Let me set the scene. I’m in the living room of a middle-weight producer, organizing a bunch of business cards and logging their information into a computer older than Bill Gates' children. The sweet smell of dirty sheets and Vapor rub is thick in the air. Mostly bedridden, the producer emerges only occasionally from her bedroom like a living corpse to give me instructions and tell me I’m doing things wrong, then remind me how lucky I am to be there, changing her soiled linens. “I’m very important,” she lets me know at one point, telling me about how she knows Ridley Scott’s number. The new instruction is for me to sort some e-mails which contain information on some movie she’s trying to drive into the earth, and which I will undoubtedly read, prompting her to lean over and deliver a threat I have waited since childhood to hear. “If you tell any of your friends what you see here,” she says, pointing her finger directly at my head, “I promise you… you’ll never work in this town again.” Boom. Shazam. Fireworks burst. A gong was struck. I had achieved it: After just two years of working crappy jobs in the entertainment business I was slapped with Hollywood’s oldest cliché. Never in this town again. Ever.

Not as a writer, not as a boom operator, not as Lorenzo Lamas’ fluffer – nothing. She would blackball me from Santa Monica to the Mojave for uttering one word of her digital conversations about “Sands of Heaven” or whatever it is. Awesome. To be truthful, I thought such a threat would only come when I had gained enough power to threaten to take down NBC by porking Zucker’s wife or obtain the proof of George Lucas’ teenage sex change, perhaps upstage Shia LeBouf in an anti-kidney stones telecast, but not quite like this, over something so trivial and so early. Don’t you traditionally have to double-cross Martin Scorsese or stand anywhere within 50 feet of Christian Bale for this to happen? No. You don’t. All you have to do is get within visual range of someone producer’s pointless correspondence, and this too can be yours. You see, kids? Dreams do come true.


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