The Bad Neighbor Policy

I live in Hollywood (one of the slightly edgy, but still affordable neighborhoods in L.A.) With its numerous apartment buildings and proximity to the studios, it has long been home to young hopefuls trying to make it in the entertainment business. For the last 15 years, I’ve lived in a complex made up of Spanish style townhouses situated around a courtyard. Although a little threadbare, it’s got a lot of charm. Constructed in the early 1920’s (before the invention of sub-woofers and big screen TV’s), my only complaint is that the houses are built somewhat close together and noise travels pretty easily from one unit to the next.

On one side of me lives a very talented (and very quiet) production designer whom I adore. On the other side is a unit that I used to refer to as the “House of Irritation,” since for years, every time somebody moved in, it was bad news.

When I first arrived, two young actors lived there who threw huge, out of control parties that lasted till dawn. After they were booted out, a casting director moved in who enjoyed nothing more than hiring male prostitutes to come over and give him a good spanking in the middle of the night. When he left, a couple of independent producers took over the place, who were always borrowing things like scissors and screwdrivers and never returning them.

All of these people however paled in comparison to “Nyla” (not her real name). Nyla was a 40ish blond entertainment publicist who struck me as trouble from the moment she arrived. Nyla went out to a lot of clubs with her clients and had a habit of bringing said clients (and whoever else she picked up along the way) back to her place once the bars closed at around 2 AM. The party would then amp up as Nyla and her guests would dance and sometimes sing along with the music while Nyla (who apparently had a little gypsy in her) would accompany them on a tambourine. The first time this happened, I tried to wait it out. Finally, around 3 AM, I banged on her door, but got no response. The next morning I wrote her the most polite note I could manage (given I’d only had three hours sleep) and invited her to make all the noise she wanted until midnight, but requested that she keep it down after that. I tucked it into her mailbox and hoped for the best.

The next day, I found a hand-written reply from my new neighbor taped to my door that was three pages long (front and back). The first couple of pages were filled with humble apologies plus a little background info. Having just moved here from New York, she was still getting her bearings, she explained. She loved the courtyard and only wanted to make friends with her neighbors. Then gradually the tone of the letter changed as Nyla began to recount the events and timeline of the party as best she could recall them. Right around page three, the letter started developing a slightly sinister, accusatory tone as Nyla began to question how I could "possibly have heard that.” Adding to the weirdness, the letter had been written using three different pens (each a different color) which I suspected meant that composing it had been an all-day affair. I took a deep breath. Clearly, my new neighbor was either a drunk or insane. As it turned out, she was both.

Nyla worked out of her home and talked on the phone all day and (if she was home) all night. With a voice like a foghorn, I couldn’t help but overhear everything that went on with her and her roster of lackluster clients. Whether she was keeping me up half the night, blocking my car or stealing my garbage can, for the next two years, it was war. There were occasional cease-fires, a couple of screaming matches and lots of calls to the property manager (usually made by Nyla, complaining that I was stalking or harassing her). Mostly, I just tried to pretend she didn’t exist.

Then one Sunday night, Nyla arrived home from an out-of-town trip to find herself locked out of her townhouse. Parking herself on the front steps, she began making a series of loud, angry calls to her assistant (who was apparently supposed to have been present to greet her, keys in hand). Unable to locate him, she began calling her many friends to express her outrage that she had been stranded in such a horrible, horrible situation. But none of Nyla's friends were home, so she was forced to leave long, explicative-filled messages about how she intended to deduct the cost of calling a locksmith from her idiotic assistant’s salary.

As I sat in my living room, trying to read a few scripts, I could hear Nyla recounting over and over how her lovely weekend (spent at a spa with her lone celebrity client) had been utterly ruined by this crime against humanity. After about an hour, I couldn’t take it anymore. I went outside and invited her into my house. She seemed utterly stunned by the gesture. It was getting cold and I suggested that she might be more comfortable on my sofa than sitting on the steps. “I’m sure your assistant will call you back soon. Come on, I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

Nyla slowly rolled her luggage into my living room, glancing suspiciously from left to right as if she were expecting an ambush or a gang rape. Despite the fact that I’d already heard the story about ten times, I invited her to tell me about her weekend. Relaxing a bit, Nyla began to chatter away about what a wonderful human being her client was and what a fabulous time they’d had - until this sacrilege had occurred. I knew her actress-client to be a well-known psycho, so I tried to imagine what a wonderful weekend they must have had terrorizing the staff of the spa and thanked God that I wasn’t employed there.

One disjointed story led to another and as Nyla rattled on-and-on without taking a pause. Then suddenly, in mid-sentence, she stopped and looked down at the cup of tea I’d made her as if it had just magically materialized in her hands. Slowly, her eyes drifted up to my face. “You’re really very nice, aren’t you?” I was a little thrown since what (I think) she’d intended as a compliment had instead come out as a question. It was as if she were asking if I was for real or had I secretly urinated in this tea before serving it to her. I forced a smile. “Well, I’m not a saint, Nyla. But I try to be nice.” The awkward silence was broken by the sound of Nyla’s assistant arriving. Immediately, her game face was back on. Storming out of my place with guns blazing, she made sure her assistant was well-aware of how his thoughtlessness and dereliction of duty had ruined everything. She even tried to include me as a co-complainant, saying I had been forced to interrupt my busy screenwriting career to take her in.

