Monday, January 7, 2008

Cathy Goes to Hollywood: Day #1

June 6, 2005

A series of fortunate events has landed me in Hollywood, where I’ve been hired as one of a team of six screenwriters for the show Veronica Mars, a sexy, witty hour-long detective drama that airs on UPN. When the show was picked up for its second season, creator/executive producer Rob Thomas, a friend of mine, asked me to consider writing for the show. He sent me DVDs of the first season and told me, “I absolutely think you have the voice for this.” I watched the show, and I began to believe him. I packed my bags and put my life in Washington on hold for a year in order to experiment with a writing assignment unlike any I’d ever had before.

It’s now 6 p.m. and I’ve returned home from my first day on the on job. The sun is still shining, Stinky is purring happily at my feet, and I have cold beer next to me. So far, so good. Here’s a brief rundown of my first day on the new job.

6:00 Alarm goes off.
6:15 Out of bed for first cup of coffee.
6:20-9:00 Fuss around apartment. Spend 20 minutes on Veronica Mars script ideas and an hour and 45 minutes deciding what to wear.
9:00 Leave for work.
9:10 Arrive work. Way early. Circle block so as not to appear too brown-nosy.
9:30 Enter office. Am assigned former writer’s old office. Spend 15 minutes organizing desk. Find old toothbrush and tongue cleaner in bottom drawer.
10:00-10:45 Lounge around in “bull pen” (area in center of offices furnished with old orange couches), bullshitting with other writers and accepting compliments for the lemon cookies I brought in to distract other writers from my lame story ideas.
10:45-12:15 Writers gather in Writers Room to toss around ideas. I remain almost entirely silent, absorbing their brilliance. Learn many secrets about next season. In one small coup, I get to use my “designated hitter rule has got to go” line. Also, at 11:04, I whip out my mid-morning snack of ants-on-a-log. [Other writer] claims she loves this, and that I will have to kick a cat before she hates me.
12:16 I notice that my shirt is on inside-out.
12:17 Slip to bathroom to rearrange clothes.
12:18-1:24 Writers discuss multiple options for ordering out for lunch with Alex, Rob’s mohawked surfer assistant.
1:25 Decide to order from Kookoorookoo. (I get the California Burrito).
1:25-1:45 Hash out more story ideas while waiting for lunch.
2:30-4:00 Tour new offices next door. Much consternation ensues. New offices are decorated like a Nickelodeon set. I expect to end up with smallish office that smells like cat pee, but I get large office with no natural light and a mysterious stain on the wall (see photo).
4:00-5:30ish Back to writing room to pitch ideas. Long segue into discussion of Corey Haim clip on recent episode of Daily Show. We do extensive research on Haim. Another long discussion about The Lost Boys ensues. Mild argument about what year the movie came out (1987). Segues into discussion about Teen Wolf and Teen Wolf II.
5:35 Rob claps hands, announces we should call it a day, as Spurs are on at six.
5:36 Rob compliments me on lemon cookies again.
5:38 The writers and Alex gather in the parking lot to salute Rob as he leaves (apparently an end-of-the-day tradition created by Alex).
5:39 Writers duck back inside, pretend to be busy.
5:41 Certain that Rob is gone and it’s safe to leave, I drive home.

Hollywood Week 2: Top Ten Hollywood Highlights from Week 1

June 11, 2005

Tuesday and Beyond—manage to get all of my clothes on right-side-out (although when I was checking my shirt for armpit freshness Tuesday morning, I poked myself in the eye and walked around all day winking like that Seinfeld episode where Jerry’s grapefruit squirts George. Grooming at this new gig is fraught with peril.)

Continue to make it to work in under 15 minutes, but stop showing up early, as no one else does, and end hanging around in the parking lot like a moron. Apparently, when everyone showed up at 9:20 the first day, they were just showing off for the new kid.

Tuesday, June 7—spent all day in a productive story-breaking session in the Writers’ Room. Oh yeah, except for the 12:30-2:30 workout break. I go to a fancy-pants gym in Glendale called The Total Woman. Bonded with co-workers in locker room when I admit that I’ve forgotten post-workout underwear and therefore, will be Going Commando for the remainder of the day.

Alex, Rob’s assistant, goes grocery shopping and loads the staff kitchen with goodies (root beer! Tootsie Rolls! String cheese!)

Tuesday, 3:10 p.m.: One of the writers tells funny story about being pantsed in ninth grade P.E. while climbing the peg board in too-tight shorts he had to borrow from the loaner bin.

Tuesday, 3:20 p.m.: Goofing around on internet with co-worker, we dig up photo of Tony Danza crashing golf cart. We giggle. Rob shoots us the Evil Eye.

In an act that truly personifies just how quickly the foundation of my being is collapsing, I purchase a TV Guide Wednesday night.

Writers’ Room discussion strays from story-breaking to random discussions of pop culture trivia at least 18 times a day. Long segue into band name origins with a question about which band, besides Steely Dan, is named after a dildo. No one knows. I apply librarian skills and find nothing. Friend from home suggests via email that we just imagine all bands are named are named after dildos. Try it.

Besides pop-culture segues, typical WR bird-walking includes telling humiliating personal stories about ourselves. I describe meeting former boyfriend’s parents for the first time and tracking dog shit onto their expensive Persian rug. Immediate bonding ensues.

Hollywood, Week 3: The Woman with Two Brains

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Hollywood Week 4: Prozac to My Ears: Belben’s Hollywood Soundtrack

I love music almost as much as I love books, but for cruel and unexplainable reasons, the gods have left me completely devoid of any musical ability. Nevertheless, I know what I like. Here’s what’s been playing in my head this week.

I SO DON’T LIVE HERE
“Beverly Hills” –Weezer
Monday, June 20, 8:37 a.m.: I stub my toe on the corner of my Murphy bed for the f------ last time, drive to Hollywood, and rent an apartment on the corner of Sunset Boulevard and Vine, smack in the middle of the action. Unlike the place I’m currently living in, the new one is unfurnished, so until I get paid, I’ll be living with a pile of books, a litter box (for Stinkë, not me) and an inflatable neon pink couch I bought at a garage sale. On the bright side, there are poolside movies, a kick-ass gym with TVs on every treadmill, and a sushi restaurant and a Borders on the ground floor. If only there were a liquor store, I’d never have to leave the block.

THE TOTAL WOMAN
“Naked and Famous” –The Presidents of the United States of America

I’ve temporarily joined an all-women’s gym in Glendale. It’s clean and classy, but there are no famous people, and there’s no one naked to look at unless I become a lesbian who fancies unshaven middle-aged Armenian women in granny panties. It wasn’t until I began finishing my workouts in half the time that I realized how social I was at my old gym in Bellingham. Even if I was just talking to drug runners and guys whose leg hair had been rubbed off by their tube socks, I miss that.

I SEE CHER AT SAV-ON
“Celebrity” –Brad Paisley

The truth is, I haven’t seen anyone famous yet, unless you count Lorenzo Lamas, and I don’t, and besides, he was presenting an award at some B-list pat-ourselves-on-the-back awards show where I got shushed by a gay guy at our table and the gift bag for the evening contained a Swiss Army knife knock-off and a Kenny G CD. I did see a guy at Baja Fresh who I thought was John Cusack for a split second, but then I looked closer and realized that he had no eyebrows or eyelashes and therefore could not be John Cusack, and if he were, my decades-long Lloyd Dobler infatuation would immediately screech to a halt.

FIRST PLACE, WORST USE OF S.A.T. WORD
“Jessie’s Girl” –Rick Springfield, ALBUM

The writers’ room continues to be a source of Hollywood gossip and random pop culture trivia feasts. This week, for example, I learned that Rick Springfield—Dr. Noah Drake, General Hospital—auditioned for the part of Aaron Echols (ultimately awarded to Harry Hamlin). This discussion inspired us to sing Jessie’s Girl all afternoon and attempt to replace the line “I wanna tell her that I love her but the point is probably moot” with “better” rhymes. I proceed to have a dream in which Rick Springfield shows up at the BEHS library in a wetsuit to tell me that I need a retainer for my bottom teeth.

MOST OVERRATED DANGER
“Road to Joy” –Bright Eyes

Before I got to L.A., all I heard about the city was that the driving conditions sucked and danger lurked behind every stop sign. Here’s the deal: I’d rather drive from my office in Burbank to my Hollywood home than drive from Southcenter to Tacoma any day. I spend less time in my car here than I did in Bellingham—it takes me ten minutes to get to work, and once I move, I’ll be taking the subway, so I won’t have to drive at all. I’ve gotten on and off any number of freeways (the 5, the 134, the 101…) dozens of times without ending up in South Central L.A., begging for my life. Knock wood.

THE COOLEST RECORD STORE IN AMERICA IS RIGHT ACROSS THE STREET! VIVA AMOEBA!
“Hurt” –Johnny Cash

Johnny Cash sings Nine Inch Nails. How fucking cool is that?

TALKING ME OFF THE LEDGE
“Closer to Fine” –Indigo Girls

Last week, my TV Guide horoscope advised me that the week would be “one of the most promising times of the year as Mars, planet of energy, moves in your favor. If there are any creative projects you would like to develop, now is the time to give them your full attention.” I’m totally not making up that stuff about Mars. You can fact-check it yourself. However, I’m pretty convinced that I won’t be turning to TV Guide for my horoscope again soon. I had a few moments of soul-crushing homesickness, artistic angst, and unbelievably mind-blowing heartbreak this week. There is, however, more than one answer to these questions pointing me in a crooked line, and the less I seek my source for some definitive, the closer I am to fine.

