I’m Not In This Business To Give 16 Year-olds Boners

Okay, so I think I’m losing out on a job. I’ve been meeting to direct a feature, a teen comedy that takes place in the world of 1980’s retro porn. Because don’t we all wax nostalgic for 80’s porn?

To be truthful, it’s a good concept and I didn’t want to pass up the chance to direct a potential commercial hit. I could possibly redeem myself for passing up on American Pie and The Girl Next Door. The script changes I suggested were thoughtful, but too aggressive.

It all came down to erections… boners, I should say, in order to speak appropriately to the target audience. God knows that I wasn’t trying to make this script something that it wasn’t supposed to be. But maybe just a little texture, a little more clever wouldn’t hurt, right? At one point, one of the producers said to me, “If we aren’t giving 16 year-old boys instant boners with this film, then we’re not doing our job.” He’s right. “Is there a way to measure that in our test audience?” I asked.

“Write poems for Granta and just give us the funny stuff,” a previous agent once reprimanded me. And she was right, I suppose. But honestly, and if my agent is reading this… I wasn’t trying to make a Merchant/Ivory film out of a teen sex comedy. American Pie meets Sense & Sensibility…

So, it goes. Another job down the toilet. I hope they do well. The producer is actually a decent, intelligent guy and the film has a sweet side that I hope comes through. Maybe I should just accept that I didn’t get into this business to give 16 year-olds boners. Not that it isn’t a noble and necessary endeavor. But, as I recall, it’s not terribly hard to give a 16 year-old boy a boner. In fact, I can recall defining moments that unleashed a flood of pubescent hormones in my past. When I was a little kid, I saw Beverly D’Angelo take her top off in Hair. She continued to haunt me through National Lampoon’s Vacation series. The memory is so crisp that I couldn’t bear to look her in the eye when I saw her at a Hollywood soiree a few years ago.

Pam Grier could have walked on screen in a nun’s habit and I would have shot to full mast in less time than separates Olympic sprinters. Then Madonna did just that, challenging sexual taboos and monopolizing an unreasonable section of real estate in my mind.

I was tormented and conflicted about which female cast member of St. Elmo’s Fire to create fantasies around. I knew that Ally Sheedy was adorable and much more practical but God, try as I did, I couldn’t get Demi Moore out of my mind. As for Mare Winningham…

And the fact that Phoebe Cates hasn’t aged at all since I saw her in Fast Times, makes me question my own emotional development – am I just perceiving her that way? Frozen in my adolescent memory in a red bikini by the pool.

So, there’s nothing wrong with giving 16 year-old boys boners. Let’s face it, in this business… big boners equals big money. But I think this generation of 16 year-olds may be a little hard to reach… or move, so to speak. With easy access to the most graphic images online, what could possibly impress them? (I hate to think what nightmarish images they may recall years from now.) I guess that’s why I thought we could try to beef up the “story” elements. A little old-fashioned imagination. Could be worth a shot.

But I’ll leave all that up to the boner experts in Hollywood. And maybe I just feel a little stupid as a grown man working to arouse 16 year-olds in dark movie theaters across the country. It’s a little creepy.

But, it was a job.

Is Superman really Fabulousman?

Is Superman gay? It’s okay if he is. We should be okay with that. He does wear powder blue nylons and red leather boots. And a cape. He’s a bit of a dandy; it’s safe to say. He is very well-groomed. He has great hair.

This year, America was treated to another Superman movie. Superheroes are enjoying a tremendous rise in popularity lately. That’s understandable considering the prevailing uncertainty and fear that our government encourages. But really, is Superman all that super? If he is a projection of the perfect man, what’s the kryptonite all about? Achilles had his heel, I guess. Sampson’s hair. If I were a feminist, I would say that the kryptonite is quite possibly a symbol of Superman’s fear of inadequacy… erectile dysfunction. Maybe there’s more to that phrase that Superman yells, “Up, up and… away?”

Why doesn’t Superman have sex in the movies? Of course, his costume has no buttons or zippers. And he wears it underneath his clothes. Does he ever take it off? Does he launder it? Does he have a few backups?

Nietzsche coined the term Superman (Ubermensch). Nietzsche and Superman are both existentialists. Does Superman ever get depressed? Maybe Superman is bipolar. Split personality. Schizophrenic super hero?

Is Lois Lane a member of the so-called liberal media?

A lot of the other superheroes are pretty silly. And honestly, it isn’t fair that men have a Superman while women get stuck with a Wonderwoman. I’d rather be “super” than “wonder.”