As I flopped back onto my sofa and cracked open the next rotten script, it occurred to me that this had been the first civil conversation I had ever had with Nyla. Yes, she was insane. Yes, she was an utter toxic waste dump of a person, but I was going to have to live with her. I couldn’t help wondering if perhaps I’d invited her over for that lousy cup of tea two years earlier, we might have been able to avoid some of this hell.

A few days later, as I was retrieving my garbage can from the curb, Nyla's psychotic celebrity client pulled up alongside me in a huge, black SUV and told me that Nyla (who was “one of her favorite people on the planet”) had told her of my kindness and that she (the celebrity) now loved me. Two weeks later, she dropped Nyla and two months after that, Nyla abandoned L.A. to return to New York - where she is no doubt making some new neighbor’s life a living hell.

Copyright 2008 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
http://www.daviddeanbottrell.com/

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at http://www.partsandlabor.tv/

Kings and Angels

Since last week’s entry was about Hollywood memorial services, I was hesitant to write another column about celebrity deaths, but last week's news about Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett left me without much choice. When icons of that stature pass away it does leave a mark and I’m of a generation that remembers the trajectory of both of those entertainers vividly.

I was nine years old when I first saw Michael Jackson and his brothers on "The Flip Wilson Show." My family had just moved from Kentucky to a small factory town in Southern Ohio. I’d gone from a school with just one black kid to a school with quite a few. And unlike the black kids in Kentucky (who rarely opened their mouths) these kids took no shit from anybody and would kick your ass if you looked at them wrong. Although, racial equality hadn’t quite arrived on the national scene, it was in full force on the playground of Margaret Heywood Elementary. I was getting a fast education that the racist attitudes of my uncles (who would turn off the TV whenever a black person appeared on screen), had no bearing on the real world.

Since I wasn’t much of a ballplayer or rough-houser, my first few weeks were mostly spent getting beaten-up. The first safe haven I found was in a totally unexpected place. Every day at recess, a group of very resourceful little black girls would run an extension cord from the door of the gym out to the playground where they would then plug in a portable record player and dance to Jackson Five records. One day as I saw an ass-kicking coming my way, I jumped onto the imaginary dance floor with them. Denise, Gloris and Athena initially thought this was hilarious, but eventually accepted the skinny white kid since none of the other boys would come near this deadly” sissy zone.” Dancing daily to “ABC” and “Stop! The Love You Save May Be Your Own,” bought me a little time until I eventually found my place in the pecking order.

To me, what made little Michael so extraordinary was that he sang like a grown-up. When I watched him on "The Ed Sullivan Show," I found it hard to believe that he was just a little older than me. By the time he reemerged as a mega-solo act in the 80’s, I was even more astounded because he seemed so, well… girly. He spoke in a high, effeminate voice, wore make-up and dressed in the most outlandish, over-the-top outfits imaginable. In interviews, I remember wishing he would butch it up a little. But as it turned out, he didn’t need to. His talent surpassed anything that could be said about him. I can still remember the Motown 25th anniversary special when he electrified the audience and then the world. In the blink of an eye, he was the most famous, successful (and ultimately bizarre) entertainer the world had ever known.

When his eccentricities (and inappropriate behavior with children) overtook his fame, I began to feel sorry for him. In the early 90’s, he donated a chunk of change to an elementary school near where I currently live. To express their gratitude, the school put up a sign (using big stainless steel letters) on the west side of the building, marking the entrance to new “Michael Jackson Auditorium.” When news of the first child molestation charges broke, the school covered the sign with a large plywood box. When the charges were dropped, the box came down. After the second set of accusations, the box went back up again – this time permanently. Hollywood tour buses still stop outside the school to let tourists snap pictures of the awkward-looking plywood box covering Michael's name.

His sudden death last week (on the verge of what may have been his big comeback) brings to a close one of the strangest, saddest and most extraordinary stories in pop culture. Apparently, unimaginable fame and wealth don’t buy stability, direction or love. I suspect that when the toxicology reports come back in a few weeks there will be more bad news about the last days of King of Pop. And that will be sad. The tragedy seems complete already.

Thursday also brought the news that Farrah Fawcett had lost her long and very public battle with cancer. As a teen I’d been a big fan of Farrah’s. Mostly because she was so perfect-looking. The teeth, the hair, that body. I first noticed her in commercials plugging tooth paste and shampoo, plus I also belonged to a whole generation of boys who owned that famous poster of her in the red bathing suit. I‘d watched her skyrocket to stardom on “Charlie’s Angels” and witnessed her fall from grace after leaving the show. After floundering around for a while in some really bad movies, Farrah announced that she was going to New York to try her hand at acting in an off-Broadway play.

