fame and everything else
14 May 2007
Last night I had my annual brush with celebrity and Hollywood elite, the UTA Upfronts party at Marquee.
For those of you – like myself – not in "the industry," the networks announce their fall schedules this week in NYC. This is a big deal in the entertainment and advertising industries; in entertainment, writers, directors and actors learn if they’re going to be making $30,000 a week or will be unemployed for the foreseeable future, and in advertising, ads are bought during this time for the upcoming season. Or something.
I was invited to this party because I am a client of UTA. Also, as some of you may remember, I had a show in development with a Major Network that was, sadly, passed on. This made this year’s party especially bittersweet. If things had worked out, it would have been my show that was announced for the fall lineup today, a development that would have spiraled me into an orgy of cocaine, fireworks, vodka, and, um, orgies. But because I can’t write anything that doesn’t directly refer to my baby penis (which, apparently, is not fit for discussion on network television), instead of shaking hands and getting congratulated I’m sitting in my office with a miserable hangover and a pathetic excuse for an erection.
(And a baby penis.)
I brought my friends Brian and Jeremy with me to this party and the theme was "Well, I had a good run." Since the show is dead and the book is not-so-slowly turning into "Chinese Democracy," I don’t think Uncle Jason is going to get too many more invites to parties that Lindsay Lohan, Zach Braff and Bob Saget have attended in the past. We left for the party with this attitude, determined to celebrate not the passing of my career, but rather the fun (and overtly sexual, if expensive) ride that it involved. Also, there was an open bar. So we pretty much had to take advantage of that.
And boy, did we ever. I’ve been off vodka for some time now. I had to stop because I used to drink so much that I’d find myself having conversations in fluent Russian with various figments of my imagination (my miniature horse Ron, the Mexican busboy from the Dorchester Holiday Inn named Reggie, the late Jeff Buckley, etc). But when asked by the 9.4 bartender/seductress what I wanted to drink, I had to go with the ol’ standby: the vodka tonic.
Maybe it was the environment, or the fact that I was high and pretty freaked out by the "Sopranos" episode that I watched before leaving for the party, but those vodka tonics tasted delicious. Also, schmoozing really makes a guy thirsty. All the hugging, hand-shaking, cheek-kissing, bathroom-masturbating activity really got me riled up. And when I’m riled up, I drink faster. And when I drink fast, I say to myself, "Fuck it – I’m staying out all night and calling in sick tomorrow."
The party was a blast. This was my third UTA upfronts party and definitely the most fun, probably because I knew the most people at this one: agents, friends, producers, executives, drug dealers – even my old co-writer Eric was there. I tried to spend my time equally with Brian and Jeremy and my other "industry" friends, splitting time and making introductions when I could. But when talking to Brian and Jeremy, we occupied ourselves with two main activities:
1) A good portion of the night was spent trying to decide if I was the shittiest person there. "Shittiest" in this context meaning either "has the worst career" or "least belongs at this party" or "hasn’t had a sustainable erection in nine weeks because he’s becoming overly critical of women in order to mask his own deficiencies." Brian and Jeremy are surely shittier than me (in those first two departments), but the competition was limited to those on the guest list only, not their invited guests.
The answer? I think I was indeed the shittiest person there. It’s hard to say, because it’s not like Brian, Jeremy and I recognized everyone and knew of all their accomplishments, but judging on a number of factors based solely on appearance (clothes, attitude, confidence, tanness, likeliness of having had a threesome, etc), I was definitely at the bottom of the barrel (my scores: crappy and ill-fitting, defeated, zero, pale as a sheet of looseleaf, not even close).
2) We also spent a significant of time staring at the beautiful women at the party. I’d have to check the records, but I don’t think the phrase "Holy crap – look at that girl!" has been uttered more times in a four-hour period than it was last night. There is something disarmingly sexy about the aspiring actress type, possessed, as they are, of that delicate mix of abandon, desperation, and insanity that only a lifetime of hearing "You’re beautiful" can imbue; the very opposite of the word "inviolate," they are.
And I totally fucking dig it.
