Let's Hear it for Petey

While it is true that tending bar will expose you to an odd assortment of colorful characters bathed in hedonism, it is sometimes those that appear to be the mildest of individuals that send you careening off into the most fruitful endeavors. Such was the case last night at O’Malley’s Pub, where I was playing the part of bartender to a small audience of rather blasé disposition when a slightly buzzed gentleman came stumbling in. After assessing that he was of no different character than many of the imbibers I constantly deal with, I paid him no more attention than the usual serving of beer and taking of money. Instead I focused myself upon the three lovely women at the end of the bar, all intent on stuffing as much cleavage as possible into tops three sizes too small. Quickly that fad came to pass as the women; more interested in their Midori sours than my own epic manhood, hastily downed their drinks and made for the exit and a surely raucous Santa Barbara Monday night. This left only me, and the socially lubricated fellow who was smiling like a valium induced child staring at a screen full of Japanese anime. Since there was no one else in the bar, I felt compelled as a professional barman to engage him in conversation. What a fortuitous decision that was.
Our glazed over fellow, who had a remarkable resemblance to Will Ferrell, turned out to be a successful screenwriter who was in town attending the prestigious Santa Barbara Writers Conference. How lucky was I, a wannabe wordsmith with a liquored up professional at the mercy of my pouring hand. After a few of the usual bar talk pleasantries and inane questions lofted about to provide him with the opportunity to espouse his writing skills, evidently he has big producer friends and has worked all over Hollywood developing stories soon to change the world as we know it, I quickly started peppering him with queries about this writers conference. Turns out this little soirée of scribes is one of the most prestigious and well-run conferences around, and accordingly it would behoove me to stop by and peruse. Naturally I had to ask how that could be done given the gatherings prohibitive cost and exclusivity. His reply, just turn on the charm and act like you've been there done that- Considering that much of my life has relied on this motto I figured I might as well.
After feeding him a few more distilled beverages to ensure his unsafe passage back to his hotel I hastily shut down the bar and headed home. One must be as rested as possible in order to deceive those who might be of great help to you.
The following morning I awoke, groggy and somewhat pessimistic about pulling this off- surely this crowd of writing professionals would recognize my conference crashing and have me carted off of the premises under jeers of the rightful attendees. Who was I too think I could blend into this well heeled group of poets and playwrights? Delusional? Obviously. Determined? Without a doubt.
Upon arriving at this conference, being held at the exquisite campus of Westmont College in Montecito, California, I had no clue where to go. Expecting a large auditorium with one speaker lecturing to hundreds of hipsters I quickly found that my perceptions of this event were way off. Rather than a large lecture in cavernous halls with crowds in which I could vanish, there were small, roughly 15 person workshops taking place in small classrooms. Soon, I figured, my gig would be up. Sensing the need to blend in as soon as possible I attempted to ingratiate myself with a disheveled older woman struggling to walk up a hill to an unknown destination. She had the typical appearance of a crazy great aunt who lives with thirty cats, thus a perfect target for my suave charm. Striding up beside her with my most disarming and enchanting of grins, I let loose my first steps towards assimilation.
"Woo, big hill. They should put in an escalator, huh?", I said.
Blank stare.
"Yeah, soooo, what workshop are you going too?"
Again, a pause of befuddlement, before a whisper of "Fiction".
"Ahh, yes”, I replied, “me too. Should be a good one", which of course garnered no answer at all.
And so off we went, me following behind this barely audible, slowly walking woman, doing my best to make it seem as if I knew where I was going. After a few minutes of walking, filled with my best flirtations and suave seduction- I even think I dropped a book in front her just so I could bend down to pick it up- we finally made it to a cramped classroom. Fortunately the workshop was already in session, being led by some famous published author I have never heard of.
Upon entering the first classroom a couple preconceived notions were quickly dispelled. One, aside from a few quizzical looks not a person said a word other than hello and how are you. Two, writers are geeks. Serious geeks. Which makes sense- if you are to have a profession as lonely as writing, I imagine your social networking skills would border on eccentric. Where I expected Prada, I instead found Big Dog. Three, this whole crashing thing was easy as hell. Not a person even batted an eye at my presence, either out of social fear or because they just didn’t care. Whatever the reason, I had a great workshop with a few great writers, a few horrendous ones, and a newfound confidence in being able to sneak into events that I had no business being at. Naturally, I felt it my obligation to investigate the catered lunch for the attendees.
After pretending to bury my eyes into my own manuscript I waltzed passed the gentleman guarding front door of the dining area. Even gave him a ‘Whew, lot of work to be done on this’ as I walked by. He replied with a hearty, ‘Just keep working at it young man’ and I was on my way to a free lunch. I had a wonderful plate of carnitas and chicken, and met many a writer enthusiastic about my chosen profession and upcoming screenplay..... which of course I have yet to write.