By that time, I was an overly-earnest young actor struggling to be taken seriously in the rugged world of New York theatre. We hardcore theatre types looked down on Hollywood and were used to seeing TV and movie actors come to town in an attempt to legitimize themselves on stage. Most of those attempts ended disastrously and we took a certain glee at seeing these lightweights banished back to the west coast with their tails between their legs.

Farrah had made the seemingly suicidal decision to replace the much-praised Susan Sarandon in a controversial play running in a small theatre on the Westside. The play (“Extremities”) was an incredibly intense, very physical show that opened with a graphic and horrifying rape scene and just got worse from there. I had seen Sarandon do the show and it was harrowing. The idea that Farrah could pull off such a wrenching and physically demanding role seemed laughable. As expected, the critics were kept away for a few weeks while the new star got her bearings. But then rumors began to circulate that she was actually good in the role. In fact, not just good, but really good. When I finally saw her, I was floored. Farrah delivered a raw, emotionally charged performance that set everybody’s hair on end. She made us eat our words.

Soon, big deal TV projects like “The Burning Bed” and “Small Sacrifices” came her way. Amazingly, she landed the movie version of “Extremities” (over Sarandon) and would go on to other films earning the praise of co-stars like Richard Gere and Robert Duvall. Nobody was laughing anymore. The most unimaginable thing had happened. Farrah Fawcett was an actor. Like many women of a certain age (especially those blessed/cursed with incredible looks) roles became scarce and personal problems increased. There was the obligatory reality series (“Chasing Farrah”). And then the diagnosis.

It always makes me a little queasy when people opt to have something as personal and gruesome as a battle with cancer documented for the world to see, but when “Farrah’s Story” aired on NBC last month, the response was huge. There was an outpouring of love and support and it was inspiring to see Farrah’s spirit so intact. She seemed plucky and oddly fearless. Right to the end.

I only saw her once in person. It was at a loud and slightly raucous party out in Malibu several years ago. Determined to meet her, I sailed over and asked her for a cigarette. She gave it to me, but didn’t seem terribly interested in talking. I didn’t blame her. I’m sure she spent her entire career deflecting gawkers like me. She gave me a light, but that was about it. What I wanted to tell her was that I was happy for her. She had gone from being a contestant on the “Dating Game” to Poster Girl to Angel to legitimate actor (complete with Emmy and Golden Globe nominations). She’d held on, fought hard and kept herself viable and afloat for three decades in a town where that’s no small achievement. And she still looked great. I don’t know that Farrah’s posthumous fame will last as long as Michael’s, but for those of us who grew up with her, she’ll be remembered for a long time to come.

Copyright 2008 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
www.daviddeanbottrell.com

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

Fond Farewells

I recently attended two very different celebrity memorial services here in L.A. The first was for the always hilarious, Dom DeLuise and the other was for stand-up icon, George Carlin.

I knew Dom a little. About ten years ago, his wife, Carol Arthur (a wonderfully talented performer in her own right) replaced an actress in a play I had written (and was also performing in). Since the director had returned to New York, I drove out to Carol and Dom’s house in Pacific Palisades to rehearse with her in her living room. Dom sat in and acted as de facto-director. He and Carol (having been married for 35 years) had a terrific shorthand and he was great at helping her nail the jokes. Once she started performing in the show, Dom made sure their friends showed up en masse. He was wonderfully supportive of the whole enterprise and for a time wanted to option the play and develop it into a TV series. That idea never panned out; I think in part because Dom was already experiencing some fairly serious health problems.

Not having seen them in a while, I was hesitant to attend the memorial until I ran into a friend of Carol’s who’d understudied the show. “Carol would love it if you came,” she assured me. The memorial was held in a large theater on the Westside and was packed to the rafters. Dom’s sons (all of whom followed him into the family business) had created three short video montages of their father’s work dating back to the start of his career. Many old friends including Mel Brooks, Carl Reiner and Larry Gelbart, delivered loving, hilarious tributes and there were lots of heart-warming references to Dom looking down from above and smiling on us.

Carol was given the star spot at the end where she read a funny and touching letter she’d written to Dom. We all shuffled out into the sunshine, drank lemonade and traded stories. There were grandkids, neighbors and lots of stars from the 70’s (including two different women who’d both been famously involved with Burt Reynolds - which might have explained why Burt himself was not present). It was clear that Dom was a guy who had worked hard to make people happy and even marginal friends like me were made to feel like a part of the family.

The next event was a memorial for George Carlin on the one-year anniversary of his death. I had only met George once when my friend Ray was moderating a tribute to him at the Museum of Broadcasting in Beverly Hills. I was invited to tag along and was shocked when I found myself standing in the green room actually hanging out with George beforehand. Still razor sharp at 71, he was completely accessible and welcoming. I could barely believe I was reminiscing about the “Hippie-Dippy Weather Man” with the guy who’d actually created the character. Six weeks later, he was gone.