Hollywood Week 5: Dear Friends Who Own Stock in IKEA: You’re Welcome

July 5, 2005

“If you have rolls and rolls of old wrapping paper lying around, then why not put them to good use by hanging them up? Choose one with a cool pattern and frame it on its own or add some personal touches by gluing on some photos.” This is the sorry-ass advice when I went surfing for ideas about how to accentuate the bare, 12-foot-high white walls in my new apartment. I like wrapping paper as much as the next gal, but, um, I’m not going to be using it for interior decorating projects in my heart-of-Hollywood home.

What I am going to be doing, however, is financing the college education of IKEA stockholders worldwide, since I just spent my first paycheck trying to purchase enough Swedish particle board to fill the empty cavern I now call home. Three days later, I can barely type because I have calluses up to wrists from churning a teeny tiny Allen wrench in a hundred billion circles. Also, the Swedes forgot to bring my mattress and now they’re pretending I didn’t actually buy one. Turn to page 121 in your IKEA catalogue. See the Klippan sofa? The loveseat size one in unyielding black leather? If you squint, perhaps you can imagine my ass hanging over the edge as I’m curled into an immovable fetal position with my head wedged under my cat for eight excruciating hours. Forget Osama. I’m going after Nils and Lars today, dammit, and I’m getting my mattress.

The main thing that attracted me to this new place is its convenience—I can stash my car in the garage after work and never have to use it again. There’s a movie theater across the street, a music store a block away, and a bar, a coffee shop, a bookstore, and a sushi restaurant on the ground level. On Sundays, there’s a farmers’ market on the street behind my building. That being said, I did take an exploratory drive around Hollywood on Saturday, discovering the nearest Target, Ralph’s and—rejoice with me, o thrifters—Goodwill within a six block radius of home. I stood in line at the Goodwill to purchase an inflatable mattress behind a dreadlocked man who was asking the cashier if they sold crucifixes because he was a vampire slayer and needed new tools.

I’ve mostly avoided other dangers. Although my car was side-swiped by a very nice girl named Alyson, nothing too scary has happened to me. A man in a Paul Klee t-shirt did seem to be following me around the block the other day, but he was about eighty and had only one real leg and was carrying a wrinkled Jack-in-the-Box drink cup from like, February. At the time I was hauling a new alarm clock and a six-pack, so I could have knocked him out had he been able to hobble my direction in a way that seemed even vaguely threatening.

The neighborhood is full of cool stuff to do besides dodge vampire hunters and one-legged stalkers. The world-famous Arclight Cinema is right across the street--home to many movie premiers and also the world's largest geodesic dome. I’ve spent my next paycheck at Amoeba Music (how’s this for schizophrenia? Yesterday I bought Warren Zevon’s Greatest Hits, Kenny Rogers’ Favorites, and The Cure’s Snow.) When I’m not dodging crazy people or spending money on music, I’m at Borders, reading their magazines and doing research for the show.

Hollywood Week 6: In Which I Try to Look Busy

July 14, 2005

I returned to VMHQ from a long weekend home, driving from the Burbank airport to the office Monday morning after an ass-crack-of-dawn flight that followed my first all-nighter since studying for my college chemistry final in 1989. I came to work intending to make up for the sleep I didn’t get on the plane by napping on the sofa in the bullpen, but I barely had time to tell everyone how I saw Hilary Swank lounging in purple bra and panties on her friends’ dock at Lake Samish before I was summoned to the Writers Room ALONE by the boss.

Each episode so far has been a collaborative effort—the six of us gather around the table and hammer out the A, B, and C storylines. With a group of funny people generating ideas and discussing rapport-building topics such music and personal hygiene, the Writers Room hums with humor and energy and occasional bolts of genius. But after each episode has been plotted, the individual assigned to write the script peels off to spend time alone composing, leaving fewer and fewer brains at the table.

I’ll be writing episode 5—possibly alone, but probably with Klemmer (“Klemben”). Since everyone else was busily working on their scripts, it was just me and Rob left in the Writers Room to break the story. And Monday morning, after two days testing the limits of my liver, no sleep, and 4 hours on a plane, I was not ready to be brilliant and witty and clever. I came to work still wearing my swimsuit under my clothes, for god’s sake.

The good thing about this job is that wearing a bikini under one’s Howard Dean for America tank top doesn’t really attract attention. Aside from someone telling me that I should’ve worn the shirt more often when Dean was still campaigning, nobody even noticed that I was wearing beachwear and clothing that I’d obviously (not) slept in. This is an office, after all, where the guys rinse off in the Bivouac Buddy, the camouflage-curtained outdoor shower installed in the back parking lot. So there’s a good chance that I could’ve worn just the bikini top and there would’ve been little comment.

Being alone at the table with just Rob and our writers’ assistant has been more than slightly nerve wracking. With the group surrounding me, my lame story pitches just get lost in the cacophony. Now, when I toss out some little turd of an idea, there aren’t six people there to ignore it and quickly move on. Now there are two people, just looking at me like I’ve got an enormous, vacuous gap in my skull where my brain should be. I’ve spent most of the week alternating between thinking I’m a dork and worrying that everyone else thinks I’m a dork. Maybe I should take a clue from George Costanza and just pitch one good idea and then leave the room. Soon, everyone will think I’m brilliant.

For those of you monitoring my descent, you should know that I spent time on Tuesday purchasing a TV and ordering cable. I took some slack around the office because I only bought a 20-inch set, as opposed to some 60 inch behemoth that I could write off on my taxes, but my main concern was simply to own one that I can lift. Please rest assured that if you visit me in Hollywood, we’ll find ways to amuse ourselves besides watching TV, although my co-workers did harass me into ordering the Premium Plus Package with two hundred billion channels and HBO, so there is plenty of crap to choose from should we run out of other entertainment.

It’s funny that one reason I almost chose not to take this job is that I didn’t want to sacrifice my free time. A lifetime of job-free summers (well, there were a few years when I picked strawberries and shelved books) made me hesitant about giving up my three months of freedom. And here it is, mid-July, and I feel like I’ve done less work than I did in the two semesters I spent on my high school yearbook staff, something I never imagined possible. I’m trying to enjoy this space. I can tell, from the writers who are sequestered in their offices, wearing the letters off their keyboards, that my days of napping and 1000-word emails are not for long.

Enjoy, and thank you for joining me in this moment of silence.

Hollywood Week 7: I See Crazy People

July 24, 2005

Monday, July 18
Temperatures rose to 100˚ in Burbank, and excessive AC use caused a power outage, so we didn’t go into the office today. Like a snow day, except instead of sledding, I sunned myself at the pool. I took a lunch break and perused the TV listings. Why on God’s green earth does the Discovery Channel air something called “Youth of Third Reich” for five hours in the middle of the day?

Tuesday, July 19
Today, the AC worked when we arrived, and then blitzed out just as the temperature soared to 98˚ in Burbank at about 1:00. We took turns standing in front of the fridge to cool off, made Screwdrivers, and shortly thereafter called it a day.

Wednesday, July 20
John brought in the DSM IV after we talk about how entertaining it is to read about the mental disorders we don’t have. I read it for the entire morning and now have a raging case of medical student syndrome. I have everything from Asperger’s Syndrome to vascular dementia.

Rob’s hair cutter, Kim, came in to give him a haircut, and ended up doing the same for his dad, and Mike, the script coordinator. We have a long debate about whether or not Diane should get bangs and decide no, so Kim whisks Phil off to Rob’s office and he returns with a Mohawk. I’m sorry I didn’t get my mustache waxed, as sweat is collecting on it. The heat and humidity broke into a five-minute rainstorm late in the afternoon. Everyone rushed outside to watch it rain. See what I mean? Todos son locos.

I go for a walk every day when I get home from work, before it’s dark and the really crazy people come out. Today I passed a guy on the street with LONG LIVE GLAM tattooed in huge letters across the front of his neck. I have a hard time enduring needles at the doctor’s office, so I’m not going to be getting any giant neck tattoos. Squeamishness aside, what would I even write on myself permanently? About the only thing I can think of that will be as true twenty years from now as it is today is HERE I GO AGAIN.

Thursday, July 21
Big news from the network: CBS has decided to air four of last season’s episodes of Veronica Mars, starting next week. This is HUGE. UPN isn’t one of the major networks, so we depend on word-of- mouth and advertising to gain viewers. Having another network ask to show our program is awesome publicity, and should garner us some new fans right before the season begins. We also just cast Steve Guttenberg as Mayor Woodman (his campaign bumper stickers might read "Supportin' a Woody"), and we also cast former Playmate Charisma Carpenter in a recurring role.

Friday, July 22
The boss was away, Phil was gone, and Dayna brought her two Chihuahuas for an impromptu Bring Your Dog to Work Day (I also brought my two imaginary teacup poodles, Fiona and Ernestine). I spent most of the morning working on the outline for my first script, which Phil and I will be writing together. I’m excited because my episode takes place during Homecoming Week, and features two break-ups, a kidnapping, a crazy psychic, and a girlfight. Sadly, but unsurprisingly, my episode has no sex.

Saturday, July 23
I go to a cocktail party for TV writers at the Beverly Hills Hilton. I drink too many gin and tonics while Dayna gets interviewed by several reporters interested in talking to a Woman of Color. I go home and watch four episodes of Rescue Me back to back and do a couple crafty things. Y’all need to come liven things up down here.





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Hollywood Week 8: Growing Thicker Skin

July 2005

Wednesday night. 1:37 a.m. Until 1:34, I had been staring at the ceiling and listening to the meth addicts upstairs vacuum for what must be the thirteenth time this week. Oh, what I would trade for lethargic, pot-smoking Pacific Northwest neighbors who passed out at 8:00! But it wasn’t the vacuumeths that woke me. And sadly, it wasn’t the beeping of my phone, alerting me to a middle-of-the-night text-message from Matthew McConnaughey, who’d be the only person I’d pick up for. My sleeplessness was a severe case of test anxiety: on Wednesday morning, I turned in a rough draft of the outline of my first Veronica Mars episode, “Blast from the Past,” which I was co-writing with Phil Klemmer. I lay awake all night imagining the margins filled with red-penciled remarks like “this sucks,” and “WTFWYT?”

