I have, I suppose, my first official pitch meeting today at 1PM, which is not to say I’m confused about whether today is in fact the correct date for the meeting–I have gone through one rescheduling already, so my confidence in the date and time are pretty near the temperatures of a supernova’s initial .02 nanoseconds of explosive insistence that the rest of the universe look at it. Look at me, I’m a freakin’ supernova. I’m a raging ball of atomic death, borne from substances that make fire seem like the stuff they dump on the Rockies every year. Have some freakin’ respect. (I don’t know why I made my supernova like Robert De Niro, but that’s blogging for you.)
I use “I suppose” in the sense that I am under the apprehension that this is actually a pitch meeting. It might be a facial calisthenics exercise session for the agent I’m pitching to. Maybe he needs a laugh. Maybe it’s remodelling week down at 24/7 and he’s desperate for some aerobic and cardiovascular stimulation. This could be the cheapest gym session I’ve ever paid for. Don’t worry, I’m not paying to see him. That’d be therapy, and I haven’t arrived at the conclusion that I’m an Anonymous in need of a Twelve Step Program. But gas ain’t free. It ain’t even cheap. It is a quality fire starter. I’m not necessarily going for success here–just trying to avoid being turned into a live-action wicker man.
But I’m actually positive, buoyant even. I have a sore throat, which I intend on telling him straight out. That’ll limit my talking time, which almost always works in my favour. Next I will pitch him the basic premise, which naturally I won’t be telling you, because my blog is searchable, and Hollywood has ears like a freakin’ marmot. This 30 second premise pitch will be enough to sell him on the concept, leading to champagne tumblers and chorus girls and an amazing rendition of “You’re In The Money!” I will then spend the next six months churning out a script that I think is worth about $.04 at the recycling center. The agent and I will hammer out ideas, developing ad nauseum, until finally he calls me up and gives me the John Dear bit, only without the sympathy votes. He’s moving on to someone who isn’t an artistic fraud and who actually seems to want a positive bank balance.
But hey, in Bizarro World, the script is actually seventeen midgets who’ve concocted an insurance scam involving hobos, dead cats, and a 1978 Harley, and the pitch is actually me getting drunk at a St. Patty’s Day party in Des Moines. And the agent…well, he’s a corpulent John Waters looking for the next anorexic Divine. So really, when you break it down that way, things aren’t so bad at all.
Since I am still trying to finalize said pitch (read: start), I’m going to cut this blog entry short. But I just thought of something. I suppose this might be the beginning of a Hollywood-esque bent to some entries. I have threatened such things before, but this is the first time I’ve ever been within handshaking distance of real life representation. There are no certainties beyond the fact that it’s going to take me almost an hour to get to the agent’s office, so my time is short. The blog, however, she remains.
Sundance beckons too. Oh, so much to do. So few midgets with insurance scams…