I will promise you this, dear readers: When I make my career comeback and garner my modicum of fame sometime in the next twelve months, I promise that I will marry the most beautiful girl that agrees to go on a date with me. Six weeks later, we will divorce. It will be terrible, and I will be institutionalized for a brief while for trying to remove my genitals with a tree branch at my neighbor’s barbeque. However, the pain from this divorce will inspire my greatest work, "Cuts Like A Spoon: Love You Like A Monkey and Other Tales from the Bottom of Everything," which will be celebrated, critically and commercially, until my death in a bizarre hotel fire in Monte Carlo in 2009. After my death, it will be discovered that I had been a practicing Nazi since 1987 and I will subsequently be erased from the canon of American literature, my contributions to cinema, culture, and the art of love-making pushed aside and buried. All, it will be said, because of a beautiful woman.
That is my promise to you. Promise.
As for the party itself, I won’t get into the specifics of what happened, lest someone have me killed (just trust me on this). I got in at 4am and ate (conservatively) two pounds of salsa, taking care to remove my dress shirt before doing so. (A move that proved very wise, as when I woke up this morning my undershirt was streaked with salsa stains. And yes, again, I am single.)
I told myself several times between the hours of 2am and 4am that I would call in sick, and when my alarm went off at 7:45am, I started typing an email to my boss telling him I would not be in. But when I finished, I couldn’t hit "send." I don’t know what came over me – I’d rather not think about it, honestly – but for the first time in my life, I was unable to willfully slack off at my job. This…this is not a good development.
And now here I sit at my desk, swaying and sweating and staring at the clock, praying for 5:30pm to come at 4:30pm (or perhaps…now).
But in a way, I have a feeling of pride. I partied hard last night, saw old friends, felt alternatively cool and inadequate, stared at some beautiful women, and got a handful of stories I can’t tell for at least six months until the statute of limitations runs out. Tonight, I am going to get Thai food, eat a sundae, take a Xanax, and sleep for thirteen hours. Things are looking up.
Right now, I have to get back to thinking and plotting and creating. "Cuts Like A Spoon" isn’t going to write itself, after all.
For those of you – like myself – not in "the industry," the networks announce their fall schedules this week in NYC. This is a big deal in the entertainment and advertising industries; in entertainment, writers, directors and actors learn if they’re going to be making $30,000 a week or will be unemployed for the foreseeable future, and in advertising, ads are bought during this time for the upcoming season. Or something.
I was invited to this party because I am a client of UTA. Also, as some of you may remember, I had a show in development with a Major Network that was, sadly, passed on. This made this year’s party especially bittersweet. If things had worked out, it would have been my show that was announced for the fall lineup today, a development that would have spiraled me into an orgy of cocaine, fireworks, vodka, and, um, orgies. But because I can’t write anything that doesn’t directly refer to my baby penis (which, apparently, is not fit for discussion on network television), instead of shaking hands and getting congratulated I’m sitting in my office with a miserable hangover and a pathetic excuse for an erection.
(And a baby penis.)
I brought my friends Brian and Jeremy with me to this party and the theme was "Well, I had a good run." Since the show is dead and the book is not-so-slowly turning into "Chinese Democracy," I don’t think Uncle Jason is going to get too many more invites to parties that Lindsay Lohan, Zach Braff and Bob Saget have attended in the past. We left for the party with this attitude, determined to celebrate not the passing of my career, but rather the fun (and overtly sexual, if expensive) ride that it involved. Also, there was an open bar. So we pretty much had to take advantage of that.
And boy, did we ever. I’ve been off vodka for some time now. I had to stop because I used to drink so much that I’d find myself having conversations in fluent Russian with various figments of my imagination (my miniature horse Ron, the Mexican busboy from the Dorchester Holiday Inn named Reggie, the late Jeff Buckley, etc). But when asked by the 9.4 bartender/seductress what I wanted to drink, I had to go with the ol’ standby: the vodka tonic.