When I got to work, the outline had not been returned to me. Rob called me and Phil. “Belben. Klemmer. The Champagne Room.” I followed Phil into Rob’s office.

“What’s up? Did you get your nipples pierced?” I joked.

“No,” Rob said seriously. “I want to show you the empty spot on my desk where your outline should be.”

I froze. “It’s almost done,” I stammered. “I gave a draft--”

Rob laughed. “I’m just giving you shit,” he said, and proceeded to play a video for a band he wanted to use on the show.

***

But the pressure wasn’t off. When I finally did get the outline turned in later that day, and skipped out the door for a relaxing night on my saggy IKEA sofa, I’d been home and halfway through a cold post-work beer when the phone rang.

“Cathy? It’s Rob. Do you have a minute?”

Immediate oh fuck sensation—the blue-lights-in-the-rearview-mirror, “SEE ME” on the English final, “We need to talk,” sensation. The boss was calling me at home. The only time a boss had ever called me at home was when someone died. Rob didn’t sound sad. He sounded scoldy.

I gulped at my beer. “Um, yeah.”

“I just read your outline,” he said. “You can’t just change the story that we agreed on in the room.” He pointed out that an entire scene was missing—a series of beats that we’d mapped out in the room that somehow hadn’t made into my outline.

Fucking Diane, I thought. She’d seen my outline before I turned it in. Jesus, she’d insisted that I show it to her. And somehow, remarkably, she’d managed to catch a couple of formatting errors and reword a few sentences, but she hadn’t noticed an entire scene was missing? I was frustrated—was it sabotage or just a misunderstanding? I took another gulp of beer. Probably sabotage.

I hadn’t consciously changed anything, I told Rob. “I can barely talk at the writers’ table—I’m going to have the guts to change the storyline?” I’d just gotten confused, I told him, about what we’d finally decided to include (we’d talked through about 87 versions in 6 days). I left out the part about how Diane and I had gone over my outline before I turned it in to him, and how she hadn’t pointed out the missing scene. I didn’t mention that the writers’ assistant’s notes for the day had been incomplete. Instead, I made a funny joke about blowjobs, hung up, and revised the outline.

***

Writing a script is incredibly different than the type of writing I’m accustomed to. When I write short stories or articles, I’m the Rob Thomas of my own little universe: I get to pick the topic, the words, and the structure. Here, we start as a group. When it’s time to break a story—meaning that at least three of us aren’t assigned to a script and there’s a deadline looming, Rob rounds us up (usually by shouting, “Coffee up, motherfuckers!”_ and we trickle into The Room to toss around around A-story ideas, figure out where we need to go with various subplots, and determine which characters (i.e. actors) we can include in the episode.

Once we eliminate the ridiculous and the banal and agree on an A-story, we hammer out the beats together. This can take a week, depending on how complicated the story is and how many technical glitches we have to work out. A bottle episode—one that is filmed entirely on our sets in San Diego to save money—limits the plot. All of the action has to take place at the Mars’ apartment, Neptune High, Keith Mars’ office, the sheriff’s department, or Java the Hut, where Veronica works. This sounds like a wide range of locations, unless the plot calls for Veronica to track a missing classmate to a Bajama resort.

Breaking an A-story means deciding on each plot point, and determining how the Mystery of the Week will ultimately be resolved. And it must be resolved—there are no “To Be Continueds” in Veronica’s world. And there are also no dues ex machinas, either, no matter how many of the writers graduated with English degrees. Veronica has to figure things out herself, and she has to do it cleverly within 42 minutes, using her brains and high-tech equipment, and it all has to fall within the realm of the possible. A talking garbage can can’t whisper, “Hey, look in here,” to Veronica. She can’t find secret golden tablets or trip literally over clues. Rob insisted on this—and the show is strong and brilliant because of it—the solutions must rise organically from Veronica’s own ability to analyze and investigate.

Breaking an A-story means dividing the plot points into five acts—the cold open, which is the teaser portion of the show that precedes the title sequence, and then four acts that are separated by commercial breaks—each act ending with a cliff hanger that beckons the audience back to the sofa after the ads for condoms or Britney Spears’ fragrance. After an A-story is broken, the various subplots are broken—the B and C stories that deal with relationships between characters and developments surrounding the season-long mystery.

Once these decisions are made, and a tri-color, five-part, point-by-point story line exists, the project is turned over to the individual or pair of writers assigned to the episode. They construct a one-page summary and submit it to the network for approval, then write a detailed, 25 page, act-by-act expository outline of the show. Outlining takes another week, as the writer(s) and Rob haggle over scenes, words, and ideas. Once Rob is satisfied, the outline goes to the network, and via conference call, they ask questions and express. Final decisions are made, and then the episode “goes to script”—meaning that the writers are charged with creating the actual dialogue—channeling the voices of teenagers, gang members, and detectives.

The best part about going to script is that the scriptwriters are free to work wherever they please. “I type in one place, but I write all over the house,” Toni Morrison said, and so I’m writing while I lounge by the pool, take a mid-afternoon nap, call friends, and go for my nightly walk. I can take my laptop to the tiki bar and drink mai tais, as long as I post my work to the public folder at the end of the day and ultimately, deliver an episode that satisfies Rob, the UPN executives, and Veronica Mars fans around the globe.

The hardest part about writing the script is that even though I was executing a story designed by a group, and one which must please an enormous, diverse audience, I still felt personally attached to the words and ideas that I used. For about the billionth time in my life, I was advised to grow thicker skin. The X’d out portions of my drafts weren’t judgments about my character or my talent—they were business decisions about what appealed to our sponsors, our producers, and fans. I learned, slowly and with the aid of pharmaceuticals, that life is too short to stress out because someone would rather hear Veronica described as “notorious” than “renowned.”

***

My confidence about writing wavered daily, but it did grow stronger. And so did my attitude about life in Hollywood. In the book Personal Village, Marvin Thomas suggests establishing connections in your community by visiting businesses and gathering spots at least seven times to become a regular. So that means I wasn’t just the random crazy lady hobbling around the block in sandals she never should have worn on a three mile walk. I was a community fixture, waving at my friends in the Little Shop of Whores as I limped by, my pals at the three head shops in the stretch of Hollywood Blvd. between Cahuenga and Wilcox, and the guy in the plaid mini-skirt who camped out by Orson Welles’ star.

I never carried a camera and I didn’t have Oscar statuettes falling out of my pockets, so I was never mistaken for a tourist, but the real tourists did stop me and ask for directions. I helped two teenage boys who wanted to know where they could find the stars of “some cool people, like Dave Chappelle.” I had to break the news that a) I don’t think Chappelle has a star yet and 2) the stars aren’t organized in any sensible way, let alone by how cool people are. I pointed out James Brown’s star. They didn’t know who James Brown was, forcing me to do this little “you know, the guy who goes YEOW!!!” impersonation. They just looked at me. Thank God I’m not here pursuing an acting career. Channeling the voice of an eighteen-year-old white girl is so much easier.

Hollywood, Week 9: SFX: Sounds of the City; Sounds of the City of Subdued Excitement

August 7, 2005

"NOISE, n. A stench in the ear. Undomesticated music. The chief product and authenticating sign of civilization." –Ambrose Bierce, The Devil’s Dictionary

I’m excited to be visiting Bellingham this weekend, if for no other reason than I finally got one and one-thirds’ decent night’s sleep. Between my collapsing IKEA bed with its 6-inch mattress, Stinkē’s frequent cries for attention, and my stress-induced insomnia, I’ve been sleeping about eight hours a week, rather than eight hours a night. Oh yeah—and did I mention the noise?

If you’ve ever seen the Baz Luhrmann production of Romeo and Juliet—the one with Leo di Caprio and Claire Danes set in Los Angeles—you’ve had a sound bite of my life in the city, except without the iambic pentameter. In Bellingham, the whiz of helicopter blades meant that someone was being rescued by the Coast Guard out on the bay or St. Joe’s was transporting a patient to Seattle via medivac—and in either case, there was a solid chance you either knew the victim or had heard the story from a friend on the BFD. In LA, helicopters are as ubiquitous as drunk people pushing shopping carts…

…And I still haven’t acclimated to the sound of their whirring blades overhead. I awake almost nightly to sirens screeching down Sunset Boulevard, followed by the echo of news copters. I got out of bed Tuesday at one a.m., roused by sirens and choppers, and turned on the news, expecting to find reports of a plane crash on Hollywood Blvd. But there was nothing but the “ordinary” programming—half-hour infomercials for Girls Gone Wild videos and re-runs of shit like Logan’s Run and 21 Jump Street.

The worse noise I’ve encountered has been the cacophony that erupts above my head nightly. At home, my neighbor was a sweet and thoughtful woman who rarely flushed her toilet after ten p.m. Oh, there were those weeks she clunked around on crutches, but she was recovering from foot surgery, for God’s sake, and it was conscientious clunking. I could sense she was making an effort to move as infrequently as possible. Here, the anonymity of living amongst 3.8 million people gives my neighbors license, apparently, to conduct themselves like complete assholes.

I could live with a loud stereo or the occasional reverberations of a drum set. But the sheer randomness of the noise upstairs reminds me of those psychological experiments where rats were driven bonkers by unpredictable stimuli. A person could habituate to, say, a half-hour riff on an electric guitar at 6 p.m. every night, or wall-pounding sex on Thursdays at ten. But my neighbors in apartment 501 are completely unknowable. Some days, I hear nothing. Other times—and I so wish I were making this up—they are vacuuming at three o’clock in the morning.

