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"Chin Up, Tits Out"

“I spend the next 14 hours with my cell phone
in the back room at Circle K hovering
over the fax machine.”

Writing television had been my goal for lifetimes. Trees died, scripts stacked up on my shelves. I couldn’t get a foot in the door, but at least I’d given myself a fair shot at carpal tunnel syndrome.  Then one day it hit me: “I know, I’ll create my own television show.”

Sitting on a friend’s floor, I scribble the outline for a comedy game show called Stinkin’ Rich:  A Celebration of Blatant, Garish and Ostentatious Consumerism on the back of a Chinese food take out bag. I made a list of everyone I knew in Hollywood (that includes the Daily Grill waiter who once slipped me his tongue and his phone number), and called them. Daily Grill waiter’s sister’s husband got me my first meeting.

The cable development woman says, “Stinkin’ Rich is hilarious but we’re not looking for a game show.”  Development Woman refers me to three other people. I meet those people, they refer me to other people, who refer me to other people—and then one of those other people’s people makes me an offer. Not a big offer, but an offer. Heck, I don’t even understand the offer, but I got it in writing.  Oh-My-God!!! I got an offer!

My inner car salesman kicks into high gear. I call everyone back that I met with and tell them I got an offer.  I get three more offers.

I call a mega manager I met filming a Comedy Central short in a meat locker. Mega Manager refers me to a Big Barracuda Lawyer and another potential partner. Big Barracuda Lawyer’s shoes cost more than my mortgage.   He takes me on.   I meet the other Potential Partner at her compound. Potential Partner has a husband, an ex-husband, an assistant, a nanny, two kids, two cars, a pool and a guest house. I have a boy friend and a manila folder with four offers.

My folder and I meet the only Big Wig Agent who will schedule a meeting that decade. Big Wig listens to my show and laughs. Big belly laughs. He wants to be my agent.  I run to the car to call my dad and screeeeeeeam into the phone.

Potential partner turns into my actual partner. Big Wig brings in a junior agent. We travel to all our meetings together—a wave of Armani suits and me. Holy shit, I have a posse!

Three black BMWs and a ten-year-old green SAAB pull into a mid-sized production company specializing in syndication (Syndication! There’s a kidney shaped swimming pool in my future)!  We pitch, and Syndication Man makes an offer. We schedule an appointment with a Big Network. Big Agency decides it’s best to tell Syndication Man. Syndication Man says, “If you don’t take me into that meeting and include me, I’ll pull out and leave you with nothing.” What!? Can he do that?

We tell Big Network about Syndication Man and get an additional offer from Big Network. I call my dad and tell him while I surf the net for private islands. Two days later Big Network rescinds Big Offer stating they have a Big Clash with another Big Show and Big Agency is pissed—Big Time!

We go back to Syndication Man and get a step deal to mount three staged run-throughs of the game show. My partner, however, simultaneously accepts a job as an executive producer of a long running daily television show, and my project becomes one of her extra curricular affairs.

My partner has no time for me but, apparently has time to have drinks with everyone we are working with. I have no idea who is wagging what, but meetings happen without me and my phone calls aren’t getting returned. She tries to squeeze me out of the show. I’m completely confused and have no idea how the tide’s turned.  A friend of mine gives me a copy of What Makes Sammy Run. I read it in the bathtub and cry.

My partner and I each get to stage a run through. I go first. Syndication Man is out of town but Big Wig Agent comes and Syndication’s Right Hand Man is there.  I get, “That’s great. Could you punch up the third act a bit?” My partner and her husband are ill-prepared for their run through. Syndication Man attends this one.  I cringe as I watch from the side, not sure if I want to vomit or take hostages. They run through a twenty four minute show in under fifteen minutes. The notes come back, “We love the title but don’t like the show.”  There is no third run through.

Big Wig walks me to my car, and I burst into tears. “I’ll find you a new partner.” he says.  I construct a shrine to him in my living room.

I go back to part-time work and practicing kinetic control over inanimate objects (“ring damn phone, ring!”). A couple of months later Big Wig calls me at 9:30 PM.  “I just met a development woman at a cocktail party. There’s a new network being announced, they’re in town looking for product. I got you an appointment tomorrow at 10 am, they’re leaving for New York at three—can you do it?”

Big Wig brings a new junior agent to the meeting. I pitch the show and in the room they say, “YES!!!!”  New Network Woman asks me if I could deliver the pilot within five weeks, they need it for some cable announcement thingy. I really have no idea what she said; all I heard was, “Yes.” I look over at Big Wig and he gives me subtle nod. I say, “Sure, no problem.”

