Evil Gal Productions

Mere Smith
is a recovering Southerner,
longtime TV writer,
author and blogger.
July 22nd, 2011 by Mere Smith

Calmed On The Carpet

Thinking about Oslo, but will keep my ranting confined to Twitter.  That gun-and-bomb-toting asshole is already getting more print than he deserves — so I’m restricting myself to doling it out 140 characters at a time, and only when my rage wells up so high it splashes over the floodgates.

Fucking douchebag castrato.

And… I’m done.

______________________________

Had a great meeting with someone from a film company on Wednesday.  The guy  (I’ll call him H.) was fantastic — smart, funny, down-to-earth yet ambitious — and it went on nearly two hours, which is the main reason we wound up sitting on the floor (my preferred place of parking it when my home couch [with my own personal butt-niche] is unavailable).  My spine simply couldn’t take any more propriety.

Understand, I can barely sit in a regular chair like a human being for five minutes without wanting to slink down onto the carpet — a byproduct of sitting Indian-style (do they still say that? is that hate-speech now? am I going to get sued by the ACLU?) in my chair when I write — so after I’d gotten to know H. well enough to realize he (probably) wouldn’t start pelting me with tablets of Haldol if I brought it up, I finally asked if he minded if I sat on the floor, and when he joined me, I thought, “Halleleujah!  Finally, someone who gets me: no pretense, no smoke’n’mirrors, no fake-osity!”  (Well it’s a word now.  Est ergo est.)

For all you Writers out there, I highly recommend taking all your meetings on the floor.  Suits may think you’re crazy — okay, full disclosure: they will think you’re crazy — but in my case, that particular ship sailed along with the Niña, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria, so it’s not like I have a lot to lose.  It’s just for some reason, a couple folks sitting on the floor together immediately dissolves all the normal hierarchical Hollywood bullshit and turns you into two regular people having a chat, which in this town is the equivalent of discovering the Higgs boson in your bowl of Frosted Flakes.

In a meeting several years ago — back when my hair was dyed blue and “I sincerely don’t give a fuck” might as well have been tattooed above my eyebrows — I once sat on a coffee table just for the shock value, since shocking the Suits always provides me intense amusement.  It worked; the Suits were shocked; “shocked” in the way that implies, “Jesus — why didn’t anyone tell us this chick is autistic?” (man, the ACLU’s gonna have a field day with this blog entry) — and big surprise, I never worked for them, which was okay by me, since I thought their crop of shows at the time was crap.  Hence the coffee-table-sitting: ’cause who cared?

Never worked for those Suits, that is, until a few years later, after all of them had either left, moved up, or been fired — the professional life span of a Suit in one place ranks right up there with your average NFL player: around three years — and the new round of Suits came in.  And since they’d already been informed by their predecessors about my odd seating proclivities, I could shock the new ones simply by plonking down in a chair and keeping up my end of the conversation without flapping my hands and rocking (screw the ACLU; now I’m more afraid of going to Hell).

And yes, they did hire me.  For what turned out to be a total crap show.  So there’s shock value karma for you.

But this time was different.  This time I just felt… comfortable.  With this guy and his company’s ethos.  The first things I saw when I walked into the office were two acoustic guitars leaning up against a couch — and not bolt-upright clasped in professional stands or anything — just, y’know, sorta leanin’ there, as if to say, “By the way, if you’d like to play some Dylan while you wait, feel free”  — and something in me went, “Oh yeah.  I could work with these people.”

H. and I talked about a great number of things, including our respective childhoods, our views on art, its place in the market (and ugh… those two phrases linked together just made my brain throw up a little inside my skull), new media, him: how he’d built his world-wide empire, me: how i’d built my mud-walls-and-thatched-roof medieval hovel.  It was really quite lovely, and I thanked D. — one of my managers — for setting up the meeting.  After getting booted from a family-network show, it was nice to talk about adult things.

Even if we did look like kindergarteners waiting for storytime.

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