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.