His memorial was held in a comedy club in Hermosa Beach and was set-up as a fund-raiser for a charity founded by Kitty Bruce (daughter of Lenny Bruce) to help homeless kids. At the top of the show, George’s daughter, Kelly Carlin, a very funny writer herself, warned everybody that the last thing her father would have wanted was for people to say stupid things like “I’m sure he’s looking down on us from above and smiling…” In fact, she said he would probably have preferred it if nobody talked about him at all. So nobody did. Instead, a high-powered string of extremely funny stand-ups took the stage and delivered their best “ten minutes.” In keeping with George’s pioneering spirit, the material was as edgy as it was hilarious. The evening ended with clips from George’s long career, starting with his early performances in the 60’s, all the way to his most recent HBO special which just aired last year. It was a great night.

As I enter into the second half of my life, I expect to be attending more and more of these memorials. It’s just how it goes. Show business farewells are quite a bit different than civilian affairs. If the person was known as a great dramatic actor, you can count on the memorial being filled with big, tearful remembrances. If the individual was a comedian, you can count on a really good show. I suppose some people would be mortified by all the jokes, but I find them very reassuring. They make sense to me. Show business is a life lived on the edge and the concept of some form of “death” is never far away.

Because I’m a writer and (occasionally) an actor, it’s hard not to let my imagination drift into what I hope will be the distant future; that day when it will be my memorial service. All I can say is I hope it will be crowded, funny and brief. My fingers are crossed that when the moment comes, I’ll be granted a quiet and reasonably dignified demise. Hopefully nothing that involves drugs, animals or sex workers.

The good news is you won’t have to worry about trudging out to Forest Lawn since I’m a big fan of cremation. If there’s a memorial, I’d like it to have that same fun, glitzy feel that most Hollywood events do. A red carpet would be nice and maybe a few photographers. Lots of kibitzing. Some decent hors ‘d oeuvres. And plenty of networking! God knows nothing would make me happier than if somebody at least got a job out of it.

People like mementos, so I’m thinking that at the end we could hand out gift bags - which might start a whole new trend (“Funeral Swag”). The bags could contain a couple of DVD’s of some of the work I did and maybe a few coupons from local merchants. Maybe a fragrance sample. And just to give it that personal touch, perhaps a small, tastefully packaged vial of my ashes.

I love this idea since it would allow my friends to take away not just their memories of me, but a little bit of the real article as well. They could then sprinkle them into a favorite house plant, toss them off their balcony or release them into the wind, off some cliff in Malibu. Some folks might want to hang them off their rearview mirror (sort of like those fuzzy dice that used to be so popular) or depending on my popularity at the time, sell them on E-Bay. None of these outcomes would bother me. I’ll be dead. I won’t even know it’s happening.

I have zero wisdom on the subject of how to spend one’s life – although I do suggest trying to have as few regrets as possible. One of my favorite quotes on this subject comes from British poet, Ted Hughes; a guy who certainly had his ups-and-downs, including being married for a time to Sylvia Path, who was no barrel of laughs. The quote goes: "The only calibration that counts is how much heart people invest, how much they ignore their fears of being hurt or caught out or humiliated…And the only thing people regret is that they didn't live boldly enough, that they didn't invest enough heart, didn't love enough. Nothing else really counts at all."

I think Dom and George certainly measured up in that department. For my money, I can’t think of anything more fun than a life spent entertaining people (as often and as fully as we can). So go out there and make some memories this week, Hollywood! Give your friends some good stories to tell about you after you croak. It’s a short ride. Enjoy it!

Copyright 2008 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
www.daviddeanbottrell.com

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

Before the Parade Passes By

Last week, I was again invited to perform at "Sit 'N Spin," - which is sort of a writers' showcase held at the Comedy Central Stage here in Hollywood. I thought for a change of pace, I'd publish the piece I wrote for the show. It has nothing to do with show business, but I thought you might enjoy it.

Recently, a straight friend of mine asked me if I was planning to attend the annual Gay Pride Parade in West Hollywood. I half-heartedly replied that I probably would. My friend shrugged, saying that he and his wife always used to attend, but didn’t bother anymore. “It used to be so outrageous,” he explained. “The people, the floats. It was like Mardi Gras. But now it’s just a bunch of people in Khaki shorts pushing baby carriages.” His remark sort of stung a little. I had to admit that lately, my enthusiasm for the whole “Pride” thing had flattened out a bit. I’d mostly chalked it up to age. When I was young(er), I loved “Pride.” It was the one day of the year you could get super-drunk before noon, dance in the street and kiss your boyfriend (or somebody else’s boyfriend) in broad daylight without any fear of getting the shit beaten out of you. It was an exhilarating, no-holds-barred, free-for-all celebration of being “the outsider.”

My friend was right in that the freaky “in-your-face” quality the parades once possessed had sort of waned lately. Although, we still had the scary “Dykes on Bikes,” the flatbed full of leather men and of course, the occasional drag queen staggering by, mostly all you got now were lots and lots of “groups” (“The LGBT Coalition for/or against Something”) all marching along in their color coordinated T-shirts. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but it’s not necessarily something you want to stand all day in the hot sun to watch.