And then there’s the hammering, which has made me go all Veronica Mars on them. Who are these people that must hammer stuff at two a.m.? I’m scared to turn them in to the management—they know where I live, after all—and I’d rather sleuth around for awhile myself before tattling to the landlord. WWVD? I’d like to think she’d be sensible and call the cops the next time it sounded like bodies were being tossed around, but that wouldn’t get great ratings. Besides, a complaint about a noisy neighbor would never make it through LAPD triage. Unless there’s a hostage situation, or a scenario equally likely to get good news coverage, the LA cops aren’t coming to my house.

Veronica would definitely go for something with more visual appeal—more dramatic attention. Something that would appeal to the demographic. She would creep around and take photos with her state-of-the-art digital camera with the wide-angle lens, for example, and she’d probably use her connections with the sheriff’s department to identify the offenders and torment them with late-night phone calls or unsolicited Chinese food delivery. There’s a good chance she’d assume a fake accent or dress up in costume or some other crazy shit that people on TV are always doing. The only person I know who’s done either (actually, both) with any success is my friend Ryan. Need a friend to act as the concierge at the Icicle Inn in Leavenworth? He’s your man. Unfortunately, he’s not here to help me, so I can’t hire him to pose as an Austrian pizza boy and send upstairs to check out the floor-pounders.

I’m terrible with accents, and all my good dress-up clothes are stowed in a tightly sealed box in the back of my laundry closet in Fairhaven, so I’m out of luck as far as those options go. The best I can do is sneak around, hope to catch a glimpse of the noisemakers, leave falsified “letters from the management” taped to their door, and hope for the best. I did creep up to the fifth floor a couple of times hoping for a sighting, but saw nothing. I paused in front of their door long enough to realize that 1) they hadn’t installed a reverse-fisheye-peep hole à la Cosmo Kramer, and 2) now they know who I am, so further surveillance efforts are heretofore risky and stupid. I’m back to sleeping with my headphones on and returning to Bellingham for a solid night’s sleep when I can afford it.

Which I got, mostly, this weekend. I spent the weekend in my real house in Bellingham with two-thirds of my lifelong gang of gal pals—6 of the 9 women with whom I’ve had a sisterly relationship with for going on 28 years. And the sound effects were fabulous. I can’t imagine a life without Carol’s laugh or Michelle’s drama or Sheri’s calculator or the peace of Dana’s quiet, stoic voice, or the sound of Susan scrubbing something. Sorry to wax all corny on you, but I cherish this family, and I wouldn’t trade all the Hilary Swanks or Steve Guttenbergs in the world for the connection we have.

Despite the lack of sleep and the craziness of L.A. noise, there are sounds there I will welcome when I return tomorrow to my temporary Hollywood home. Waking up to Johnny Cash in my CD-alarm clock, singing “Ring of Fire,” the cha-ching of the cash register at the bookstore downstairs, Stinkee’s howls for attention, the dee-da-la-dee-da-la-dee of my cell phone, delivering a voice from Bellingham or Boise, Lake Samish or Lynnwood. Bright Eyes’ “Road to Joy,” –no matter who’s singing it--the sound of the fountain and the rustling bamboo in the courtyard outside my bedroom. And, perhaps most of all, the whirring of the engines and the clunk of retracting wheels as flight 411 lifts off the Burbank tarmac, into the sky, away from the strangers, and back here, to the only home I’ll ever really love.

Hollywood, Week 10: Does This Blog Make My Mouth Look Big?

August 16, 2005

Back in the day, when I was freelancing non-Pulitzer-worthy gems such as “You Go Girl” and “The Body Farm,”[1] I made almost no money, but there were definite perks that I miss. When I wrote alone, I could do it at my own pace. No one was waiting for my article about the local art store to show up for a 5 a.m. deadline. And while editors tweaked a word here and there or edited a little for clarity or length, rarely did they request much revision. It was “free” lance writing after all—I did it for almost free and felt free to do what I wanted.

Writing was a lot less stressful when I was doing it as a hobby rather than a job. That’s not to say I don’t enjoy the writing than I’m doing now, just that it’s very, very different to create something under a deadline, within specific parameters, in a particular voice, for an audience of millions. Fortunately, I consider stressing out something of a vocation, having pursued it vigorously since primary school. (If only they’d had Zoloft for children in 1974, maybe that “greater than, less than” unit in 2nd grade math wouldn’t have been so traumatic).

For those of you who doubt that stress is a job, take the Belben Challenge: lie on your back in a darkened room during the eight hours you’d otherwise be sleeping, and just stare at the ceiling. Toss, turn, and fail to find a comfortable position, no matter how many soft cushy pillows you pile under your head or how sweet the twenty pound cat curled at your feet. When your shift is over, arise from the horizontal, and chant my mantra: I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry. Proceed to the office. Now be witty, congenial, efficient, and original for the next eight to ten hours. How’d that work out for you?

When I first got here, when we were still breaking the stories for the beginning of the season, I had a casual and comfortable getting-acclimated period that I might have mistaken for normal day-to-day operations. Ding Dongs in the staff room? Ordering out for lunch? Pop-a-shot contests? Two-hour work-out breaks? Yee-ha! Ten weeks later, I’ve learned that, o.k., these things exist, but they’re perks that balance out the hours of intense room-time and untold quantities of individual, locked-in-an-office writing time. In my old life, I left work at 3 p.m.—2:45 if it was a Friday and the boss wasn’t looking. Those were the days. Last Thursday, I left VMHQ at 7:00 after tinkering with the script for 12 hours. The only time I ever left my teaching job that late was back in 1990, when I had to stay after school to finish reading the chapter of Of Mice and Men I was supposed to teach the next day.

Turning in an outline or draft of a script is the scariest part of this job—not the blank page, but the empty hand. Sitting at home, typing comfortably, surrounded by lovable pets and beer and all my favorite junk food, taking mid-afternoon naps to recharge the batteries—these are things I do with ease and pleasure; this is writing. Can’t think of a line for Veronica? Must be time to order pizza! Stumped about how to segue into a sex scene? Inspiration arrives in a margarita and a dose of The Daily Show. Once the typing is done—that’s when the real work begins for me. Tom Petty had it right—the waiting IS the hardest part.

“Expect nothing,” Alice Walker wrote. “Live frugally on surprise.” I armed myself with this reminder last Monday night, just after setting out work clothes—a tank top in a my power color (pink) and shorts that make my ass look smaller. I spent a short portion of the night riding the wave of relief—the script is done, at least in the technical sense—it has a beginning, a middle, and an end—yippee. I knew not to come in Tuesday morning expecting to see it covered in happy face stickers and unabashed raving about my unparalleled wordsmanship. I knew to be prepared for red Xs rather than hearts and stars. I knew to enjoy a night of relaxation and confidence-reinforcement before I had to face whatever appeared on the RT version of Episode 205 and begin work on the next draft. And then the phone rang.

You know that feeling you got back in high school when your parents found an empty beer bottle in your room and just left it sitting on your desk without saying anything? Or the gut-dropping sensation of spotting red and blue lights in your rear view mirror? This is what it felt like with the boss called me at home—Oh, shit. The only other time a boss has called me at home was when someone died. Fortunately, the call wasn’t as dire as I’d feared—a scene was missing due to a communication error and needed to be written in. Not that I felt good about the screw-up—far from it. But considering the plethora of other horrible things that could have happened, this was about a 2 on the horribleness scale, rather than a 10.

Arriving at work the next day to face the screen and the script, I reminded myself that I’m here for a reason and it’s not to spend my days and nights wound up in a tight little sleepless wad of anxiety. I’m here to make the most of an incredible opportunity, to suck in the adventure and the fun, to meet new people and go new places and be a part of something strange and exciting. I’m here to learn. And so I opened my computer and poised my fingers above the keys. I took a deep breath and whispered my new mantra. I’m doing the best I can.

[1] BUST, October 2006.

Hollywood, Weeks 11 and 12: Karma Repairs and Story Problems

August 29, 2005

For the first time since I was toilet-trained, I won’t be going to school in September. For 32 years, I’ve spent my life in the care of educators—parents, teachers, colleagues. There’s a lot I miss about the going-back-to-school rituals—the new clothes, boxes of books to be unpacked, a new Tolkien-themed READING: MAKE IT A HOBBIT bulletin board to put up in the library. More than anything, I miss the routine. There was comfort in knowing precisely when the work day began and ended—there were no questions about My Time and The Man’s Time. Flag salute at 7:55, lunch at 11:50, I-5 at 2:59:59.

Each day this week, we spent six to seven solid hours in the Writers’ Room, breaking the story for episode six. By 5:30 or 6, the writers’ table was an archaeological exhibit of the day’s efforts: littered with empty coffee mugs, candy wrappers, used-up dry-erase markers, and take-out containers. It’s a testament to both our intensity and the occasional periods of collective mental paralysis we experience as we sit silently, all six of us equally stumped by a glitch in the plot, relieved only by Barq’s and Starburst. For long stretches we sat zombie-like, willing a solution to appear out of the ether. I cursed myself for not having read—or remembered—more books. Surely the answer was out there in some true-crime book or detective novel that I’d read and forgotten. If only I could sneak away to quickly skim The Stranger Beside Me or Helter Skelter.

Among the story problems that did get solved this week was the completion of the production draft of the episode I co-wrote with Phil Klemmer. This is the version which, having cleared Rob, the network, and the studio, is sent to San Diego to the production crew, who will read it and begin securing props, locations, and wardrobe. Over the next few weeks, this draft will change—we might need to add Back-up to a scene, or change the location of a conversation, or remove references to brand-name products. All of the characters’ names have to clear our legal department. Databases are searched to determine if a name is common enough (like Anna Johnson) to be used without repercussions, or if it is too rare (like Bartholomew Quimperhead) and might be the subject of a lawsuit if the real owner of the name freaked out and didn’t want to be portrayed as a whiskey-guzzling Jazzercise™ teacher with pierced nipples.

