death and hope, pina coladas and the robot
You have not heard from me because I have been in self-imposed exile since last Thursday, lamenting a great loss. It is with heavy heart and great sadness that I inform you that my television show, which has been in development since August of 2005, has died. The network announced Thursday that it was “passing” on the show, which is industry jargon for “Get the hell out of my office.”
Before we go any further, a quick background: How the sitcom-creating process works is that a network will buy an idea for a TV show based on a pitch meeting (like in Seinfeld). Major networks will usually buy 70 or so of these ideas and pay the creators of said ideas to write one pilot script – the first episode of the series. The writing will take place between September and January. In January, the network will pick 8-10 of these 70 scripts to shoot (usually the shooting takes place between February and April). Then, in May, the network will decide which of these 8-10 shot pilots will go on the air in the fall. Usually only one or two of the original 70 will make it to the air. I’m pretty sure this is correct, but if not, fuck it.
My show was one of these 70-something pilots that the network (which I don’t think I can name but can be figured out by clicking on the “Variety” link in the “Press” section on the right) bought in the summer of 2005 to vie for inclusion for the Fall 2006 lineup. But due to a scheduling conflict, it was rolled to this past summer and the Fall 2007 lineup. Since this September, my co-writer and I had been feverishly working on the script. But after many trips to LA, several intense discussions of the merits of “douche” vs. “dick”, and countless barroom utterances of “Did I mention that I have a development deal with a major network?”, it’s all over.
What’s worse about this is that we – the show, my co-writer and I, everyone who reads this site – made it very far in this process. We’d been in bonus time for over a month, meaning at any point in time over the past few weeks the network could have said “No thanks” and it wouldn’t have been a shock. Instead, we made it – literally – to the final week of cuts before getting the ax. The only analogy I can think of (and admittedly I suck at analogies) is that it’s like getting a blowjob from Jenna Jameson for four days and then just as your about to spooge she reveals that she’s not Jenna Jameson, but a man. And not just any man, but your Uncle Frankie. And worst: you’re in such a sorry state and so confused and wound up and desperate that you say “Fuck it” and offer him $14 to finish the job. He does, then the two of you go bowling and never mention it again. Yeah, that’s a pretty good analogy.
What does this all mean for me? It means that I’ve been smoking a ton of pot alone in my apartment and dancing the robot to Ghostland Observatory’s “Silver City,” which, though it sounds pretty sweet, is probably a bad thing. However, it also means that as soon as my normal work (you know, that 9 to 5 job that has been draining the life out of me for the past two or so months) slows down, I’m going to catch a plane to the Caribbean, drink my weight in pina coladas, and pay a strange woman to have sex with me. Which is, undeniably, awesome.
[I’ve been so out of it lately that seconds before I started to write this post, I masturbated to a clip of Tera Patrick while John Lennon’s “Jealous Guy” was playing on my iTunes. Normally, I have the presence of mind to turn off what music is on while masturbating or at least put on some mood music, like Gerald Levert or Al B. Sure or Rush. But I just spooged while John Lennon’s was singing, “I didn’t mean to hurt you…I’m sorry that I made you cry” over a piano and a string arrangement. The saddest part: it was a pretty good session.]
But on the whole, I have no complaints and no regrets. I got to meet and work with some very funny and intelligent people, who I will not thank here but have thanked and will continue to thank personally, mostly in the form of gag gifts and pictures of me in the tub.
(Seriously, contrary to the “everyone is a dick in Hollywood” image, everyone I met was cool and understanding and totally patient when I got lost in Burbank because my quick stop at the In-and-Out Burger before a meeting turned into an expedition worthy of Homer or whoever wrote those old Greek books about ships and shit.)
I also learned much about Hollywood and the entertainment industry and how to get girls who are way out of your league to sleep with you. And most importantly, because I was gently asked not to talk about the process on here, I got a ton of material for a new book – How My Blog Got You to Buy This Book and Other Stories of Teeth and Teeth from the Entertainment Industry. Let’s say late 2008 on this one.
And though I despise loser talk – the “we tried hard” and “this team has a lot of heart” and “I’m proud of these guys” stuff – we, meaning me and you all, do have a lot to be proud of here. I mean, I suck – there’s really no other way to cut that one – but because you guys passed on (and continue to pass on) the site to your friends, co-workers, and people you sleep with when it’s after 1am on Saturday nights and you’re feeling a little lonely, we landed a development deal with a major network despite having zero experience and only an internet diary to our credit. Power to the people, mother fuckers. And while this power probably should be used for more noble endeavors, like ending the genocide in Darfur or stopping hunger worldwide, if I had to make a list of such noble causes, getting me a blowjob in a rental car in Santa Monica is probably in the top ten. At least, I think so.
So in conclusion: it’s over, but it’s not completely over; there were some major positives in the process and I have no regrets; and most of all, we did good and thank you. I’ll end there, lest I get too mushy. Also, I want to get high and do the robot some more. That shit is fun.