Maybe it was the environment, or the fact that I was high and pretty freaked out by the "Sopranos" episode that I watched before leaving for the party, but those vodka tonics tasted delicious. Also, schmoozing really makes a guy thirsty. All the hugging, hand-shaking, cheek-kissing, bathroom-masturbating activity really got me riled up. And when I’m riled up, I drink faster. And when I drink fast, I say to myself, "Fuck it – I’m staying out all night and calling in sick tomorrow."
The party was a blast. This was my third UTA upfronts party and definitely the most fun, probably because I knew the most people at this one: agents, friends, producers, executives, drug dealers – even my old co-writer Eric was there. I tried to spend my time equally with Brian and Jeremy and my other "industry" friends, splitting time and making introductions when I could. But when talking to Brian and Jeremy, we occupied ourselves with two main activities:
1) A good portion of the night was spent trying to decide if I was the shittiest person there. "Shittiest" in this context meaning either "has the worst career" or "least belongs at this party" or "hasn’t had a sustainable erection in nine weeks because he’s becoming overly critical of women in order to mask his own deficiencies." Brian and Jeremy are surely shittier than me (in those first two departments), but the competition was limited to those on the guest list only, not their invited guests.
The answer? I think I was indeed the shittiest person there. It’s hard to say, because it’s not like Brian, Jeremy and I recognized everyone and knew of all their accomplishments, but judging on a number of factors based solely on appearance (clothes, attitude, confidence, tanness, likeliness of having had a threesome, etc), I was definitely at the bottom of the barrel (my scores: crappy and ill-fitting, defeated, zero, pale as a sheet of looseleaf, not even close).
2) We also spent a significant of time staring at the beautiful women at the party. I’d have to check the records, but I don’t think the phrase "Holy crap – look at that girl!" has been uttered more times in a four-hour period than it was last night. There is something disarmingly sexy about the aspiring actress type, possessed, as they are, of that delicate mix of abandon, desperation, and insanity that only a lifetime of hearing "You’re beautiful" can imbue; the very opposite of the word "inviolate," they are.
And I totally fucking dig it.
I will promise you this, dear readers: When I make my career comeback and garner my modicum of fame sometime in the next twelve months, I promise that I will marry the most beautiful girl that agrees to go on a date with me. Six weeks later, we will divorce. It will be terrible, and I will be institutionalized for a brief while for trying to remove my genitals with a tree branch at my neighbor’s barbeque. However, the pain from this divorce will inspire my greatest work, "Cuts Like A Spoon: Love You Like A Monkey and Other Tales from the Bottom of Everything," which will be celebrated, critically and commercially, until my death in a bizarre hotel fire in Monte Carlo in 2009. After my death, it will be discovered that I had been a practicing Nazi since 1987 and I will subsequently be erased from the canon of American literature, my contributions to cinema, culture, and the art of love-making pushed aside and buried. All, it will be said, because of a beautiful woman.
That is my promise to you. Promise.
As for the party itself, I won’t get into the specifics of what happened, lest someone have me killed (just trust me on this). I got in at 4am and ate (conservatively) two pounds of salsa, taking care to remove my dress shirt before doing so. (A move that proved very wise, as when I woke up this morning my undershirt was streaked with salsa stains. And yes, again, I am single.)
I told myself several times between the hours of 2am and 4am that I would call in sick, and when my alarm went off at 7:45am, I started typing an email to my boss telling him I would not be in. But when I finished, I couldn’t hit "send." I don’t know what came over me – I’d rather not think about it, honestly – but for the first time in my life, I was unable to willfully slack off at my job. This…this is not a good development.
And now here I sit at my desk, swaying and sweating and staring at the clock, praying for 5:30pm to come at 4:30pm (or perhaps…now).
But in a way, I have a feeling of pride. I partied hard last night, saw old friends, felt alternatively cool and inadequate, stared at some beautiful women, and got a handful of stories I can’t tell for at least six months until the statute of limitations runs out. Tonight, I am going to get Thai food, eat a sundae, take a Xanax, and sleep for thirteen hours. Things are looking up.
Right now, I have to get back to thinking and plotting and creating. "Cuts Like A Spoon" isn’t going to write itself, after all.