No problem my ass. Next week is Christmas. “Congratulations, Slugger, you hit a home run!” Big Wig says, adorably giddy as he hands me the name and phone number of the vacation villa he’ll be in with his family for the next two weeks.

New Junior Agent Man becomes my go-to guy. I’m his first deal, it’s my first show, he’s got production experience and a sense of humor—we get along great. He introduces me to several new partners and I find one that fits 4 pm, Christmas Eve. New Partner will be able to start working with me the second week of January. We toast our new partnership with eggnog lattes.

I have reason to celebrate. I got a license fee deal. I’m not sure exactly what it is.  A year ago my greatest showbiz concern was could I sell tee shirts after a performance? Now my fine print has fine print. 

Big Barracuda Lawyer tells me I won’t be profitable to him under this arrangement. He dumps me in the middle of contract negotiations. My deal can’t close. I stick pins in my voodoo doll and add “find new lawyer” to my two-thousand-page “to do” list.

My boyfriend and I plan to spend part of the holidays visiting my parents in their brand new home at the bottom of a National Park.  It’s a 10-mile drive to the nearest human. We get there and they have one phone line, no fax. I pay the guy at the local Circle K $25 bucks a day to receive faxes.

I spend the vacation week in my dad’s home talking to New Junior Agent Man at his mom’s home. My agent explains I still don’t have much of anything until I can secure my talent. I need a Beverly Hills Type Female Guest Star and a Rich Man Celebrity Announcer.  And I need them yesterday.

My first L.A. landlord used to walk dogs for a Beverly Hills female celebrity. I call her, and she tells me she has the dogs right now—Beverly Hills Female Celebrity is on vacation in Costa Rica. I fax L.A. landlord the script, she reads it, calls Costa Rica and Beverly Hills Female Celebrity agrees to read show. I fax script to Costa Rica. My parents’ phone rings in the middle of the night—Costa Rica calling.  Beverly Hills Female Celebrity would like to participate. “How much does it pay?” she asks.  My meager budget sounds insulting, but I realize it would sound much better as a Gucci shopping spree. “It pays a Gucci shopping spree and a limo will pick you up. You’ll be my first guest if I get picked-up and you’ll have my un-ending gratitude forever.” Beverly Hills Female Celebrity cuts her vacation short and returns to Los Angeles to do my pilot.

I know a Rich Celebrity Announcer Man’s Agent in New York from the stand-up world. His client is in Anguilla.  I e-mail him the script and he forwards it to his client. I get a two word fax from Rich Celebrity Man in Anguilla, “I’m in.” I call back his agent, and negotiate the terms. I spend the next 14 hours with my cell phone in the back room at Circle K hovering over the fax machine. The clerk and owner take to checking on me periodically, “Hey, Showbiz, eat something.” By 11:30 pm the next night the talent deals are done.  I got a show. My dad, stepmom and boyfriend bring champagne and caviar for everyone.  We turn up the music, drink and dance to disco at the Circle K.

New Partner returns to town. We shoot the pilot, deliver it on time, and get announced at the cable thingy as the Top Five Picks for Pick-up.

I find a new lawyer and three months, six trees and ten million faxes later, my deal closes..

A month later they test the pilot. I get a call from my Big Wig Agent, “Testing was okay but the network has decided to change direction and won’t be needing it.” “Are we going to try again?” I ask.  Big Wig says, “ No. We did this one. Let’s do a new one.”  Simple as that. It’s over.  Later that night, close to crying in my Margarita, Seasoned Professional Female Friend counsels “Don’t worry, you’ll do it again. Chin up; tits out.”

There’s a T.S. Elliot quote on my refrigerator that says, “Only those who risk going too far can find out how far one can go.”

I recently helped someone else write and sell their first show. I watched him go through the eye of his hurricane and wanted to hold him in the fetal position and say, “It’s okay, I know the pain, I know the fear, I know the responsibility.” But it’s not possible. It’s part of the process, part of the deal. His pilot aired but didn’t get picked-up. “Hey,” I tried to cheer him up, “You got on the air. Your first failure was better than my first failure.”  He gives me a hug as he hands me my last check. I’m halfway out the door and I remember to tell him “Don’t worry, you’ll do it again.”

I think of Seasoned Professional Female Friend and T.S. Elliot, and walk to the bank with my chin up and my tits out.   

Margot Black is a writer/comedian/babe, whose has performed at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas.  Her work has appeared in Written By, She’s So Funny, and Joke Soup.  She is currently writing at Disney. An avid traveler, Margot knows how to say the word "syndication" in twelve different languages.