applying for internships, but the spectrum would be narrowed a smidgen: taking shots at production company jobs only, to get yourself a shot at the Writer’s Room by default of proximity, while trolling for an op as a writer’s assistant. And ‘cause the effort don’t earn a paycheck, it’d still require waiting tables on the side.

Writing Programs

1.       NBC Writers On the Verge

2.       Warner Brothers

3.       Fox Diversity Development

4.       ABC Program

5.       CBS Program

Finally, there’s the agent gig option. The Path of Lesser Resistance. Wouldn’t have to wait tables, for sure – not because you’d rake in the dough (no sir, not at ten dollars an hour) but because there’d be no time. Any writing completed would be done on the side, on weekends or during the day’s wee hours, and who knows if that’s enough time to produce anything of significance? Instead, time would be diverted towards building contacts and making connections, who you may or may not have anything to show, depending on if you’ve already done your work. If you haven’t, well, what separates you from the guy who only talks about his “great idea?”

Except – damn, there’s a huge draw to doing the agency route, because if you’re living in Los Angeles, you might as well live it. Be a part of the Hollywood machine. Attack that lifestyle.  Get a taste for it, live that hustle, at least for a little while, because isn’t that part of the experience? Even if becoming Agent Extraordinaire isn’t the end game, is it so wrong to sample the wares?

No simple choices, but plenty of ways to go wrong. Lots of diversions and distractions out there, and the only thing keeping the straight is paradigm: knowing what you want, and knowing you’re in the long haul to get it. Without it, it’s aimless wandering. With paradigm in place, you’ll wander, but at least you’ll drift in the right direction.

Photo Credit: Lauren Cameron

Last updated on March 9th, 2019 at 04:03 pm

Introduction

Got slapped with a backhand of information overload the other day. Felt like a shotgun shell of wisdom blasted in my direction – that can happen when you sit down and speak with two people who genuinely care about helping others with their careers – not easy to find. The information can be spliced two ways: paradigm and conceptual.

Paradigm

There aren’t sheets on the bed – that single observation caused the paradigm shift. Changed the way you looked at these last five months in Los Angeles.

It’s a queen-sized bed, graced with a twin-long flat sheet, the type made for foam dorm beds covered in stains incoming freshman pray are remnants of beer or (if it must be a bodily fluid,) vomit. The twin-long sheets is the color of white sanitation, the color of strait-jackets and hospital corridors. Instead of a duvet or comforter or a blanket, there’s a lime green 20-degree EMS mummy-style sleeping bag. Which is great for the surprisingly cold nights in Los Angeles, but doesn’t scream, “Welcome home!”

Because – and here’s the turn – this still isn’t home.

Even after schlepping shiz from coast to coast, at the heart of it, Los Angeles still wasn’t anything of permanence. The trucker hat hasn’t been hung, the proverbial roots haven’t snaked down like octopus tentacles into fake California Astroturf grass. Living in Los Angeles was no more than a pit stop: the car still rocks New York plates, a New York driver’s license still gets flashed to bouncers, and the I-9 forms still re-direct to the 518. Up to this point, this hasn’t been life, but rather, just another grand adventure, something to  pick up and walk away from after nine months. That’s been the lifestyle for years now: never committing to call any one locale “home,” or any one gig to call a career, and living light so the departure is never much more than a middle finger while EXITING STAGE LEFT.

This realization struck like a knuckle duster to a glass chin while discussing possible career steps with a friend. We debated the merits of getting into an agency program – getting paid minimum wage for a year or more as you’re groomed to become an agent-extraordinaire – but you’d come out with an arsenal of tools, and most importantly, the contacts of the future Misters and Misses Hollywood’s.

I scoffed at the idea.

Can’t do that for a year, I told him. I can’t possibly commit 18 months learning to become something I don’t want – no matter how great the reward.

He smiled at me. He said, “Why not?”

It’s too long of a commitment.

He said, “The best writers don’t stay writers their whole careers. They move onto other things: they direct, they produce, they become creative executives. If you want to look out for your long-term career, then the agency program and establishing all those contacts is a good plan. Because at some point, you’re going to need them. The cost maybe 18 months, but over the course of your career or your life, what’s 18 months?”