The most fun I ever had at Pride was when I marched with the Gay & Lesbian Film Festival. Each year, they would “salute” a different classic movie and that particular year it was “The Sound of Music.” After a bloody, hair-pulling fight, I managed to land the much-coveted role of “Maria.” Surrounded by a very ethnically diverse group of Von Trapp children, I skipped along, strumming my guitar in my postulate costume, followed by dancing nuns, shirtless boys in lederhosen and quartet of large Lesbians dressed as the Swiss Alps. It was beyond fabulous! I would, however, like to offer you a tip. Never attempt to “skip” 2.5 miles while wearing a pair of women’s shoes. There was, for a time, some concern as to whether I would ever walk again.

Oddly, my friend’s question did leave me wondering what exactly I was proud of. I was certainly proud of the accomplishments of Gay and Lesbian people. Starting with Plato and Socrates, all the way up to Ellen DeGeneres, Barney Frank and Ryan Seacrest, it’s an impressive list. I was certainly proud of the estimated 60,000 Gay and Lesbian soldiers currently thought to be on active duty in the United States military. Plus, I was proud of my community’s activism in areas like employment discrimination and HIV awareness. And we always look so good doing it. Our men, so sleek and well-groomed. Our women, so rugged and handsome. I was sure proud of Sean Penn! Here’s a guy who, to my knowledge, has never suck a dick in his life, but there he was on the Oscars, staunchly defending my constitutional rights. And I was, of course, proud of Barack Obama; the first US president to ever even acknowledge the existence of Gay people in his inaugural address.

But these were the accomplishments of other people. What was I personally proud of? If having “Pride” just meant acknowledging my history of sleeping with other men, I had quite a lot to be proud of! Having been gay since the age of four, I’ve gotten pretty good at it over the years. However, since I have a strict “no cameras” policy in my bedroom, I don’t have anything I can show you. So, you’ll just have to take my word for it.

These days being Gay is less about sex than it is about civil rights anyway. As you may have heard, Carrie Prejean, the newly dethroned Miss California, recently got her big fake boobs caught in the gnarly mousetrap of opposing Gay marriage. Now free of her royal obligations, Miss Prejean has stated that she will continue her campaign to prevent homos from legally marrying because of a deep, personal feeling that same-sex marriage is just, well, “wrong.”

I can relate to Carrie’s feelings. Just last week, as I was rushing to an appointment in Koreatown, I too had a deep personal feeling that we should create a law that would allow ordinary citizens like myself to randomly shoot any driver that didn’t use their turn signal. I suspected that “David’s Law” would be very popular with California voters. But then when I thought about all the needless heartbreak and loss I would be inflicting on the lives of so many people; people I had no real relationship to and knew almost nothing about, it didn’t seem like such a good idea after all. And I guess that’s why we should always create laws based on constitutional principles and judicial precedent; and not on people’s personal fucking feelings. That said, I'd like to wish Ms. Prejean well in her new role representing angry, uninformed segregationists everywhere. God speed, Carrie.

So, after mulling this whole Pride question over for a bit, here’s what I came up with: I love men. And fortunately, men love me! So, it’s all worked out pretty well. To say I’m proud of being Gay is like saying I’m proud of my height, hair color or shoe size; things that were all decided for me before I was born. I mean really! If a guy likes to suck dick or a gal likes to enjoy a little pussy that’s not her own… What the fuck? Who among us wants to be judged on the most intimate, personal details of our lives? Wouldn’t we rather be assessed based on what we do or how we operate in the world? I stand before you; a man who has loved and been loved. I can install a light fixture; put up sheetrock and change a tire. I also have an uncanny ability to pick out the perfect lamp for any room and once sewed an entire patchwork quilt by hand (sort of like a prairie woman). I am a writer. A Democrat. A teacher. A mentor. An optimist. And a cocksucker. Am I proud of all those things? Well, I’m certainly not ashamed of them.

Not long ago, I was driving home from a rather raucous party when it occurred to me that I was a little too drunk to be behind the wheel of a car. So, solid citizen that I am, I pulled into the 24 hour “Subway” sandwich shop at Sunset and LaBrea. There was a cute, friendly Latin kid working there who I was pretty sure was straight, but I was drunk and it was three o’clock in the morning, so I decided to flirt with him a little. After we discussed the merits of the various subway sandwiches, I made my selection. At which point, my new, imaginary, Latino boyfriend looked into my eyes, smiled and said “So, can you handle twelve inches?” To which I replied, “Gosh, that certainly sounds good… but I’d prefer not to end my evening in the emergency room.” He laughed. And as I sat eating my sandwich, we shot the breeze a little. He was a student at LACC. He hadn’t declared his major yet, but was leaning toward law enforcement. I told him I was a writer working in the entertainment business - which explained what I was doing drunk in a Subway at three o’clock in the morning. It wasn’t a groundbreaking conversation. It didn’t change the world. But it was nice. And as I left, I couldn’t help thinking how swell it would be if someday we could all just order whatever appealed to us off the menu and enjoy it; without being particularly concerned about what the other guy was eating. And when (and if) that day ever comes, we will all – all of us – have something to be very, very proud of indeed.