Reading the production draft was a bit like recalling a weeks-old dream—there were large portions I remembered writing, but some words had been altered, or lines clipped, or scenes combined for cost efficiency or to accommodate a change that had been made in the previous episode. I found myself rejoicing when I read a line that appeared in the production draft exactly as I’d written it—a little cheer of “yippee! that didn’t suck!” arose in my throat. 99.9% of the time, my co-writers improved on whatever lame turd of an idea I originally produced, and I feel humbled to work in the presence of people whose grasp of language and story is so much snappier and smarter than my own. (This one time, in BFE, I was one of the funniest people I knew. Now I’m Susie-Not-So-Sassy. Can you say Little Fish, Big Pond?).

Work has become much busier as episodes go to production and the first airdate (Wednesday, September 28 at 9pm on UPN) approaches. Rob is often called away to choose music or attend casting sessions, so we come in early to get time with him at the table. The writers’ assistant and I have been assigned the task of updating parts of UPN’s Veronica Mars website (www.veronicamars.com) –we’re writing the “Case Files” section, which is basically a recap of the episodes from last season, written in Veronica’s voice. It’s actually a very fun project, but it requires squeezing in moments to re-read scripts and devoting my evenings to watching my decaying videotapes of the show, which really cuts into my RU the Girl viewing time.

As the show is filmed on location in San Diego, DVDs of the day’s taping are delivered to our office each afternoon. These “dailies” offer a unique window into how TV gets made. Each scene in a script is filmed again and again from different angles, and the scenes are filmed out of narrative sequence—all of the school scenes are shot, then the scenes at the bordello (just kidding), then the scenes at Mars Investigations, etc. The editing crew later pieces them together in correct order and so that the perspective shifts to focus on the character who is speaking. Multiple takes also insure that the best delivery of a line makes it into the final version, and allows the editors to eliminate mistakes—Rob laughing in the background, for example, or an actor fumbling a line or sneezing. Watching the dailies makes me appreciate just how much work and talent are required to produce a quality TV show. It’s an amazing, labor-intensive process.

When we’re not at the table, I work alone in my office, my ears plugged, my headspace filled with the voices of Veronica, Logan, Wallace, Duncan, Keith, Sheriff Lamb, and the other imaginary people who make up our world. It’s tough work—sometimes I can’t even channel my own self, let alone a dozen make-believe identities. But it’s fun work, too, despite the occasional—and sometimes audible—frustrations. One of my co-workers overheard me sigh one day while I was writing and asked, “Why the heavy sigh? You’re living the dream life!” I am living a dream life, that’s for sure—a surreal and strange expedition out of the ordinary and into a whole new world, where there is so much to learn and laugh and think about, that sometimes it’s all I can do to remember to stop and breathe.

Hollywood, Week 15: This Writer’s Rooms

September 23, 2005

The Writers’ Room and The Writer’s Room:
A mix-up in the availability of one of our actors means that the story we just broke last week is now going to become episode 9 instead of 8. This means we had a week to break a whole new A-story, write a one-pager, draft an outline, and put together a 50 page script. John and Dayna were already at work on episode 9 and Diane is working on 7, so that left me, John, and Rob to whip up something brilliant. It might sound easier to have three people on the project, but writing is one of those endeavors that just gets more complicated with more people. It’s like driving a car—one driver can do a good job, and it might be nice to have a map-in-hand passenger assisting with navigation, but if you both try to steer, there’s bound to be an accident.

Monday was one of the best days I’ve had at the writers’ table—everyone was in a good mood, (although the guys were almost giddy, for some reason and at one point, the women just looked at them—Phil bouncing on his special back-support chair, Rob spinning his wedding ring around the table like a top, John doodling madly on his legal pad—and thought we’d stumbled into an ADD support meeting.) Empowered by my Rosie-the-Riveter WE CAN DO IT undershirt, I felt more confident than I have in a long time and pitched more ideas than ever. Maybe not good ideas, all of them, but at least the crew knew that I wasn’t just sitting there with a bowl of jello in my cranium.

Tuesday, we awoke to a thunderstorm. Stinkee howled all night, I slept periodically between 11:13 and 12:47; 12:52 and 3:11, 3:45 and 5 ish. The rain pounding outside—what my friends in India might call either an impending or receding typhoon—meant the roads were slickened with long-dormant oil and commuters were exercising their brakes and horns with adolescent abandon. A grey sky, windshield wipers awakened from months-long hibernation, and long, curly hair that frizzed on contact with the outside air. I was in heaven. Home again, home again, jiggity-jig.

Alas, the writers’ room bubbled less. Monday’s frivolity gave way to Tuesday’s weather-induced gloom. We looked at each other, some snappishness occurred, ideas withered in the humidity. Driving home, I fondly recalled the Olden Days, when I left work on a rainy day cheerfully anticipating an afternoon nap, a comforting glass of Merlot, and a night of crafts watching a romantic comedy.

Wednesday, we reported to the table at the ungodly hour of 8 a.m. to hash out the beats for the A, B, and C stories of episode 8. Although John Enbom and I (BelbEnbom) will be credited with the script, the labor was divided between me, Rob, John, and Diane, with a previously-written scene by Phil thrown in for good measure. I began Thursday in my office, coffeed-up and intense, and sequestered myself there for seven hours to produce 6 pages of outline for the as-yet-untitled script while the others did the same. By quittin’ time, we’d put together an outline. It feels like finals week. I took myself out for sushi and enjoyed the calm before the storm…Monday we’ll get the RT version of the outline back, and the ulcer inducing stress will begin again.

The Hotel Room
My friend Anna said, when I told her about my upcoming weekend in Vegas, “It’s like you’re at summer camp!” I don’t know where the Coggans were sending their children, but at Camp Don Bosco, we were lucky to go on a day trip to the river, let alone a weekend excursion to Las Vegas.

Here’s the backstory: Veronica Mars employs, on retainer(ish) a local P.I. WHOSE NAME I CAN’T SAY FOR SECURITY REASONS. This fellow, who I’ll call “Sam,” is called upon to inform us when we have technical questions, like how to hack into a school’s grade program or the best method for impersonating a federal agent, or whatever. He’s also an active member of the World Investigators organization, a group that happens to be holding its annual conference at the MGM Grand this weekend. And they’re happily sponsoring a Veronica Mars contingent of one: me. So I’m off at the ass-crack of dawn today to mingle with the mysterious. I’ll keep you posted.

The Green Room

Weirdly, the dude who books guests for The Late, Late Show with Craig Ferguson (nightly at 12:30 on CBS, following Letterman) happened upon an article about my (mis)adventures in The Bellingham Herald. He contacted Warner Brothers, they contacted me, I signed some paperwork that will probably put me within auditing distance of the IRS, and now I’ll be appearing on Ferguson’s show to talk about the strange segue from high school librarian to Hollywood TV writer. At least I hope that’s what we’re going to talk about. It’s entirely possible his researchers dug up some embarrassing tidbit from junior high, like how I cried in home ec when I had trouble sewing the little green pickle-shaped piece of felt on my hamburger-shaped pillow or something.

At any rate, they’re sending a car to pick me up for the taping on Tuesday at 4 p.m. THEY’RE SENDING A CAR! I’m pretty sure the only time a car has been sent to pick me up was when I drank too much at a party and my friends were afraid I’d skid over someone’s family on the way home. They’re doing my hair and make-up, and the woman who made those arrangements assured me, “they’re very good…they won’t make you look like a hooker.” Well, damn. Imagine the book I could squeeze out of that: from high school librarian to TV writer to internationally known, televised prostitute. At any rate, if you want to see me talk about my sewing skills or how my fan letter to Rob Thomas led to a new career or if you just want to see whether or not I really look like a hooker on TV, I’ll be appearing Tuesday, September 27, at 12:30 a-friggin-m on CBS.

Hollywood, Week 16: She Gives Good Story

October 3, 2005

In case you’ve ever wondered, writing doesn’t come any easier when lay your head down on the keyboard and repeat Everything I write smells like ass. I know, because I tested this out on Friday, when I reported to my office at the (now-considered-early) hour of 8 a.m. to finish the sections of episode 8 (“Ahoy, Mateys!”) that I’m responsible for. As mentioned last week, four writers per script screws things up in a too-many-cooks-spoil-the-broth way. By the time we’d delivered the conjoined beast to Rob, the name of a main character had more spellings than Quadafi, we’d repeated or neglected key points of the plot, and the entire conglomeration resembled the end of a game of Telephone.

Writing a script looked a lot easier than it’s turned out to be. The pages are mostly white space, after all. The word count for a 50-page screenplay is about 10,000 words—less than a fourth as many words as are contained in regular prose on the same number of pages. It’s amazing this makes my brain hurt as much as it does. A screenplay is just people talking, and I’ve certainly never had a problem with that. The trick is that so much more has to happen in so many fewer words. It’s like trying to decorate a Beverly Hills mansion with a school teacher’s salary. Everything would be so much easier if Veronica could just hop in her Mystery Machine and stumble around a haunted inn for a rainy night before ripping the mask off Mr. Jeevish! The hotel’s proprietor! Who would’ve got away with it if it hadn’t been for Veronica! Instead, she actually has to think her way through every problem, and be witty, clever, smart, and sexy in the meantime.