We don’t really have myths in this country. We’re not big on legends, unless they play professional sports. So, why do we cling to this high-flying dandy in a fabulous outfit?

The creation of superheroes offers a glimpse into our subconscious and what Carl Jung referred to as our culture’s collective unconscious and… basically, just crap that turns us on. And since we did our best to destroy the myths of North America’s native inhabitants, we employed a collection of disgruntled comic book geeks to create spandexed superheroes and villains with capes, cowls and silly boots. But they always have great hair. Have there been any bald superheroes? Mr. Clean doesn’t count. He’s in sales.

Last year, the US Army was creating a comic book superhero to distribute in the Middle East. Part of their psychological warfare operations. I’m not sure if the comic was ever finished. It’s a great idea, though, isn’t it? If bunker busters can’t subdue the Middle East and eradicate terrorism, drawings of steroid-ripped, fabulously dressed superheroes with unusual powers and undetermined sexual orientation should finish the job.

I was looking at comic book superheroes in other countries and I have to say, Brazil is impressive. Basically, they have a lot of Hot Chick Superheroes. When I was a kid, I would have preferred this to the Batman series and my older brother’s Archie comics.

As for India… I really love that country, but their superheroes look a little goofy…

This guy’s name is Shaktimaan.  He’s an Eastern Indian version of Erik Estrada.  Kind of looks like a costume from the Jacksons Victory Tour 1985. Or maybe Earth, Wind & Fire.

Australia celebrates a superhero/detective named Lionel Demane…

We’ve seen these guys before, haven’t we?

Mexico can get a little silly..

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The Netherlands created an interesting superhero. Zeeuws Meisje is a farm girl. The story goes that after The Great Traffic Jam, all the roads were useless and agriculture nearly destroyed – except for pickles. This is no Al Gore documentary. I’m not making this up. The Farm Girl doesn’t have any super powers, but solves problems with her very high intelligence.

I don’t think this would ever work in America. A woman in dowdy farm clothes solving practical environmental problems with simple intelligence? Impossible.

Germany’s Baron Munchhausen is an adventurer who tells incredible stories of riding cannonballs and traveling to the moon.

He doesn’t wear spandex and his abs are definitely not ripped.

I suppose everyone has their own idea of a superhero based on desires, archetypes and fears.

I just think we in America can do a little better than Superman. And taking a close look at him with his red, leather boots, cape and hair product – he’s actually more Fabulous Man.

We should create a new superhero that is indisputably better than all the others. Rather than Super, he could be The Best Man. But that’s too matrimonial. He would have to wear a nice tux as a costume. And there would have to be Divorce Man and Mistress as the villains.

Let’s face it, “super” is no longer good enough for us. How about The Greatest Man? Or just The Number One Man? And the villain could be a woman. How about Miss Fit? She could be an athletic, aerobics-obsessed, sexy villain with cut abs and dangerously low body fat.

Climbing the Gates of Paramount – Valuable Tips on How to Break Into the Film Biz

In defense of Aleksey Vayner… I don’t know how many of you are aware of this guy. He’s a junior at Yale who sent a video resume to financial institutions. On the video, he stages a mock interview with a screen presence that rivals the pretension of William F. Buckley. In a comical, self-important tone, Vayner talks about his personal philosophy, which sounds like a pastiche of some well-worn self-help motivational books and dialogue from the “Rambo” franchise. Things like, “Failure is not an option.” Then, to really push the “resume” into the absurd, Vayner includes clips of himself supposedly ski jumping, breaking a stack of bricks with a martial arts strike, ballroom dancing, hitting a “140 mph” tennis serve and lifting “495 lbs.”… damn, just short of 500. I like the way he showed some restraint, here. I mean, who would believe that he could bench press 500 lbs? But 495… sure.

So, he may have embellished his exploits a bit. Some joker in the personnel department at one of the investment firms that Vayner applied to leaked the video resume. A little site called YouTube (valued at a 1.65 gazillion dollars) got a hold of it and the rest is history. The kid is the laughing stock of the internet – which, I guess, means the world.

Yale newspapers and blogs have had a field day feeding on one of their own. And honestly, I feel sorry for the kid. He didn’t want everyone to see this video. Just prospective employers. And sure, that’s a little stupid. But what’s with all those ponces at Yale making fun of him? Haven’t we all done stupid shit? I’m the King of Stupid Shit. The kid was just trying to get a job. Although, Vayner also claims to have authored a book, Women’s Silent Tears, a women’s perspective of the Holocaust, which consists of plagiarized passages from other books. Okay, so maybe he’s a little nuts.

