​I was headed south for a few days: two meetings, one reconnection, and some quality time with friends. I am happy to report that I not only survived but thrived. I had put a few protocols in place and followed them rigorously. One, a face mask would always be worn inside. Two, I’d only have unprotected anal sex with street prostitutes that had been fully vaccinated (This was a firm rule, and I would only consider breaking the rule for intravenous drug users). 
 
The drive was hideous. I-5 is fastest but filled with meth-fueled truckers, racing to beat their best times to Los Angeles. Occasionally, one would wipe out and leave us all tied up in a jam lasting for at least two hours while overworked highway patrol officers separated the bloody remains from the twisted metal and hot pavement. My first celebrity sighting was at a Chevron Station just north of Bakersfield. Not only did I have the privilege of paying over five dollars a gallon for gas, but I was personally introduced to a large host of flies last seen in the film, The Amityville Horror.  The flies hitched a ride for the last two hundred miles, annoying me with the constant buzz of show business stories, a couple surviving the opening of both front and back windows, making it to Hermosa Beach, where they eventually left to stay with in-laws.
 
I had a couple of meetings that went extremely well, and a mask was always within reach.
 
The first meeting was a lunch with an established director in the historic Riviera Country Club in Pacific Palisades. Iconic location to such classic films as Pat and Mike, Against All Odds, and countless television episodes of The Rockford Files. Lunch was great, conversation was better and should be reaping some results very soon.
 
Yet another meeting on Thursday, this time with a producer on the same project. Breakfast was in Brentwood and consisted of avocado toast, latte, and a conversation with one of the industry giants. Amazingly enough, his resume did not include that he was one of the nicest people I have ever met in my entire career, and I count myself extremely lucky.
 
Alas, the visit was way too brief, the time spent with friends old and new, fleeting. Special thanks to Siri for getting me everywhere I needed with no problems. Sometimes even saving me a minute or two. I did learn something very important. Los Angeles is a very good city for podcasts. Since everything is at least an hour away, it is the perfect summer destination if you want to catch up on your podcasts. And a car is one of the few places you do not have to wear a mask.

And now a word from the world's most vulnerable choir:

​Just for the record, in my entire creative career, I’ve never had a stapler hurled at me. Nor have I ever had the pleasure of hearing the gentle whistling breeze of an inanimate object soaring past my ear. I consider myself fortunate that no one, Hollywood executive, ex-wife, or ex-girlfriend has ever felt the need to capture my attention in such a manner.

Consider, if you will, Scott Rudin, whose exploits are so notorious that they made a movie about it, with, of all people, Kevin Spacey. Talk about dream casting. That’s equivalent to casting disgraced General and Q Anon advocate Michael Fynn in your remake of Seven Days in May. Anyways, the celebrated antics of Rudin are legion. And no worries, if staplers are not your preferred projectile of choice, ask Rudin if he happens to be packing a Blackberry. And, if he can’t get his hands on something to throw, the two-time MVP for abuse will gladly hurl an insult or two. You know you’ve made it into the abusive hall of fame when you Goggle Hollywood assholes, and your name comes up before Harvey Weinstein.

And you do not need to hurl a stapler to win MVP. There are other forms of disrespect that do not leave bruises but can be just as harmful. I have been lucky and have not experienced any of the more egregious behavior. But I have heard the bone-chilling stories, and those are bad enough.

We will not weed out these types in one fell swoop, but bastards like Rudin are a start. And we have to start speaking up. As my friend Dan Sanders is fond of saying, witnessing, and doing nothing (aka The Speer Defense) makes you an accessory. Let’s all try and keep that in mind.

I once went into a pitch meeting, and while I was waiting for my appointment, I saw a sign hanging over the entrance to the inner offices. It did not read, “Abandon hope, all who enter here.” It simply said, “Be Kind.” Nice thought and the sentiment deserves to be hung and mounted in a few more Hollywood offices.