Fortunately, I had a week full of diversion to keep me from crumpling up into a ball under my desk. On Tuesday, I made my TV debut on The Late, Late Show with Craig Ferguson, which was a fun, if slightly surreal, experience. The day before the show, Michael, the guy in charge of the guest line-up, called to “pre-interview” me so that I’d have an idea what I’d be asked on stage. Prior to this, I’d also been sent an 8-page dossier about myself that had been collated by the show’s research underling. All of the information he’d gathered was from the internet, the newspaper, and my blog. How bizarre to read about myself in the third person: “Belben’s home life remains unsettled. She reports a fair amount of turbulence with her new upstairs neighbors” and to see that the notes in the dossier had been footnoted—in one case, to define “ants-on-a-log” for Ferguson. Perhaps they don’t have this delectable treat in Scotland. Too busy eating sheep innards, maybe.

The Late, Late Show appears at 12:30 a.m. on CBS, but it’s taped at 5:30. They sent a car to get me—partly courtesy, partly just to make sure I didn’t get lost or fail to show up—and then they stationed me in a dressing room as big as my bedroom, complete with a TV, a mini-bar, a huge gift box full of Bacardi, a copy of Pat the Bunny (long story) and a card from Craig Ferguson, welcoming me to his “wee dark show.” Trent-the-make-up-guy powdered me up, the stylist Michelle fluffed my hair, and the wardrobe guy double-stick-taped the hem of my jeans so I wouldn’t fall and break any more teeth.

Besides me, there were two other guests on the show: actress Maria Bello, who’s currently appearing in A History of Violence, and Jason Segel, who’s on the TV show How I Met Your Mother. Maria Bello never set foot in the Green Room (yes, it really is green), but me, Jason Segel and our entourages (mine included two reps from Warner Brothers and my agents and I’m only calling it My Entourage to be obnoxious), watched the show on a large screen TV and snacked on the Craft Services spread. (Also, not to be a tattle-tale, but Jason had two beers, too. I only had a half a glass of wine to calm myself down a little bit).

Just before it was my turn to go onstage, the sound guy hooked me up to a microphone. The hairstylist had warned me that I would become “quite intimate” with him, as the mike cord goes down the front of one’s shirt, but he was a perfect gentleman. Actually, I wouldn’t have minded if he hadn’t been. As you, and the rest of the late night TV viewers United States, now know, I haven’t had anything resembling a date since I’ve been in Los Angeles. They perched me on two footprints just offstage, and once Ferguson introduced me (“Cathy Billbun from Billingum, Washington”), I made my entrance, gave that lame little TV-wave that y’all saw, hugged Mr. Ferguson (yummy!) and sat down in front of the audience of sounds-like-a-thousand-but-is-really-about fifty people. (And no, I don’t know who the especially vociferous whoo-ee person was. I think they plant a couple of people to act excited like that, otherwise everyone else would just be thinking, as I took the stage, WHO?)

Remarkably, I wasn’t that nervous. It was much more nerve-wracking to watch myself on tape later. Besides, it’s not really like I had to say that much. Obviously, the guests on these shows are pretty much just foils for the hosts. Don’t get me wrong, Ferguson is funny and completely gracious, but you may have noticed that his listening skills could use a little polish. Fortunately, I have some life experience with people who interrupt constantly, so it wasn’t that hard to just sit back, laugh, and not worry about finishing my answers.

Now that I’ve had my five minutes of fame, I’m back to work, trying to think up brilliant A-story ideas to pitch as soon as we’re finished with the whirling morass we’ve written ourselves into with episodes 7, 8, 9, and 10 all being under construction at once—and out of order, thanks to the mix-up in actor availability that required switching 8 and 9, and the fact that episode 10 is being written by close friend of Rob’s who lives in Texas.

Hollywood, Week 17: Boys and Toys

October 12, 2005

"It is in games that many men discover their paradise." -Robert Lynd

I can’t speak for the rest of the TV industry, and I’m too lazy to do the research right now, but the staff of Veronica Mars is peopled predominantly by males. There are six writers and their assistant, an office manager, Rob’s personal assistant, and nine post-production people who edit the film sent north by the San Diego crew. Of these 18 people, five are women; the rest are boys.

Please note that I did not say men. Although they sprout facial hair and are presumably decorated with the other male accoutrements, the penis-encumbered folk with whom I work are unashamedly boyish. And I love them for it—and not in a Mary-Kay-LeTourneau-7-years-at-Purdy kind of way. I love that they are playful and fun, in a way that the women that I worked with back in Burlington were. They have an energy and camaraderie and goofiness that make working at VM a bit like being the one sister in a family of Brady boys. On crack.

Because we work in close quarters for up to ten hours a day, sharing three meals, a kitchen, and bathrooms, the group begins to resemble a family of sorts—complete with all the sunshine and shit that accompany any collection of people thrown together mostly by chance. If someone has a fight with their wife or really bad gas or a skull-splitting hangover, we’re all party to the suffering. By the same token, when Rob’s daughter stands for the first time, or John buys a house or Dayna takes a fabulous trip to Ojai, we all get to celebrate.

Working with 13 “men” is a bit like having a baker’s dozen of brothers—they tease us about our hair, leave the fridge door open, use our bathroom and stink it up, and complain about the way we park. They can’t close a cabinet door to save their lives, or refill the coffee maker, or load a roll of TP. However, they do burn CDs for us, diagnose weird smells made by our cars, advise our pre-date clothing options, defend us when we’re romantically wronged (“I will hate for you!” one Y-chromosome-bearing co-worker told me after my heart had been squished), and are never stingy with the praise when we appear on national TV (“You looked fantastic!” my boss told me).

They are strange creatures, these professional brethren. I have yet to appreciate their passions—Keira Knightly—huh? and when someone wrote “Jessica Alba’s ass” on the weekly grocery request list, I could only scratch my head. And then there’s Ahundo, the bewildering, never-ending dart game that consumes virtually every moment of downtime for the boyfolk. The magnetic gameboard is stationed on the wall immediately outside the women’s restroom, so the ovary-enhanced have to pass through what I call the Sausage Gauntlet to attend to our needs, and on more than one occasion, I’ve been booed and/or hit in the nose with a dart for emerging from the restroom at precisely the wrong moment.

Ahundo is specifically designed to exclude women. At least that’s my hunch. For one thing, it employs a complex and impenetrable set of rules, accompanied by an even more complicated score-keeping system involving more math than I’ve cried about since ninth-grade algebra. The players have offensive nicknames that mock their a) ethnicity b) genitalia c) sexual prowess or d) all of the above. Play involves loud exclamations of delight/angst, dancing and/or collapsing on the sofa, and employment of The Tampon of Anger, which, as its name suggests, is a cardboard-encased tampon that is hurled to the ground by a player unhappy with his throw. Ahundo has absolutely nothing to do with, or attract, women.

The best thing about working with men is the music. Although I have female friends who are musically inclined-slash-gifted, there are few women with whom I actively dish about new bands. I rarely trade CDs with anyone except my guy friends. None of my female pals, as far as I know, has 15,000 songs loaded on her computer’s shared drive, as does my boss, Rob. Working in an environment with men, being able to talk about music is almost as useful as being able to talk about the designated hitter rule or the neutral zone trap or Jessica Alba’s ass. I have nothing to say about baseball, hockey, or The Female Buttocks (except that mine are too dimply), so it’s helpful that I’ve read the latest reviews of Death Cab for Cutie and Apollo Sunshine and My Morning Jacket. I burned a Derby CD for Rob last week—because he had never heard of them—and felt like I’d earned a ticket into the club. Please excuse me for a moment while I shave my newly sprouted chest hair.

The truth of the matter is that I feel as at home with the guys at VM as I’ve ever felt anywhere. Maybe because growing up on Azalea Place, I was surrounded by families of boys. My first best friend was Kevin Porter. I learned to ride a bike on Craig Knudsen’s hand-me-down. I played Advance-and-Retreat and rode on the back of a motorcycle long before I owned a Barbie camper. I learned to throw a spiral and knew what a first down was before I owned a baton. And then I owned baton and lasted only one session in the Rosettes before I wanted to leave and go build a fort in the woods somewhere.

I like to think I have the best of both worlds now—like my mother and my grandmother, I appreciate sports but also have a knack for baking and crafts (please, let’s not talk about sewing). Like my father and my brother, I love music and exercise. Like so many men and women in my biological family, I am devoted to words and ideas and books and laughter. Surrounded as I am, at VMHQ, by brilliant, funny women, and talented, hilarious men, I am aware that these worlds have converged—the art, the science, the sports, the sounds, the words and the wisdom—and I have, for the time being, an amazing and unusual new family.

Hollywood Update #18: Convenience Store Hold-Up Guy #3

October Something, 2005

…come sit down here beside me, honey.
Let’s have a little heart to heart.
Now look at me and tell me, darlin’,
How badly do you want this part?

-The Eagles, “King of Hollywood”

The Southern California rainy season began in mid-October with a crashing thunderstorm and dense, tropical, roof-threatening downpour. It felt like home, only warmer. The cooler weather meant finally being about to run outside at a reasonable hour. The early-morning rain left the streets and sidewalks shiny, especially on Hollywood Boulevard’s Walk of Fame, part of the regular route I take from my apartment on Sunset and Vine past the Capital Records Building, the various Scientology Outposts, and the Chinese Theatre. The stars are embedded in a slick, linoleum-like concrete, and a typical morning run after a rain means skidding across the wet pavement, sliding across Burt Reynolds and landing unelegantly on Spencer Tracy or Spike Jones.

Future Veronica Mars stars are discovered by a company that reads our scripts and sends the casting call to talent agencies, who send us actors matching the request (elderly Hispanic male; deaf teenage bimbo, retarded Caucasian librarian etc). Auditions for VM take place in a tiny, wood-paneled room with fluorescent lights and a 70’s-porn-office feel. Actors are provided with sides (usually two pages from the script, but occasionally fake scenes written specifically for the audition) a few days prior and then perform before the two casting agency reps, the show-runner (Rob), and the writer(s) of the episode. Usually five or six people audition for a given role, but sometimes as many as ten or twelve will read for a part if the casting agent is unsure what we’re looking for. All of the actors read the same pages from the script (about 10-15 lines), so it’s actually preferable to have fewer actors auditioning, otherwise you quit paying attention to the acting and just start thinking how much you hate hearing “My wife and I loved our son, Mr. Mars!” and “I know she lied about the electroshock therapy!” again and again.

