First, let me say nobody asked me to join Scientology, ride his or her motorcycle, marry him or her, or watch Selena from beginning to end on a very wide plasma screen.
However, most of you who've gotten this far are hoping I'll give you some juicy inside Hollywood dish, and I do hate to disappoint. Does Tom Cruise have a blow-up doll of L. Ron Hubbard in his office? you probably want to know. Not that I could see. Who has the coolest office in Hollywood? J. Lo, hands down. Not only are there candles everywhere, but you also get frozen waffles made in a Dualit toaster no matter what time of day you happen to arrive.
Now, please bear in mind that I have not met with J. Lo nor with T. Cru. Only their "people." Really nice people, I have to add -- though I'm never sure of the point of the whole thing. The way it appears to go is they read your script and go, "Wow! Is this a movie we're not going to make! Never, ever, ever, not if hell freezes over! Not if Scarlett Johanssen gives in and joins Scientology! But, hey, get this writer in here on the double so we can talk about other movies we're not going to make with ber!"
Truthfully, I think what they want is that after you happen, should that ever come to pass, they can say they knew you back when. We're old friend with this one. Discovered her when she was nothing. Oh, what a genius. Genius, I tell you!
How the meeting thing works is your manager gets calls from Very Big People, or, and this is far more likely, The People Who Love Them. Should you try to resist another seemingly pointless rendez vous, she assures you how hot you are and how you better take advantage of all your big hot heat before the word gets out that you only have the one script they don't want to make, and may well be a one-trick pony. She actually uses this phrase, "one-trick pony". You're not sure what exactly your trick is, but suddenly you're feeling a little equine.
You snort briefly, just for effect, then reluctantly take off your nightie (which you've been in for three days watching Court TV while breaking a REALLY GREAT story in your head), have a shower (it's been awhile there, too) and put on your dress. (In my case, I only have one. It's a blue linen wrap-around that spans several sizes. Actually, I bought it in taupe and black as well but they ended up fitting differently. Damn tiny little Chinese laborers, what the hell do they know about plus sizing)?
So you pull up to the gate, which in T. Cru's case is the famous one that says "Paramount" on it in very big gold letters, you know, in case you were wondering if you'd arrived or not. Most of the time the guard won't have your name and will make you pull over to the side -- which is understandable, since you're driving a 1993 Toyota Paseo and they don't get many crap-ass cars up this way. This never happened to me at Paramount, though. Something a little classier about that place over the other lots, what with their mouse ears and Bugs Bunnies running the show. Paramount was once run by Lucille Ball, I'll have you know. Yes, I'm serious. Oh yeah, Lucy had all kinds of shit going down once she woke up and dumped Desi's tired, cheating ass.
But I digress. So you get to the parking lot and have an argument with Someone More Important Than You over the fact that you got the last spot, then tromp across the lot in the heat, which in this case is well worth it because you happen upon one of Paramount's Famous Screamers in the heat of a Famous Scream! Something about how the other guy's a "cocksucker" and deserves a "good nut crushing" while making sure to "shut his piehole." You're oddly titillated watching someone else being treated like crap, but you try not to laugh. Last thing you ever want to do is become one of them for God's sake.
You scram the hell out of there and make your way up to Tom's office where you quickly conclude that no, Tom is not there. Tom is on location. They don't actually film any movies at Paramount, you are told. Too pricey. Movies are filmed in Romania and New Zealand and the money left over goes to Tom. No movies in movieland, you say? Another illusion, shot to hell.
You're told Tom hasn't read your script, but boy he'd sure love it if he had. You're told he's looking for a script that would bring the Brat Pack together as forty-somethings, or else one that absolutely must be shot in Paris, where Tom would like to spend some quality time, and asked if you have either one of those scripts in your "arsenal." You're not sure what an arsenal is in this sense or why you'd keep your scripts there, but you apologize anyway and promise to get right on it.
But you don't get right on it. You don't get right on anything. You go home, unwrap the wraparound dress and get back in bed in time for Judge Judy. The thing about Judy is how she calls it just exactly how she sees it. It's hard to get your illusions broken when you never had any to begin with. I love when she asks people if they're on medication. No, but I sure wish I were, I'd say. The hell with what Tom wants, show me the damn Paxil.
Just another few tidbits they'll never tell you about in film school.