Copyright 2008 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
www.daviddeanbottrell.com

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

Power Mad

Last week, a friend sent me a link to Forbes magazine's annual “100 Most Powerful Celebrities” list for 2009. For those of you unfamiliar with it, this list is composed of public figures from the worlds of entertainment, sports and politics, who, by virtue of their gigantic salaries, overall media coverage and number of Google searches, have been deemed “Most Powerful.”

Apparently, the big news this year was that America’s favorite mega-mogul, Oprah Winfrey was finally unseated from the number one spot by the beautiful, talented and extremely skinny Angelina Jolie. According to Forbes, Angelina’s new ranking came thanks to her exploding film career plus the publicity garnered from the birth of her twins, her philanthropic efforts and her relationship with the equally pretty Brad Pitt (who came in at No. 9 on the list - right behind his even prettier ex-wife Jennifer Aniston). Given that last year Oprah earned about 200 million more than Angelina and is about to launch her own TV network, her demotion strikes me as a little strange. It makes me wish that at least a few other factors had been taken into consideration. As much as I like Angelina, I still think Oprah could take her in a cage fight.

In other “surprises,” the top four slots were occupied by women (Angelina and Oprah were followed by Madonna and Beyonce) and almost half of the top ten were African-American (which at least demonstrates some progress in how wealth and celebrity is being doled out these days). This was also the first year that a sitting U.S. President made the list with Barack Obama coming in at No. 49. Odd that a guy who is running two wars and holds the future of the U.S. economy in his hands would wind up so far down the list behind Miley Cyrus and 80’s hair band, Bon Jovi. I guess the term “powerful” doesn’t mean quite what it used to.

I don’t know about you, but I’m getting kind of sick of these lists. It seems like every rag on the newsstand now churns out some kind of annual list -- Most powerful, most beautiful, wealthiest, sexiest, fattest, youngest, oldest, thinnest, drunkest, stupidest. And who exactly puts these lists together? I can only imagine the sort of horrible, pasty little trolls who sit around debating why Dr. Phil should get the No. 21 spot over say, Britney Spears. What is it with all these damn lists?

My friends in publishing tell me that the answer is simple. “Lists” sell magazines. For some reason, we lowly mortals want some kind of scorecard so we can see how the Masters of the Universe are doing. Who’s buying their own chateau? Who's starting their own clothing line? Dating a supermodel? Who's plucking yet another orphan from some crappy impoverished village? I gotta say -- This last phenomenon continues to amaze me. I know some folks praise these decisions since it will supposedly encourage more Americans to consider foreign adoption. Given the number of homegrown kids currently warehoused in foster care, I don’t see the logic. Personally, I liked Ms. Winfrey’s approach. Instead of picking one lucky child (to be raised by her staff) she instead chose to build a school overseas that would benefit thousands of children for years to come.

If I’m going to be painfully honest, I suppose the thing that pisses me off the most about these lists is that I’m never on them. If you rounded up all the people who know me, have worked with me (or have ever even heard of me) and polled them, I doubt the terms “Most Powerful” or “Sexiest Man Alive” would be the first thing out of their mouths.

I admit it. I’m a nerd. I have nerdy interests and nerdy problems. I worry about money. I can’t lose the 10 pounds I gained last year. My skin is not flawless and my phone calls are not instantly returned (by anybody). So I guess when I see people who seem to have lots of everything and are surrounded by legions of folks willing to help them do anything they want to do, it sort of stings a little. It just doesn’t seem quite fair.

I suppose the only real option is for me to start my own magazine. I’ve heard that the most successful periodicals these days are the ones that focus on celebrity gossip or "Green” issues. So, I'm thinking I might call it “Earth Nerd.” Each week we could feature a truly non-famous person on the cover and interview them about their un-extraordinary lives. Who knows? It might catch on! God knows there are enough unimportant people in the world that, if we all banded together, could make it a huge success! Every year we could publish our own list of the “100 People Who Should be Rich and Powerful, But Aren’t.” We’ll select the names by lottery and list them in alphabetical order just to be fair. And we’ll be known for our un-air brushed cover photos.

I suppose the Forbes list (if viewed in the right light) could provide a little healthy inspiration as well. It’s not like those people aren’t hard-working or smart. Stephanie Meyer (the author of the “Twilight” series) showed up on the list this year and she’s far too clever and talented for me to hate. Well, not yet anyway. As we all know, jealousy is a deadly confidence-eating virus that can strip the joy out of life. At least I can console myself with the fact that a few of 2008's “Power 100” got booted off the list this year; including Jennifer Lopez, Johnny Depp and Justin Timberlake. Thank God I don’t have to compare myself to those losers anymore!

THANK YOU, PHIL ABRAMS!!

Copyright 2008 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
www.daviddeanbottrell.com

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv

Hot Child in the City

A couple of times in my career, I’ve had the great good fortune to get noticed. Something I was doing (or had done) snagged the attention of the larger show business community and “wah-laa,” I found myself on the receiving end of many exciting phone calls. I was suddenly, as we like to say,“Hot.” The first time this happened, I was a young stage actor in New York and was appearing in an evening of one-act comedies at an off-Broadway theater.