Casting usually attracts unknowns, but periodically we’ll see recognizable actors whose roles on other shows have ended. Christine Estabrook, who played Martha Huber in half a dozen episodes of Desperate Housewives until she was killed by a shovel-wielding neighbor, auditioned for—and got—the role of Madame Sophie in episode five. We also recently cast John Bennett Perry—father of Friends’ Matthew Perry—as Principal Moorehead. Major roles, or recurring parts for which we want a known name, like the roles filled by former Playmate Charisma Carpenter, Police Academy alum Steve Guttenberg, and L.A. Law’s Harry Hamlin, are filled without auditions, and instead are negotiated with the actor’s agent. The same goes when we arrange a one-time appearance by someone like Kevin Smith (episode 2) or the Dandy Warhols’ lead singer Courtney Taylor-Taylor (episode 3), or Buffy the Vampire Slayer’s creator Joss Whedon (episode 6).

Unknowns or minor celebrities bring with them a headshot and a resume. The best headshots show what the person actually looks like; the worst show what the person wishes he looked like—or what he looked like ten years ago, before the tattoos, the alcoholism, the male pattern baldness, or the Krispy Kreme excursions. Appearance does matter—but not always the way I had expected. Being attractive is certainly an asset in many cases, but it doesn’t guarantee work—a heavy, scarred, balding guy might be perfect for a role that a Calvin Klein underwear model would look ridiculous performing. Try to imagine Matthew McConnaghy as George Costanza and I think you’ll see my point.

Many actors include on their resume a list of their special skills. These include the banal (“has valid California drivers’ license and U.S. passport”), the useful (“speaks fluent Spanish and Hindi; reads Braille; NRA-certified pistol whipper”), and the bizarre (“concert whistler, swashbuckler, can juggle knives”). We’re really more interested in whether the person looks the part and acts well than whether or not they can whistle “Ring of Fire.” Also, because we often don’t know whether an actor will be needed for future episodes, we cast carefully, no matter how small the role. We don’t want to hire someone who sucks, only to learn later that we really need the character for a plotline But. They. Deliver. Their. Lines. Like. This. More often than not, getting cast in a small role works in an actor’s—and our—favor. Logan was originally intended to be a much smaller part, but Jason Dohring’s acting, and the audience response to him, was so positive that he’s now a major character. An even better example is Ryan Hanson, who plays surfer dude Dick Casablancas. Originally cast out of San Diego for a tiny, one-episode role, Hanson was so good, and so well-liked, that he’s now a series regular.

Many of the seasoned writers look forward to casting sessions as much as impending gum surgery. I’m unseasoned and therefore enjoy casting—I like to see my words performed in various ways, I like being in on the selection, and it’s entertaining and inspiring to watch talented people enjoy their craft. We just cast episode 8, “Ahoy Mateys,” which I co-wrote with John Enbom, and fortunately for the ladies in the casting audience (me), one of the parts requires the actor to lift his shirt to reveal a scar on his belly. Two of the actors lifted their white ribbed tank tops to expose hairy flab. The other one—who not-so-incidentally got the part—revealed the most the second most anatomically perfect abdomen I have ever seen. It was a thing of beauty.

Like so many of my experiences in Hollywood, watching the auditions has given me yet another aspect of the industry to admire. Spencer Tracy, on whose star my ass was so recently planted, advised actors, “Know your lines and don’t bump into the furniture,” but it really is so much more difficult than being able to walk upright and memorize words. Acting well requires enough confidence to believe that despite not being cast for hundreds of the roles you audition for, you’re still good enough and likeable enough and talented enough to make a living at it. It requires an ability to examine a script carefully and detect the writers’ intent. It means experimenting with the different ways a line can be delivered. Most of all it means pretending, convincingly, to be another person for a tiny period of time in a cold, creepy office, in front of a group of strangers. In some ways, I think we all know a little bit about what that feels like.

Hollywood Update #19: Y’All Can Just Call This Creepytown

November 9, 2005

Happy Hollyween
Every day is Halloween in Hollywood, to a certain extent. It’s not unusual to cross paths with a half-dozen trannies and an assortment of other strangely attired folks in the course of a day. But if there’s a holiday that sums up all that is Lalaland, it’s this one. I dressed up, of course; after combing the thrift stores and costume shops on Hollywood Boulevard and securing everything needed for my alter-ego, Cub Scout Ricky Lixx (see photo).

Michael Muhney (Sheriff Lamb) invited me to join his friends in Studio City for a candy-handing-out party, and I got another creepy look at the holiday. As in many suburban areas, the goblins arrived en masse in minivans from their distant neighborhoods—the kids to accumulate pillowcases full of Snickers bars, and the parents to show off how cute their kids are. In Suburbank, Halloween is like a giant casting call, with stage mothers pimping out their toddlers and ‘tweeners in hopes of accidentally trick-or-treating the home of a director or agent. I saw dozens of $100+ costumes, including several kids with studio-quality special-effects make-up (one kid had a six-inch bolt penetrating his forehead that was so real looking, he must’ve stayed home from school just to have it applied). The second scariest thing I saw was a seven-year-old girl dressed as an American Idol contestant who sang for us and told Michael that she “loves men with big muscles” as she squeezed his bicep.

Creepy Crawlers
Because money seems to ooze out of the cracks in Hollywood sidewalks, there’s a misconception that everyone in the business is swanking around in cushy, velvet-and-leather office suites, hot-tubbing at lunchtime and soothing the days away in thousand-dollar Sharper Image massage chairs. Au contraire, mon amies. Our show is contracted out to a production company that provides our writing offices and manages the stage and crew in San Diego. This company obviously spends its fundage on the sets down south, and not the suites up north, because our offices are a spooky mix of concrete and crypt.

Exhibit A: on Tuesday, I entered the ladies’ room (after dodging the dart-playing sausage gauntlet) and nearly wet my pants. Clinging to the edge of the sink was a thick-bodied, pointy-looking spider.
“PHIL, ALEX,” I stated loudly. “Could you come here please?” I took two deep breaths and pointed. “Is that a black widow?”
Phil, a Stanford grad with a deep appreciation for science, research, and arcania, admired the spider and ordered Alex to get a plastic cup. The spider was gently eased from the sink, its belly examined, and the tell-tale red hourglass clearly spotted. “Cool,” Phil said.
Oh sweet mother of God, I thought. I was three seconds and a zipper away from having my ass impaled by black widow fangs. “These are poisonous, right?” I asked Phil.
He acted non-chalant, carrying the spider outside for disposal. “I think so,” he said casually. “Probably not deadly, though.” He refused to look me in the eye.
“Don’t pretend you’re not going to Google “black widows” as soon as you’re
done killing that,” I said.
He just shrugged sheepishly.

Before the Black Widow Incident, there was the Maggot Incident, in which I found a small cluster of grubs wriggling around the JKNM area of my computer keyboard, and later, the Cricket Incident, which was followed by the Termite Incident. And tonight’s episode, “Rat Saw God,” features an authentic dead rat that was freeze-dried, soaked in water for several days, and then dried in an oven to create the appropriate effect. It’s not all glamour down here, people. There’s nature, too.

Creepy People Who Kill Stuff
An acquaintance from long ago is now teaching at a junior college in Wyoming (state dinosaur=Triceratops), and invited me to spend last weekend speaking to his students about writing for TV, which turned out to be a rewarding experience. Except, maybe, for the part where I fly to Cody on a wobbly plane with twelve other people, nine of whom are wearing or carrying some form of camouflage. It’s hunting season in Wyoming, and Texans, apparently, are eager to kill stuff in The Equality State, because they packed that plane with their guns and gusto—and on the way back, with their plastic coolers labeled MULE DEER MEAT. FRESH. I avoided being stuck next to one of them, but the guy sitting behind me did spend the entire trip describing his Texas hog-hunting farm (“some them suckers can get as big as two hunnert, two hunnert-fifty pounds!”) and the airport offered free issues of the Wyoming Hunting Guide (feature article: Meeteetse Women Bag First Kills”).

Just When Y’all Thought the Creepiness Would End
Kevin Federline released his first single, “Y’all Ain’t Ready!” and the guys insisted on playing it relentlessly last Thursday, driving me from the office. Sample lyrics: “I know y’all wishin’ you was in my position/Cause I keep gettin’ into situations/That you wish you was in /I’m not your brother, I’m not your uncle, I’m Daddy do/Steppin’ in your game and y’all ain’t got a clue…Back then they call me K-fed/But you can call me Daddy instead.”

Phil calls Federline “The world’s greatest one-man bastard machine.” ‘Nuf said. Y’all can call me sickened, instead.

Hollywood Update #20: In Which I Get in Touch with My Inner Teacher

November 14, 2005

The following are words and phrases that are frequently used in the writers’ room at Veronica Mars. I’m feeling lazy and missing my old teacher-life, so I thought I’d define my new world for this week’s update. Although most of these terms are probably common to the industry, there’s a chance that other shows use the terms differently…or that the VM writers have just invented them. That’s what we do …we make stuff up.

Vocabulary Specific to Writing
a-story-the main story of a single episode (“Veronica investigates the effect of teacher’s crack addiction on midterms,” or “Wallace seeks Veronica’s help in finding his Moroccan love child.”)

act out-the end of any one of the four “acts” of the show engineered to create suspense just before commercial break. It’s all about the money.

arc-the plotline of any story or the path a character follows over the course of a season (last year: Lilly Kane’s murder; this year=the mysterious bus crash; next season=aliens abduct Sheriff Lamb).

b-story-any secondary story within an episode—usually one that furthers a relationship or a slower-moving storyline, like the sheriff’s election or the “romance” between Logan and Kendall.

beat-any plot point in a story: “Veronica trolls the red-light district seeking the transvestite puppy-smuggler”; “Duncan opens the secret vault and gasps.”