This friend, who a lifetime ago, was a professional dancer, said it took him 10 years of training to get to the point where he had the physical tools to walk into an audition and know he’d get the part. Compared to 10 years of grueling, physical training, what’s 18 months?

These last five months have been cute: poking a toe in the water, testing the temperature. But at some point, the time for dicking around is over: you’re either in or you’re out. You’re either running with the bulls or you’re standing safely on the sidelines. Except this ain’t no sprint, neither – only marathon-men make it in this business, while hot commodities are just flashes in the frying pan, dying out fast as fireflies in a jar. So if you’re not willing to put in the time, don’t bother. If you can’t keep your eye on the target for three, five, ten years, then you’re just clogging up the system. You have to accept missing out on dozens of other adventures, any number of birthdays, weddings, Christmases, and decide whether those are sacrifices you’re willing to make.

The paradigm shift came down to this: continue working and living and doing the way things have been doing, then go home with some nice stories, and say, “I tried.”

Or change. Take it more seriously. Be totally and completely committed. Then visit what you used to call home, and say, “I did it.”

Photo Credit: Sean Puno

Last updated on March 9th, 2019 at 04:03 pm

There are bad days. Two steps forward, one step back days.

Then there are the worst days. One step for man, one mothertrucking leap to square one at escape-velocity speed, a leap straight out of the influence of All Things Good and an ejection towards Never Never land.

On the bad days, you’re in over your head.

On the worst days, you’re an imposter, a sheep in wolf’s clothing. Sweat trickles into tear ducts beneath the mask, keenly aware that everyone in the elevator sees through the shined up kicks and pressed white shirt as the numbers climb tick tick tick to the beat of the Musak, towards your destiny of cracked leather chairs and arthritis inspiring keyboard, despite its ergonomic intentions.

The question, “What made you think you were special?” Sonic Booms! in ear drums on the worst days. Thousands flock to Los Angeles, the Hajj of the entertainment industry, and they’ll devote years of their lives to the crusade, giving up friends and family and dates and poker nights and beaches and sunsets to make it. You think you’ll climb even a mole hill while you’re here? Yes, talent rises, but if you don’t realize there are at least hundreds of people more talented than you, if you think you gots the biggest talent in all the land, then you’re spending time with the wrong people. Even artists with talent oozing from their pores may never make it to the top, as there’s only so much square footage to go around. You want your piece, you have to take it: throwing bows and Tony Jaa knees strikes in every direction. Forget claws; get an Adamantine skeletal frame and hide so tough, it’ll make Captain America’s, federally endorsed, Nazi-crushing shield look like a single-ply toilet paper. And if you hear “it’s not what you know, it’s who you know” one more time, you might donkey punch that person right in their sardonic mug.

Trying to make it Los Angeles changes how you view the world. You see it through a rotating kaleidoscope, where values and morals and truth and lies shift with the slightest breeze. It changes you; changes you precisely in the manner you scoffed at before, back when you thought nothing would change you, that you’d stay true no matter what.  The worst days whittle down that resolve like a sharp knife and rough hands groping a block of putty. Straight-shooters might make it in this business, but they certainly don’t make it easy on themselves, and who’d notice if you cheated an inch here, took an iota advantage there?

The loneliness aches like a dull pang on the worst days. Countless meals-for-one while you create your own hustle 3,000 miles away from anyone familiar, the people you want in your life as they love and cry and marry and hold concerts and make art and make mistakes and do what made you love them to begin with. Meanwhile, you try forging new relationships in a climate where throwaway friends are as common as Astroturf roll-out lawns, and just as fake. Everyone’s playing the game, and at some point you realize there’s no way to turn it off, no reset button to push.

But even if the day stretches itself out like Gumby downing muscle relaxers on a hot day, the day ends; even the worst days end. And when it does, you’re still living in Los Angeles, driving down Sunset Blvd to go home or go drink or go commiserate, and this is something no one can take away. No matter the abuse or the belittlement or the loneliness, you’ll have this: you could be anywhere in the world, and here you are, making it on your own initiative and own hustle, getting paid to work your own hours, to create something unique for the world. You’re getting exactly what you signed up for; no more no less. All it took was the willingness to risk everything, which for the great majority of people, amounts to nothing at all.

Photo Credit: Ted Fu