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I’m whirling in an ellipse, thrown back by centrifugal
force, on an old(e)-fashioned carousel. The wooden
horses snarl like wounded bulls. The carousel is half
shrouded by ashen fog, opaque. Inside the mist, bats
are flapping. One suspires and free-falls towards
my head…
“Do you play tennis?” I heard,
chirpy, but gargle-y, like through water. WHAP! I
fell down, or up, to earth.
“Uh… no,” I blurt. I looked at
my fingers. They were grasping a huge, baby blue yarn
ball, which I’d just caught after it bounced
off my pate. Why? Uh, I was sure I knew why…
“Okay. Well, is your father in good health?”
The source of these gnat-like queries was my dimpled
seminar instructor, (who we’ll call) Megan.
I was somewhere in the colon of a tourist hotel by
the Pacific Ocean’s polluted polyp, the Santa
Monica Bay.
“Yeah” I say, perplexed.
“Wonderful!” Megan cheeps. “You
and Brenda Jo both have healthy fathers!” Brenda
Jo was about sixty years old, anorexic, with pigtails.
She grinned at me from behind her crusty eczema.
The yarn ball was part of a warm-up exercise on making
small-talk with strangers (though there’s no
such thing as ‘small talk,’ just small
dreams.) Every time the yarn was lobbed, lobber and
lob-ee had to find something in common.
Or something like that. Frankly, without sex or drugs
as a touchstone, I often can’t focus on things.
The purpose of my there-being was to learn the ‘Secret
Hollywood Code’ of “Power Networking,”
and suffer for YOU, my friends (like you-know-who
on the you-know what ) so that I could share the amazing,
elite, encrypted secrets for ‘Super Charging
Your Show-Biz Career!’
How naïve I’ve been all this time, thinking
that the Secret Code must be billionaire parents,
Mafia ties, sociopathy and/or no gag reflex.
“Did you know that in any business, a referral
generates eighty percent better results than a cold
call? And that anyone you want to meet is but four
or five contacts away from you right now?”
Megan grinned with her face and her voice, pacing
for emphasis.
Megan bills herself as a screenwriter, producer,
director and PowerNetworking Coach. “Ninety-nine
percent of show-biz jobs are found through networking!”
she continued. She then paused. Twinkled. “Of
course, you’ve got to dress right, too.”
Megan is zaftig and dressed all wrong. Her skirt,
a teen-age chain store print, ends above her Shar-pei
knees. A cleavage canyon ascends from her sweater.
She’s flirty and tosses her thin hair, calling
attention to it. Her glasses say ‘ESL teacher.’
In Hollywood, for ‘above-the-line’ (non-technical)
jobs, if a woman can’t pass as Conventionally
Pretty or A Hot Piece Of Poon, she shouldn’t
flirt. She must present one of two vibes:
• Outrageousness — in a bland way, of
course. One dresses Flamboyant Lite, but with expensive
shoes or purse.
• Strict Competence — in a bland way,
of course. One dresses in dark, plain-ish separates,
but with expensive shoes and purse. With this tack,
a bling watch helps too, though the brand must be
easily identifiable (Rolex, Cartier, etc.)
Men need to beam out “I’m BETA dog.”
Any hints of possible hand-to-hand combat with superiors
must initially be quelled. Dorky jeans or chinos are
a must, with your choice of rumpled, unflattering
button-down shirt and doofy blazer. A high, Ray Romano
type voice is a plus.
Megan’s first step to Show-biz glory is to
write a list of everyone you know, or have ever known.
Everyone — like the teacher you barfed on in
first grade. Next, you re-establish contact, and work
out any weirdness that may have ricocheted between
you.
As if. Very AA. (Saddam? This is George.
Man, I’m sorry about that war thing. Need a
young boy or anything?)
The Secret Hollywood Code, once revealed, was a colossal
disappointment, a big, fuckin’ Zilch, like every
other over-hyped, pay to get pissed-on, rip-off, snake-oil
“sure-fire system” sold to us exhausted,
rat-in-cage dopes who trade living life for fear of
Hell, kill the unfamiliar, don’t read, drown
in delusion and can’t get it up without pills.
Its quintessence is, of course: Kiss Ass.
The spin here is to be organized, a technique akin
to that of a social climbing wife. Keep card files
with people’s birthdays, children’s names,
likes/dislikes, religion etc., but weed out the ‘low
lying fruit.’ Time is money. Work only on those
marks who can advance you. Don’t re-hydrate
the dry. Marinate the already moist, but keep conversation
breezy. You must hide your desire to use them as monkey-bars.
Keep lots of stamped ‘thank you cards’
on hand to send out immediately, for any bitsy kindness,
or perceived kindness. Initiate complimentary conversations.
Volunteer. Throw parties. Be careful not to assume
the worst when people present stone faces, ‘tudes,
or hostile body language. Win ‘em over with
spunk!
Sorta sounds like a plan, but the Code has a fatal
flaw, even eschewing the moral (that snagging hangnail),
and the question of talent (unnecessary). The flaw
is… that this hustle has a ceiling. Geniality,
in Hollywood, is seen as weakness.
Megan’s advice will spit you to Asst. V.P.
of Special Events, or Associate Producer, but for
the Real Big Scores, baby, ol’ Xan’s presenting
thesis was canonically correct. You’ve got to
go Mercenary Motherfucker all the way.
Case-in-point: Megan. In eight years as a ‘screenwriter-producer-director,’
her PowerNetworking Secret Code bonanza is one TV
movie writing credit (shared, as it was heavily re-written),
some obscure local ‘educational’ episodes,
three PBS half-hours and a small-claims court instructional
film (credits unspecified, ergo unspectacular.) Yawn.
Whereas, scratch a real A-List Player and you’ll
find Sex! Extortion! Fear! Kickbacks! Nepotism! Backroom
deals! Now, Ladies and Gentlemen — that’s
entertainment!
You can write to Xanadu Xero at xanadu@rawstory.com.
Xanadu also cordially invites you to join the
Raw
Story Forums and visit her fiefdom, The
Raw Bar, to discuss these topics, any other damn
thing, or just bitch and talk trash. You can also
view an archive of her columns by clicking
here.
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