The show was a very funny, two-character play that required the other actor and me to do a bunch of lightning-fast transitions. The director was something of a task master and demanded our every move be precise and clean. He worked us like dogs in rehearsal, but it paid off. The audiences roared. One night, about ten days before the show was scheduled to close, the director appeared in my dressing room, wearing a jittery smile and began firing off a bunch of weird, nitpicky notes; just a few “details” that I should keep in mind for tonight’s performance. I noticed a slight glistening of perspiration on his brow and guessed what this was all about. “The New York Times is coming tonight, aren’t they?” I asked. He nodded his head in sort of grim way. After reassuring him that the show was in great shape, I suggested that he not mention this development to the other actor (who was sort of a skittish guy and easily thrown). Staring into my dressing room mirror, I took a deep breath. This was it. I'd been in New York for four years. Finally, the rubber was about to meet the road.

My co-star and I knocked the ball out of the park that night and two days later, our pictures (and a great review!) appeared in the Friday “Weekend” section of the Times. In my young naïve heart, I thought that this endorsment of my comic genius would lead to much greater things. And in a sense, it did. I’d never auditioned for a TV pilot before and suddenly that was happening. The audition went so well that I almost got the part. In fact, several upscale auditions came my way, but none of them quite worked out. Within a couple of months, the calls slowed down and soon I was back to working as a waiter - a waiter who’d had his name and face in the New York Times. Eighteen months later, I had an almost identical experience with a different show and began to wonder if the universe was playing some kind of cruel joke on me.

When I came west hoping to work as a writer in Hollywood, the transition was rocky at best. About a year after my arrival, the phone rang and a breathless executive asked if he was speaking to “David Dean Bott-Rell?” At the time, I was dodging bill collectors, so I informed him that Mr. Bott-Rell was out at the moment and could I take a message. The message was that a script of mine had somehow landed on his desk and he had been frantically trying to locate me for weeks. “Who is your agent?” he demanded. “I don’t have one,” I replied. “You will by the end of the week!” he answered. True to his word, I did indeed have an agent (a very big agent) by the end of the following week. My script was shot out into the universe of Hollywood and suddenly I was one busy guy. I went on a zillion “meet-and-greets” where I was heralded as the second coming of screenwriting. I ate fabulous lunches in Beverly Hills and was promised tons of employment. Apparently, my ship had come in. Again.

It was fun to be the “hot” writer, but nothing about it felt real either. Despite all these claims that my career was about to explode, I was still wearing the same threadbare clothes to every meeting and frequently parked my car blocks away from the restaurant so that no one (not even the valets) would see the dented Toyota hatchback I was driving. I was the author of exactly one screenplay and had no idea if I’d ever even have another idea worth writing. Despite the glowing response to my script, it never got made and eventually all the hoopla died down. It became another lesson in how short the industry’s attention span is and how little is ever done to mentor new talent.

Over the years, I’ve had this experience repeat itself (in one form or another), a surprising number of times; most recently when I had a rccurring role on a popular TV show. As much as I enjoyed the job, the chorus of people telling me that an Emmy and a development deal were sure to follow, sort of unnerved me a little. Not that it wasn’t fun to think about! But mostly what I felt was enormous gratitude that when the ball had finally sailed out into left field again, I hadn’t dropped it. In fact, I had scored a winning point for the team.

Excitement is a great thing. After all, where would the business be without it? We thrive on it. We’re addicted to it. It’s what drives the machine. It keeps us going between gigs. I’ve been extraordinarily lucky in my career. The fact that every so often I’ve been able to nab a little attention has been truly gratifying – particularly since I entered into this business wondering if I had any talent at all. Last week, I got some very exciting news about one of my projects. Needless to say, I'm thrilled, but I also know it's a little soon to start breaking out the champagne or hiring the hookers. I promise if it comes to fruition, you’ll be the first to know. For now, I’m just taking it as a sign that I’m being allowed to stay in the poker game. God knows the stakes are high, but I’ve always been a gambler at heart. You sort of have to be for any of this insanity to work. Truthfully, it’s hard to imagine myself as the “Hot” guy again, but I could definitely get into the idea of being “Reheated.” Even that is exciting.

As we all (should) know by now, the whole idea of overnight success is a total crock of shit. For the vast majority of “successful” people in our business, it’s a long, slow climb up the mountain (with lots of loose rocks underfoot). For every bit of ground you gain, there is usually a short slide to follow. The trick is to enjoy the scenery as you go. As one of my favorite actors, Walter Matthau, once said, “All you need in this business is six or seven really big breaks.” If that’s true, I might now be approaching number six, so hopes are running high!! Again.

Copyright 2008 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
http://www.daviddeanbottrell.com/

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at http://www.partsandlabor.tv/

By the time I get to Phoenix...

