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Getting to the top of the writing
pile in Hollywood is not easy.
We don't all start out with a development deal at a major
movie studio, invites to Hef's parties at Barfly, and a spot
on Matthew Perry's rehab softball team.
There's this little thing called paying your dues, and I was
no different than most (other than my rapid, staggering success).
And I paid my dues in the trenches of children's television.
Shortly after landing in Hollywood, I got a call from a network
(whose name I will not reveal, but will instead refer to as
Flox Flamily Channel) to work on their new series, Caesar
the Epileptic Carrot. Jake, the Flox Flamily programming executive,
had heard about my groundbreaking silent off-Broadway multimedia
presentation and told me he "wanted to be in the Bunsen
business like a newborn wants a mouthful of momma's nipple."
Flox was looking for a non-religious answer to the VeggieTales
juggernaut, which would simultaneously appeal to nutritionally-sensitive
parents and disabled children.
In short, Caesar was going to be a homerun. Jake and I would
preside over a marketing tie-in empire that included children's
books, animated feature films, and branded wooden spoons to
use in case of a seizures. If I wanted to, I could even don
the Caesar costume and visit sick kids in the hospital. (Ultimately,
I passed. Children's hospitals are far too depressing and
I couldn't afford to up my dosage of Wellbutrin to slow down
the anxiety shakes long enough for me to tousle an ill youngster's
hair.)
So Jake and I sat down to bring Caesar to life. The process
was fitful at best. We clashed at every conceivable point--Jake's
commercial concerns and my artistic vision were incompatible.
He insisted that Caesar be green, pointing to the runaway
success of green ketchup and other improbably-colored foodstuffs
aimed at the 4-10 year-old demographic. He resisted my idea
that Caesar should develop a glue-huffing habit to cope with
the extreme alienation that would result from his uncontrollabe
seizures, an obviously relatable character trait that children
afflicted with the "falling sickness" no doubt feel
as they terrify their peers during their creepy attacks. He
also couldn't get behind my idea for Caesar's love interest,
Janice, a rutabaga with a burn scars who deals with her self-esteem
issues by sleeping around the produce aisle.
In the end, Jake fulfilled his financial commitment to me
by doubling my fee for the series' pilot episode, "Caesar
Makes a Milkshake," and promptly shelving the project
indefinitely.
I took my money, drove out to the Joshua Tree National Park
in the California desert to engage in a three-day peyote-fueled
vision quest in which the ghost of Fred Rogers told me that
children's television was probably "not my thing."
It should be noted that Fred Rogers was not yet dead, making
the apparition that visited me all the more chilling.
I returned to Los Angeles with the ugly incident behind me
and began my nearly-overnight dominance of the entertainment
industry.
Three months later, Flox Flamily debuted "Rocco the Incontinent
Plantain," which ran for half a season before being put
on indefinite hiatus.
I sent Jake a basket of carrots and a condolence card when
I heard the news.
I still haven't heard back from him.
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