Did you know there was a whole genre in the literary field called Plague Fiction? And it’s not new, and it’s been around for a while.  It seems fiction writers are way ahead of the curve when it comes to disaster entertainment. They were out Irwin Allening Irwin Allen long before Poseidon Adventure or Towering Inferno. Stephen King’s The Stand certainly qualifies, but what about The Andromeda Strain by Crichton or the more recent Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel. All those listed are examples of modern writers tackling the subject. But it goes back even longer. Dante’s Inferno is a direct result of both noble and peasant alike sharing an overwhelming concern about getting their shit together before the angel of death came to a calling.
 
I think it is high time for plague travel brochures and specialty tours. You want to catch this bad boy? How about a trip to Orange County, CA. Perhaps Triple-A can offer something; a sick-trip-tick. I’ll get back to you on that.
 
What’s my point? Not sure. I am heading to Los Angeles on Monday for a couple of meetings and secretly wonder if I am laying my life on the line for the potential promise of a few measly dollars. I guess what I am trying to say, even during the black plague, people must eat, and, unfortunately, that includes conducting some sort of commerce. I’ll be wearing my mask, eating outdoors, and will forgo the Dodgers against San Francisco series that will be in full swing during my visit. 
 
I have two meetings/lunches scheduled, and I am excited about both and will keep you plague posted. In the meantime, here is your weekly video concerning the new Republican Health Plan. Enjoy.

As I remove the contents of my Madison Reed hair color kit in anticipation of my next trip south, I ponder the issue of ageism in Hollywood and how it affects people of a certain age. I have pondered many schemes to combat the natural prejudice of writers of my generation, including utilizing a Martin Ritt type of The Front scam, recruiting someone much younger to peddle my pitches. Hey, don’t laugh. It could work.  Now of the tail end of the pandemic, I am not entirely sure investing in such a scam is needed. With the ability to conduct meetings over Skype, Zoom, or even WebEx, some producers are changing the whole idea of the pitch. And all you need for a video conference is a good puppet stand-in, like the one used by Clint Howard in Star Trek (TOS), The Corbomite Maneuver.
 
Indeed, the people who have worked with me in the past have some idea of my age. A couple of them have even attended my 60th birthday celebration. Still, like glory, memory south of Bakersfield is fleeting. As a rule, the serious screenwriter should be wary of discussing the benefits of Medicare parts A and D in any industry pitch sessions. These discussions are best left to your tight circle of friends.
 
While we’re at it, here are a few more subjects, besides your age, that should be off-limits at a pitch meeting; how broke you are, the health of the producer’s discretionary fund, and, it goes without saying, politics of any kind. However, conversations regarding the advanced age of any of your peers are perfectly acceptable and often even justified. Not only does it take the focus off of your extra-long ear and nose hairs, but it may also change the subject to someone a producer dislikes more than you.

​After all, this is show business, and you are only going to get ahead by tearing down all of those in your profession.
 

​“No matter how many times you stir up a steaming pile of crap, it’s still just a steaming pile of crap.” Altos Budrys
 
“Books aren’t written - they’re rewritten. Including your own. It is one of the hardest things to accept, especially after the seventh rewrite hasn’t quite done it.” Michael Crichton
“I will sell no screenplay before its time.” Orson Welles.
 
There are two schools of thought on this. For the sake of this blog post, I will go with the latter. From perspective, I’d just cleaned out one of two filing cabinets and found two screenplays that needed to be spiffed up for my portfolio. I am afraid that the references had not aged well, and I thought If I were going to keep them, it would be best to send them over to the creative detail shop. 
The first step was to read through them both, and after I removed the taste of bile from my mouth, I went to work. Both needed major plotting work with a stronger focus on the characters. The arcs for the leads were okay, but the broad strokes I had used for the supporting casts were nothing more than stereotypes (I always knew I should have taken that staff writing job for Hee-Haw). 
I jumped into both projects and several weeks later had two new drafts. Both are better but are they worth sending out? Hard to tell, but it does bring up the age-old question, two of your creative darlings are drowning. What do you do? I guess my answer was to try and save them both.