In the past few weeks, three long-dead projects of mine have strangely flickered back to life. And when I say “back to life,” I’m using that phrase in the show business sense of the word, meaning that somebody reasonably legitimate (somebody with an actual office) has expressed a bit of interest. Prior to getting these calls, I considered all three of these scripts to be ancient history. It’s been odd to even think about them again. I don’t know if other writers experience the same thing, but for me, old scripts are like potent, little time capsules; each containing a vivid emotional imprint of the time in my life when were written.

One of the scripts is an adaptation of a memoir I wrote about 2 ½ years ago. It was a troubling tale and a genre I’d never attempted before. When the project came to me, I’d just returned to L.A. after a year in Washington, DC. Having broken one of the cardinal rules of show business (moving to a non-show biz city), I wasn't sure if I’d ever be allowed back inside the palace gates. My best shot was to reinvent myself. I set out to create a viable script while also preserving what I admired most about the book - the author’s remarkable willingness to forgive the unforgivable. The script initially got a ton of attention, but then sort of fizzled out like a shooting star. That is, until a few weeks ago when a talented and gorgeous young movie actress stepped up and attached herself to star and co-produce. It’s exciting! The great thing about stars is that (unlike the rest of us) they can actually get their calls returned. So here’s hoping she’s as charming on the phone as she is in person.

The next project to claw its way out of the grave (after ten years) was an adaptation of yet another book; this one a novel. Written ten years ago, it was my first decent paycheck in L.A. I had just exited a lengthy and tumultuous relationship and my career wasn't exactly cooking. In fact, I was beginning to wonder if maybe it was time to take my talentless ass back to New York, where (if I was lucky) I might be able to land a job doing Shakespeare in Buffalo. When the call came in (on my birthday, no less!) I took it as a good omen. Both tragic and hilarious, the novel centered on a couple desperately trying to rebuild their shattered dreams. The job was intimidating; especially because several more established writers had already fallen on their swords trying to adapt the book into a coherent movie. Again, there were cheers from the bleachers, but no one could ever quite get the ball over the goal line. Then this week, I heard that a mega agent now wants to show it to one of his hottest clients. Sounds good, right?

The third project is so old it would require carbon dating to determine its age. It was one of the first scripts I wrote after moving to L.A. My partner and I were, at the time, crammed into a very small apartment, but in an effort to feel like a professional, I decided to set up a small “office” in the bedroom. I found a tiny, narrow table in my neighbor's garbage that just fit between the chest of drawers and the wall. The space was so cramped I had to keep my elbows next to my sides just to fit into it. The lighting was terrible and my “view” was of a white, stucco wall about 24” from my face. Strange as it sounds, the miserable conditions sort of forced me into an almost trancelike state of creativity. Every night, I’d squeeze into my “office” and free-fall into the world of this freaky, comic caper I was writing. Much like the life I was living, the plot careened along like a rollercoaster threatening to jump the tracks at any second. Although the script was far from perfect, it remains one of the most imaginative things I’ve ever written and got me my first real agent in L.A. When a producer optioned it (again) last week, it felt almost surreal to sign my name to the agreement.

Until I moved to L.A. I didn’t know it was actually possible to “die of enthusiasm.” Having had my heart broken by all of these projects in the past, I’m leery about getting my hopes up. But then again, you never know! Show business is filled with stories of projects that took long, meandering journeys before finally getting to the screen. Clint Eastwood’s “Unforgiven,” (one of my favorite movies of all time) took ten years to get made. Hollywood is a mythical town. It’s one of the things we all secretly love about it. Let’s be honest. Every time one of those damn “twenty-somethings” bursts out of film school and scores a big sale, nobody cheers. We hate them. Fuck them. But when somebody who’s been standing in the queue forever, finally gets their shot (or a second shot), the whole town smiles and nods. For all of our purported cynicism, we’re actually a town of closet optimists. We love it when the Phoenix takes flight.

Glancing over these old scripts has definitely made me reflect a bit on my time in Hollywood. Despite a 50/50 mix of good and bad experiences, I’m still happy to be doing something I enjoy and believe in. I’m not saying there aren’t days when I feel like shooting myself in the head. There are quite a few of those actually. But writing, when it works, transcends the shitty parts of life - for both the author and the audience. According to that oracle of knowledge, Wikipedia, the mythical Phoenix could not only rise from the ashes, but was capable of “healing a person with a tear from its eyes” and making them, for a short while, “immune to death.” I love that! After all, isn’t entertainment supposed to lift us out of our seats a little and give us at least a short happy ride on the wings of our imagination? And who among us doesn’t need the occasional break from our mortality? I’m delighted these scripts are getting a second look! Who knows? Maybe a couple of those execs will demonstrate some excellent taste and rush them into production. In the meantime, let’s dust off the ashes, Hollywood. There’s work to be done. Spread your wings and see if maybe this week, you can catch a breeze.

Copyright 2008 Quitcher-Bitchyn Entertainment, Inc.
www.daviddeanbottrell.com

David Dean Bottrell is an actor (“Boston Legal”) and screenwriter (“Kingdom Come”) who writes a weekly blog about being strangely middle-class in Hollywood at www.partsandlabor.tv