2006-07-14 - 8:26 p.m.
You see, the problem with me is that I am lazy. If you wanted to define me, you would have to say the following -- I am lazy, modestly intelligent, and awfully neurotic. When push comes to shove, this is a potent, corrosive, and poisonous brew. I want everything in my life to be comfortable, so I may sink without guilt into a sort of secure complacency and not have to think about it.
Because I am lazy I tend to enjoy sleeping late, not working too hard, and skating by on sheer charm. Because I am neurotic, I am terrified of new situations and am desperate to avoid personal challenges or awkward interactions with other people. My goodness – I hate talking on the phone and making phone calls. And I am equally terrified of making the first move towards another person.
I am passive, meaning I tend to wait for someone else to come to me. I am introspective and, some have said, “not terribly personable.” And, because I am pretty intelligent, I have long since discovered that I can talk myself out of anything. I have found the gift of “yes….but”-ting myself to ensure that I effortlessly prevent myself from doing anything that might shake things up a bit.
I only mention all this because this is quickly turning out to be the worst professional summer, ever. For some reason, and it can’t be a coincidence, both the Big Paper and the Little Paper seem to have decided to let me go. Quite honestly, I can’t even guess the reason why – it honestly seems to be a case of coincidence, since it is my belief that the two editors in question really don’t know each other from Adam and could hardly confabulate in some kind of an odious conspiracy to cut me off at the pass.
It even passed my mind to think that perhaps one or two of the editors have found my blog and were so disgusted by it that they decided to fire me. But I daresay that someone would have said something to me if that were the case. And ultimately that doesn’t really make any sense: Peculiarly, my blog has actually gotten me work on other occasions, so I know that, as disgraceful as some of my admissions are, they are probably not of the sort that would enrage and alienate a boss.
It occurs to me that my problem is that I am not “driven.” And many of the folks who are in these trades are scheming and aggressive, qualities which undeniably allow them to get a leg up over me. I am more passive, I am sorry to say. I do not feel “passion” for pretty much anything, whether it’s journalism, the movie business, or a gigantic hard cock, pulsing and pink.
Well, OK – I can just about muster some enthusiasm for cock and in the presence of one, my world turns from black and white into High Definition Color, at least for a few minutes. But you can hardly make a living worshipping cock. All right – maybe you can, but you have to be in your twenties and adorable, and I am neither.
One must face facts -- I am an increasingly hateful old goat. And, while one or two of my unhelpfully waggish correspondents has suggested that I become a “daddy prostitute,” servicing horny young guys who’d pay for the privilege of having sex with an older, out of shape, neurotic jewish guy – a father figure just like the one who judged them harshly as children -- well, that trajectory simply doesn’t seem too realistic.
In addition, I am feeling frustration because there’s just a trickle of “dog days of summer” busy work coming out of the stupid production company that for which I have been doing script reading. This is a source of great rage to me: What kind of a production company is this that only has three scripts a week coming into the office?
For goodness sakes, I could gather twenty scripts a week if I just sat in this chair at the Novel Café, and put up a sign saying, “Give Me Your Script!” The exec who is in charge at this production company seems to be even lazier than I am. I can’t even imagine what he does in his office all day, given that he doesn’t seem to be doing any work. There’s a rumor going around that the big boss was caught by the Bean Counters at Megalith to have expense accounted several hookers during various business trips. It’s not the sleaziness of using corporate money to buy hookers that irritates me, though I question his good taste, since the fellow named his production company after his three children.
Rather, what is irritating is that the guy can put hookers on the expense account, but can’t come up with a measly eight scripts a week for me to read. My needs are not much, I assure you. I just want enough work so that I don’t have to think about it.
And then there is the idiotic 23 year old assistant who is the fellow I report to. I am pleased to report that he is the NEW 23 year old assistant, who replaced the former, ignominiously fired Stanford University Cheerleader assistant. However I’ve got to tell you: The cheerleader seems almost like a paragon of competence, compared with this new fellow.
For instance, every Monday, I send in my invoices, week after week, but under the best of circumstances it takes something like a month to get paid.
“Oh, that’s just the way Megalith handles their invoives!” the idiothead assistant invariably burbles, when I call him on it.
To which I can only reply, “You disgusting wretch. You filthy beast! I worked at Megalith for five years! I know how they do their paperwork, scary brat. You are deliberately dragging your heels over paying me my pittance for some disgusting reason of your own!”
Perhaps I didn’t say that, but I thought it, that’s for sure. I actually kept my dark counsels to myself. But even so, up until a week ago, two months went by without a paycheck! And then, the stupid assistant called me, all giggles, squeaking, “Oh my! It’s the funniest thing! I just found a whole pile of your invoices, just on my desk, under a pile of garbage! Ah, ha ha ha ha ha ha! Don’t you worry, I shall submit these immediately and you should get paid ASAP. In about a month!”
It was all I could do to keep from reaching into the phone and snapping the neck of the irksome brat-assistant, just to see how he would handle life without a spine. And what a pleasure it would have been to hear his young, barely-pubescent voice howling with pain and despair, as his bladder opened and he unstoppably urinated and defecated into his crisp black slacks. How I would have laughed to see the steams of blood pouring out of his ears, causing his ear-bud to fritz and his hair to stand up on end from the electric charge. Ahh, that would have cheered me up all right.
I tell you, show business is so glamorous. It’s a wonder anyone would want to do anything else.