After lunch I found myself wandering toward the classrooms, pretending to know where I was going when I stumbled upon an actual screenwriting workshop. Again, I figured why not, just focus on serenity now and act like this is your scene. Upon entering I did my best to blend in the back, soak it all in, not be conspicuous. That plan was as solid as warm jello.
Besides being a much more hip and trendy crowd than the fiction-writing workshop (found out later it was science fiction- which explains a hell of a lot), the screenwriting set all seemed to take greater note of my intrusion. It didn’t help my cause as the leader, an Emmy winning screenwriter, decided to go around the room and ask us what we were working on. Out came the replies, "Fox pilot", "Indie script about pirates", "NBC sitcom", “Comedy Central special”, and then me. "Uhhh, ummmm, yeah. I uh, do e-mails. I tend to write emails. Long ones, sort of like a chronicle of me". Again, stares and looks akin to seeing Michael Jackson doing jazzercise. Attempting to smooth this over I added I was just trying to get a feel for the whole screenwriting world. Surprisingly, this ameliorated the writers and leader, as no further questions regarding my presence were asked. I was even encouraged to participate and offer my ‘fresh and unmuddled’ views on screenwriting.
After the workshop concluded I spoke with a couple of the attendees and they recommended I come back for tomorrow. Beaming with pride at a crashing job well done I enthusiastically replied that I would be there with bells on. I should have rethought their invitations.
The following day, after skipping out on the morning due to a late night tending bar, I again crashed the screenwriters’ workshop. The opening topic of the day was the use of metaphor and catching an audience in the opening pages of a screenplay. After reading over several well known scripts the minds on hand started dissecting the effectiveness of each one. At first I was quiet, fearing that I would be reprimanded for ill-advised remarks. But after hearing a few of the arguments from the supposed professionals I figured I could do no worse. Hell, considering how well received I had been the previous day I figured my forays into the discussion would be nothing if not encouraged.
Naturally, I dominated.
Of course the menacing fog creeping through Amityville is a metaphor for the shark lurking off shore! And obviously the floating feather meandering through the small southern town is Forrest Gump running through life! My comments were lauded; agreed upon, nary a smirk was noticed. I even was offered a very awkward high-5. My confidence was high, and I felt as if I had this whole writing thing set, especially leading into the next exercise- writing an opening 2 minutes of script for a movie in a 15 minute flash. I would nail it, I thought, my talent would be so evident the lecturer, who was a rather attractive older woman, would beg to be my sugar mama and showcase my words to agents worldwide. It was so evident I could practically choke on it.
After a brief 15 minutes of scribbles the readings began. Not wanting to go first, I figured why not save the best for last, I perfected my prose as the others went before me. As I heard others efforts, silently scoffing to myself, I kept daydreaming at how these professionals would be amazed at my infant efforts, and how talented I was, and wondered how that cougar would look in a silk robe. To my good fortune right before I was to read (again mind you I am here for free, rather than paying the $1000 fee for these exceptional services) the woman before me read a piece so wretched and awful I was sure I would be receiving more awkward high 5’s than the BYU basketball team.
So I began, and read, and read, not wanting to look up, making sure I captured this incredible scene in all of its essence - a dreamy first date, billowing drapes in an enchanting restaurant, snippets of endearing first date conversation interspersed between my mélange of two professionals hitting it off, setting up this romantic wonderland for the ultimate comedic surprise when the man mentions he is a pornographer. Surely captivating the crowd, I delivered the last bit of dialogue “I work in Porno”, with an emphatic twist. I even held my stare at the last lines for a bit so as to let the hilarious twist sink in. And then I was done.
What followed was unexpected. Blankness. Puzzlement. Fear. Shame. And that was just the expression on the lecturer. Feeling a bit awkward under the silence, the lecturer feebly mentioned that my style was off a bit, and I maybe needed to flesh out the specifics a little more. One woman mentioned that given the amount of wine I fed my characters in the scene they would already be drunk within two minutes of conversation. Smirks were abundant. Heads were shaking. I stammered, stunned like an attacking shark hit squarely on the nose with a blunt hammer, I feebly reminded them that this “was just a set up, you know. The story takes off from there, like a rocket. Bam!” That was enough from me, though the mental beating I was getting had not yet hit its crescendo.
In the final and ultimate blow to my pride, the lecturer pointed out that this was my first time writing- and being able to even attempt a scene was something of an accomplishment. A smattering of pathetic applause ensued. Sweet. I got sympathy applause for being able to make coordinating words on a page. All of a sudden I was the retarded kid playing the trumpet- everyone’s embarrassed at how bad they are but feel compelled to offer support. "Let's hear it for Petey, he's unable to dress himself and can't recognize shapes, but man can he blow air into a tube!" Needless to say, I have no idea what the lecturer looks like in a silken robe.