Desperate People

BET held what they termed as a "job fair" yesterday in Beverly Hills. I went, with shoes shined and resumes in hand. I sat in front of a rep from New York named Wayne Brooks who looked like a football player. He seemed like a nice guy as we quickly exchanged pleasantries. He read my resumes while I talked about myself as a writer. "Well, we definitely need strong writers," Wayne said, "And from the looks of things you certainly have the experience. I'm going to pass your resume on to Robin [a BET exec who works in the LA office] and hopefully she'll give you a call." A few more kind words were swapped, then a handshake and I was gone. I've never gone on a speed date but I would imagine it feels something like that.

"Hopefully" echoed in my brain as a I walked to my car passing dozens of hopefuls, on their way inside, grinning nervously with resumes tucked under their arms. I've probably become a bit pessimistic these days but it all felt kind of sad and desperate, like cigarette ashen gamblers pouring in their last monies into a Las Vegas slot machines. Personally, I'm tired of pouring. I doubted that Robin or anybody else from BET would call me, so I quickly fixed my mind into other income generating ideas.

After talking with Stacey McClain, a former stand-up comic and talented writer who wrote for "The Parkers" and "House of Payne" but who is now relegated to going to the "job fairs" too, I drove over to Julie Baker's house to finish up a treatment for a reality show she wants to do with Queen Latifah. (She's Latifah's very good friend who's been styling the Queen's hair for the past decade).

And all the while I'm thinking, my future will dry up waiting on things to happen from other people. Why not do my own thing? So I started pondering once again on a business I'd like to start. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that this probably is the way to go, a way to pull myself away from the Hollywood slot machine and pour my talents into something with a bit more guarantee for a decent pay off.

I'll discuss more about that idea, later. My phone is ringing right now. Maybe it's BET calling...
yeah right!

Funky Ave

Arrrgh.

I'm in a funk. My funk is not one of those pill-popping, liquor swilling, dark depressed moods. In fact, my mood is rather buoyant. My funk is from my confusion about what I should be doing on a day-to-day basis. When I've been hired to write a screenplay, I know what my daily task is: sit down and write the damn screenplay. That work typically engages me anywhere from four to fourteen hours a day. I love the work. But now, I'm sooooo in between jobs, that I'm lost, disoriented, in a ... funk.

Most veteran writers suggest we take this time to write that special spec script we've all be harboring for months or years. Or take the time to write a new sitcom. Or play. Anything--just write. And I'm cool with that, except for one thing. Many of these veteran guys have some cash to sit on while they wait for the next job. Not this lovely writer. In the words of that great poet Heavy D, "I ain't got nothin' but love for you baby." But love does not pay the bills.

So what do I do?

My friend Darryl says loudly, "Go get a job!" And I hear him. In fact, I hear my own voice joining that chorus. (I think my mom is in that choir too.) But here's the rub: I feel lost at how to get a "regular" job. I've been out of that market for so long that a high school senior knows how to land gigs better than I do. Honestly I just don't know what to do! Flip through the want ad section? Pass out my business cards? And what kind of jobs do I actually apply for?

I think people like me, in the arts, need a job a counselor.

But until I get one, I guess I'd better figure it out quickly. Hey, Santa is coming soon. I've been a good boy. Maybe he'll bring me something I need: money and work--in that order.

Am I On Strike?

This Thanksgiving I went back home to Chicago. Amidst the turkey, dressing, mac & cheese, sweet potato pies, collard greens and other calorie laden holiday delectables, I was frequently asked, "Are you on strike?" That question puts me in an odd position. On one hand, I totally support my fellow writer's and their cause to such a degree as going out marching myself and possibly leading them in a good old Negro spiritual inspired civil rights marchin' song:

Ain't gonna let no 'ducers turn me 'round, turn me 'round, turn me 'round Ain't gonna let no studio turn me 'round, Keep on a marchin', keep on a writin' , wit all my residuals in hand...

On the other hand, "being on strike" means that you are refusing to work until certain employment conditions are met. But what if you weren't working before the strike was called? The WGA brass would answer that being on strike also means that you refuse any work offered while the strike is in progress. Okay, that's sort of a positive approach, but with 48% of the Guild's membership not working at any given time, how realistic is it that writer's will be given "offers"--especially now? I'll tell you: not very likely at all.

I would imagine that if you're a writer who has walked off a television show, there's a good chance you've got a financial cushion to ease your glutes after you leave the picket line. But if you weren't working before the strike, get no "offers" during the strike and the opportunity for work after the strike looks as bleak as it was before all this began, then where are you? Singing a spiritual I guess, expressing solidarity, fighting for the cause. However, given the extremely tough nature of employment in his business, this writer's spiritual may sound less like a civil rights song, but more like a blues tune.

"Am I on strike?" Yeah, I am--not by refusing work (because that's not really MY situation at present)--but more on the issues the WGA is fighting for: DVD residuals, a piece of "emerging media" ect. So, while the big boys (and girls) haggle this thing out, I'll be doing what I've always done: hustle to survive and hope that this "strike" yields not only better benefits but will also open some doors I've kickin' at with my marchin' feet for a few years.