I am reminded, however, of my own attempt to find employment while roaming around New York, suffering from something like dissociative fugues during the recession of the early 90’s. I wrote a series of humorous (or, so I thought) letters to magazines. The letter was corny and I’d hate to have anyone publish it. All I remember was ending it with, “At least interview me, I own a great new suit.”

A couple of the magazines actually called and asked me to come in for an interview. The interviews were disasters. The junior editor of a magazine, Connoisseur, was very cool and informed me that I would need a trust fund to work at the magazine and survive in New York. All the other new employees had them. In fact, he made it clear that I may be the only guy in New York City without a trust fund.

My next interview was Vogue magazine.

I don’t remember who I interviewed with but I remember that she looked like my alcoholic/saidistic 6th grade math teacher. Her face looked like one of those Northern European renaissance portraits by Jan Van Eyck or Hans Holbein of royalty who pose with an expression that looks like they are in desparate need of a good shit.

She asked me what it was about Vogue that I found interesting. I told her that I thought the magazine smelled really good. I then laughed too loud out of nervousness. She managed to not move one muscle in her face in response. I could have stood up and urinated on the coffee table between us and generated less disdain.

I didn’t get the job. In fact, I barely made enough money to survive that year, slept on couches of college friends with practical degrees in finance and listed my occupation as “Malcontent” on my IRS return.

So, how far have I come?

A few months ago, I surpassed some of my past stupidity in the interview process. I was up for a pretty high profile job at Paramount. MTV Films was thinking of re-making Urban Cowboy.

I worked with a producer and put together a treatment. In fact, I spent so much time developing this thing… discussing, endlessly, what Bud’s dream is and what Sissy’s dream is. Character arcs and narrative spines and all that shit that development executives love to talk about ‘til the fucking cows come home. In fact, I could have filmed a clay-mation version of the film all by myself in the time we spent discussing Bud’s character arc. And, honestly, the most impressive thing about the original was Debra Winger riding a mechanical bull in a flimsy top. It literally launched me into puberty.

So, anyway, this was my final pitch to MTV Films. I got to the Paramount gate and realized that I forgot my wallet. Since 9/11, the studios are insane about security. They wouldn’t let me in. I told them that I was expected at MTV Films. Yes, I was on the list with a drive-on pass, but without an ID to prove who I was, someone from MTV would have to come to the gate and walk me in.

I drove away. I was too embarrassed to have everyone in the meeting know that I was stuck at the gate. So, I drove into the adjacent neighborhood and parked on the street. I walked past the main gate and along the wall surrounding the studio compound. That’s it. Fuck it! I’m going over the wall.

It’s not an easy wall to get over. You have to find a remote area, preferably far away from the building in which your meeting is scheduled. At this point, I was late and imagined executives at MTV watching as a prospective writer/director climbs over the studio wall outside their window.

I found a spot and began climbing, immediately grateful for all the pull-ups I’ve done at Venice Beach.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Studio security. I didn’t even see him walk up.
How does one respond? “I’m going over the wall,” I say.
“I can see that.”

I thought about running. I could have outrun him. But I felt stupid. There, I was… a man in his 30’s climbing a wall to get a job.

A mild, perfunctory threat of arrest was made, but I could tell the Security Guard’s heart wasn’t in it and I detected a degree of admiration that I actually made the climb.

Someone eventually had to come from MTV Films and escort me onto the lot. I felt like I was taken to the principal’s office. As for Urban Cowboy, I didn’t get the job. After all that work, detailed treatment and the distillation of “Bud and Sissy’s dream.” And my erotic memories of Debra Winger on the bull. And my climbing skills.  My agent told me that things are pretty shaky and unstable at Paramount  right now and the project wasn’t moving forward. Frankly, I think I shit the bed on the pitch. I was a little distracted, after all (and winded).

So, back to our young Yalie, Aleksey Vayner.

I hope the guy gets a job and he can laugh at this misstep eventually. Internet infamy is ephemeral, let’s hope. If someone has footage of my athletic entrance onto the Paramount lot, I wouldn’t mind a good laugh at my expense. That kind of perspective comes with age. And being the King of Stupid Shit.

And, finally, here’s the tip: If you really want to break into Hollywood… and nothing else works… there’s a little section of the wall surrounding Paramount Studios near the corner of Melrose and Van Owen that is relatively easy to scale. I suggest comfortable shoes with traction.