Memoirs of a Never Gonna Be
I’ve been reading a lot of Hollywood tell-all books lately. I’m addicted to them the way most folks need their Survivor and Fear Factor programming on television. They’re all basically the same: insider or wannabe insider goes through the motions of Tinseltown, has discouraging and surreal experiences, encounters massive ego and greed up-close, then shares the love with us.
Hollywood must be a bizarre place if every failure or misstep becomes the grist for a book. The pounding lion’s heart of fame and glamour – with its triple bypass scars and fatty deposits intact. No one ever writes tell-all books about life in investment banking, gas stations or database management. At least that I’ve ever come across. “Grant Writer Warrior: An Insider’s View from the Trenches!”
I can’t get enough of it. I access my sicker side through reading books like this. Because the horrid fact of the matter is I want to write my own. I secretly long for the same humiliating experiences, the brushes with the suits and the stars, the myopic self-absorption. Part of me is angry for being as old as I am, knowing I’m past the age where that sort of heat can fuel a body for long periods of excruciating time.
It’s like a look into the past, really. Hollywood mechanics operate under the same feudal laws as medieval England. Little movie studio fiefdoms that are constantly being upended and restructured, the landed gentry of the superstars and the scurrying of thousands of hangers-on to oil the lumbering tank though another season of summer blockbusters.
A friend of mine from high school got close, once. He was a page for Paramount, and one day was let go over a bowl of tomato bisque soup in the commissary. (Evidently Hollywood lots don’t have cafeterias, only commissaries – however, from all reports, the food still sucks.) I remember hearing this tale and wanting my OWN tomato bisque moment. My buddy would tell me which hot director he’d rode an elevator with, or which script he got to sneak a look at while on the clock.
I mean, it’s one thing to be let go from some shyster glass-and-steel encased corporate high-rise with a rep from HR looking at you with a combination of irritation and pity on their face. Quite another to have to “leave the lot”, as the saying goes. At least you had some sauce to add to your life. Or soup, as the case may be.
I guess it’s the passion behind everything in Hollywood that gets me the most. Sure, it’s ridiculous, entirely fictional and massively unimportant if you have no business being there – but still. How often is it that you find this isolated bubble where everyone’s personal id fantasy is being so nakedly pursued? Okay, okay - outside of the White House, then. Sometimes I think there’s some twisted glory in it all. I see so much passive-aggressive nonsense just as part of a normal day that a place like Hollywood, where the size of your balls means everything, strikes me as having some weird honor inherent in it.
But I’m a freak. So be it. Here are some titles to get you started:
Wannabe, by Jamie Kennedy
Wannabe: A Would-be Player’s Misadventures in Hollywood, by Everett Weinberger
What Just Happened? and A Pound of Flesh, by Art Linson
No One Here Gets Out Alive, by Julia Phillips
Hollywood Monster, by Joe Esztherhas
Hollywood must be a bizarre place if every failure or misstep becomes the grist for a book. The pounding lion’s heart of fame and glamour – with its triple bypass scars and fatty deposits intact. No one ever writes tell-all books about life in investment banking, gas stations or database management. At least that I’ve ever come across. “Grant Writer Warrior: An Insider’s View from the Trenches!”
I can’t get enough of it. I access my sicker side through reading books like this. Because the horrid fact of the matter is I want to write my own. I secretly long for the same humiliating experiences, the brushes with the suits and the stars, the myopic self-absorption. Part of me is angry for being as old as I am, knowing I’m past the age where that sort of heat can fuel a body for long periods of excruciating time.
It’s like a look into the past, really. Hollywood mechanics operate under the same feudal laws as medieval England. Little movie studio fiefdoms that are constantly being upended and restructured, the landed gentry of the superstars and the scurrying of thousands of hangers-on to oil the lumbering tank though another season of summer blockbusters.
A friend of mine from high school got close, once. He was a page for Paramount, and one day was let go over a bowl of tomato bisque soup in the commissary. (Evidently Hollywood lots don’t have cafeterias, only commissaries – however, from all reports, the food still sucks.) I remember hearing this tale and wanting my OWN tomato bisque moment. My buddy would tell me which hot director he’d rode an elevator with, or which script he got to sneak a look at while on the clock.
I mean, it’s one thing to be let go from some shyster glass-and-steel encased corporate high-rise with a rep from HR looking at you with a combination of irritation and pity on their face. Quite another to have to “leave the lot”, as the saying goes. At least you had some sauce to add to your life. Or soup, as the case may be.
I guess it’s the passion behind everything in Hollywood that gets me the most. Sure, it’s ridiculous, entirely fictional and massively unimportant if you have no business being there – but still. How often is it that you find this isolated bubble where everyone’s personal id fantasy is being so nakedly pursued? Okay, okay - outside of the White House, then. Sometimes I think there’s some twisted glory in it all. I see so much passive-aggressive nonsense just as part of a normal day that a place like Hollywood, where the size of your balls means everything, strikes me as having some weird honor inherent in it.
But I’m a freak. So be it. Here are some titles to get you started:
Wannabe, by Jamie Kennedy
Wannabe: A Would-be Player’s Misadventures in Hollywood, by Everett Weinberger
What Just Happened? and A Pound of Flesh, by Art Linson
No One Here Gets Out Alive, by Julia Phillips
Hollywood Monster, by Joe Esztherhas
posted by Stefush at 8:48 AM
7 Comments:
Jamie Kennedy's hot.
Thanks for your input. I'll alert the media, sir.
Aww, just joshin ya. I was trying to be "ironic" (in quotes) by leaving an inane comment after a thoughtful post.
P.S.- I pierced the wall of blogger anonymity and totally emailed you. (totally.)
"Mr. Johnson, I'm afraid I have some bad news. Due to your the joshing you received, your anonymic wall was pierced. There's nothing I can do other than monitor your health going forward."
"But, but, doc, does this mean I'll never walk again? Say it ain't so, doc, say it ain't so!"
"Alright: it ain't so. Plus you'll never walk again."
"...."
I love the ellipse in quotes, it's a trick I first learned from David Foster Wallace of "Infinite Jest" fame.
"... "
Okay, first of all:
1. you kick ass for even KNOWING what an ellipsis is, much less understanding the impact of putting it in as visual dialogue.
2. DFW is a ferocious writer. Infinite Jest is one of the few pieces of art that makes me fully proud of my humanity. You should read White Noise by Don Delillo and Letters to Wendy by Joe Wenderoth (both on my profile, btw)
to experience more of the love.
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