Bivouac Buddy-the camouflage-print outdoor shower hanging in our parking lot for use after our Tuesday-Thursday mid-day work out break.

break story-to meet as a group of writers and develop an A-story, B-story, C-story, etc. and break the stories into beats while simultaneously recalling 38+ years of combined pop culture knowledge, consuming pounds of candy and quarts of soda, and exchanging some of the most vulgar, distasteful, and completely hilarious information and jokes known to humankind.

c-story-the third, and relatively small, storyline in an episode; often details about the bus crash in the case of Veronica Mars. In my life, the c-story is Cathy Goes on a Date.

“coffee-up, m************”-Rob’s call to the writers to come to the room to break story. Definitely a joke; definitely just a VM thing.

cold open-the first 8-10 minutes of the program before the title sequence that introduces the reader to the A, B, and C stories, and prepares them for that “We Used to Be Friends” song by the Dandy Warhols that we’re all so sick of by now.

McGuffin-Alfred Hitchcock’s term for the device or plot element that catches the viewer’s attention or drives the logic or action of the plot and seems important to the characters, but later turns out to be insignificant. John Enbom understands this way better than I do; I never seem to quite get it, even with examples.

mislead-a clue that goes nowhere, but which the audience believes for a brief time (usually a false suspect; in my life, the words “I’ll call you”).

pitch-a noun or a verb used to describe the act of tossing out ideas at the table, in my case, an abbreviation of “shitpitch,” because that’s what I usually feel like I’m doing.

reveal-we use it as a noun for the moment when a truth is exposed to the audience: “the reveal will be that Veronica learns the cheerleader stole the bake sale money to buy a neon thong.”

roomtime-the period of time we spend in the writers’ room, breaking story. Anywhere from an hour to a day, depending on where we are, script-wise.

title sequence-the montage of images at the beginning of the show when the series regulars are introduced and the actors’ names are given.

WP-short for Writer’s Problem- A joke around the writers’ table—when we can’t think of a solution to a plot problem as a group, we just say “WP,” teasing that the writer assigned to the episode will have to solve it when they go to script.

Vocabulary About Production
above the line/below the line-the location of one’s names in the credits for a script. “Above the line” refers to writers, producers, editors, and actors. All assistants and others are “below the line.” Welcome to the Hollywood caste system (get it? “cast” system?)

back nine-the final nine episodes of a 22-episode season. We just turned the corner, writing-wise, and are currently working on these final scripts. It feels a little weird, because the audience is back on episode 6, and we’re far, far in the future, story-wise.

bottle episode-an episode designed to be filmed all in one location, (almost always the set), in order to save production costs. A pain in the ass to write. Totally limits our storylines, so we can’t, say, send Veronica on a senior trip to Tahiti or anything.

CGI-computer generated images. Guess what? We didn’t really send a school bus full of screaming kids off a cliff!

dailies-DVDs of all of the takes of the scenes filmed each day delivered to the writers. Usually boring to watch, since the same scene is filmed over and over from different perspectives. But it’s also kind of fun, since the Camera Sees All—actors screwing around, swearing, etc. And occasionally, we get to watch a juicy scene, like Logan and Kendall romping on the sofa, before it’s edited for television.

foley-sound effects that imitate the sound caused by the movement of an actor.

gaffer-the head electrician on a set. “The origin of the term "gaffer" is the subject of some debate but it is usually reported to come from early film days when studios relied on natural sunlight for lighting. Large sections of canvas roofing were opened and closed using long "gaffing hooks".”

grip-grips are in charge of anything that needs to be hung (not including network execs), attached, mounted (don’t say it) or connected to any surface of the set.

jump the shark®- “The defining moment when you know that your favorite television program has reached its peak. That instant that you know from now on...it's all downhill. From that moment on, the program will simply never be the same.” The term "jump the shark" was coined by Sean J. Connolly, in Ann Arbor, Michigan back in 1985. The expression refers to the telltale sign of the demise of Happy Days, when Fonzie actually jumped over a shark on his motorcycle. We talk about the phenomena in the room sometimes, joking about a character jumping over a toy or painted shark (the show’s Balboa County baseball team is even called the Sharks), but we’re also seriously conscious of the danger. Check out www.jumptheshark.com for exhaustive details.

magic hour-the optimum time for filming romantic or magical scenes due to warm or soft lighting (usually a golden-orange hue); also called the golden hour. We try to avoid this is our show…lest we turn into Dawson’s Creek.

MX-shorthand for “music effects”; writers don’t include these notations in their scripts, unless they are Rob, because he’s the Main Man when it comes to music.

playback-when the producers, sound editors, and writers watch an episode that’s just been finished; the only changes that can be made after playback are minor sound alterations. Writers get to go to playback for episodes they’ve written—it’s the first time you get to see your name on the screen, so es muy divertido.

SFX-shorthand for “special effects” or "Sound effects"; not a term usually used by writers in scriptwriting; usually a production issue.

sides-scenes from an episode used for audition, or scenes written especially for an episode. Often the source of spoilers.

spoilers-information leaked about future episodes. Some particularly avid fans love being privy to spoilers, and collect them from crew members and actors who auditioned, but in general, it’s considered bad form to spoil.

Hollywood Update #21: A One-Eyed Duck

December 10, 2005

“I type in one place, but I write all over the house,” Toni Morrison said, capturing a fundamental, yet often overlooked, truth about writing, which is that writing is not as much about putting words on paper as it is about mentally generating the ideas represented by those words. Six thirty-somethings sitting around eating Pop Rocks, drinking Red Bull, and laughing about the dual meanings of the word “boner” might not sound like writing, but that’s exactly what it is. If you want to get all Six Traits about it, this is “brainstorming” or “pre-writing” and it is the bedrock of what we create.

I would argue, in fact, that nothing more important happens on Veronica Mars than what happens between the writers at the table. Rob just returned from a three-week absence—he was in San Diego prepping and directing episode eleven—and his homecoming re-invigorated us. Not only is he the Boss, he’s also the funniest and liveliest person on board our ship of fools (witness his demonstration of his eight-month-old daughter learning to walk by running around the house in her Flintstone-style plastic automobile). We also welcomed a new member to our group—a freelancer who will be writing episode fifteen—and something about having a guest at the table put us on our best behavior. And by that, I do not mean most polite.

One of the great joys of writing with a group of professional writers is that we all love words, and wordplay becomes a major source of our humor. Puns and jokes lost on others generate big laughs at the writers’ table. We’ll spend five minutes laughing about whether a disturbance should be called a brouhaha, a carfuffle, a mêlée, a skirmish, a fracas, or a fray, and we can amuse ourselves for hours giggling about naming yet another character after a penis. And though these discussions often lead nowhere, like everything else we laugh about, they go a long ways toward building camaraderie. And when we can’t find existing vocabulary to amuse us, we invent it. That’s what we do after all—we make stuff up.

Shakespeare is credited with introducing as many as 2000 words and phrases into the English language. We’re in the same position, although not for the same reason. When Standards and Practices said no, you cannot use the word “starfucker” to describe a character infatuated with a celebrity, we invented “starstroker” (take that, CBS). Need to name a “deprogramming camp” for gay youths? How about SelfQuest? A store that sells unicorn ephemera? John’s genius idea: Unicornicopia. Some of our funniest moments arise out of misunderstandings, like when I thought Phil said he’d tasted “elf jerky” and Rob referred to a college dean as the “emissions counselor.” Occasionally, we’ll invent something out of the blue, such as the One-Eyed Duck. The One-Eyed Duck is nothing more than a goofy illustration that will show up on a character’s bowling shirt, but like “hummer” or “fluffer” or “wet willy” it begs to be a sexual euphemism. So it is. What is a one-eyed duck, you ask? All I can say is this: nothing is as fun as a one-eyed duck.



Like with most groups of people who spend a lot of time together, we’ve begun to recognize each others’ favorite turns of phrase and linguistic quirks. John, for example, is known for using the word “chicanery” or “high jinks” at least once a day; Unnamable Female Writer 1 for her extraordinary hyperbole (OH MY GOD, that is the funniest thing I’ve heard EVER!!), Rob, in his role as facilitator, for getting us back on track by directing towards this or that “bit of business” in the story, or starting us on a new track by asking, “is there a world in which Veronica…” And because he is the benevolent leader of our crew, we all seek his approval, which though not stingily distributed, is truly reserved for ideas he genuinely admires. Getting a “That’s fantastic!” or “Yes! That’s genius!” delivered with a smile and an enthusiastic point of his finger can make a writer’s entire week. I know, because it happened to me twice last Friday (in episode 15, look for the disposable camera, the tattoo removal, the bachelorette party scavenger hunt, and the bowling team).

In his book The Wisdom of Crowds, James Surowieki argues that contrary to popular thinking, groups are not necessarily mindless mobs. People do lose control and inhibition in certain masses, but in problem-solving situations—such as the creation of a story—a group of diverse thinkers with myriad life experiences and backgrounds can come to better conclusions than one super-smart individual. “We assume that the key to solving problems or making good decisions is finding that one right person who will have the answer,” Surowieki writes. “[but] under the right circumstances, groups are remarkably intelligent, and are often smarter than the smartest people in them.” Individually, the writers at the VM table are among the funniest and smartest people I know (Pop Rocks, Red Bull, and boner jokes notwithstanding), but I doubt any one them—including Rob—could create the show alone. And I know for certain that not one of us could have fun even attempting it without the others. And we couldn’t even try a One-Eyed Duck.