Gutterballs, Zipping, and Paul Anka

Most workweeks begin with an extra large green tea and a countdown. Monday, 10am: Only 39 more ‘official’ hours until the Sabbath. This past week, however, started on a much better note.

RINGGGG!

Me: Hello?

VA: Josh?

Me: Uhhhh…. (Checking call display to verify identity of unknown caller)...yeah?

VA: It’s me, your agent. (Note: She does not in fact refer to herself by occupational title, BTW) Good news.

A smile. I paused my online Family Feud (Name something your dog pees on…). 'Good News'. Two words. I’ve been waiting for them. Those two beautiful words, eight exquisite letters were all I needed to hear to set ablaze my office malaise. I picked up the Hewlett Packard HP75 computer monitor and smashed it to the ground a la ZOOLANDER… which is a la 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY. I was halfway into the ‘Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, you’re cool, fuck you…’ routine from HALF BAKED when I realized that I better get more details on this ‘news’ before quitting my job and irreparably offending my colleagues.

Me: (stay calm, Budd…) What kind of good news?

VA: The Spill. You have a treatment done?

Me: I suppose you could call it that.

VA: Well pony up, pamplemousse, because...

Me: (interrupting) Did you just call me a grapefruit?

VA: It sounded cool in my head. Anyway, quiet and listen. InsertNameHere Productions is interested in reading it.

Me: They’re interested?

VA: You surprised?

My mind said ‘Fuck yes’, but I couldn’t let on. I had to lie - couldn’t show her my hand, not yet. Institute poker face.

Me: Surprised? As surprised as a Western traveler in Thailand who’s bangin’ a girl that…

VA: What?

Me: Nevermind.

VA: Right. Send the treatment over to me, I’ll make some notes. She want’s it by EOW. (a day job acronym – there’s one for everything; apparently everyone is too busy talking about the work they’re too tired to do to actually use the English language for communication.)

So, it was early Monday, and I already had a goal for the week: Make THE SPILL good. I sent off what I had mid week for some feeback and received some good notes, some horribly bad (including some from a friend who later admitted to being ‘pretty drunk’ when writing them), then set out to make it readable. I think in the end, at the very least I’ve put together something not totally derivative and somewhat entertaining.

This my first experience with someone asking for something in particular – other than the one-on-ones at the CFC, which I’ve chosen not to count because I think anyone thrust into the awkward situation of being placed in a room with a thirsty starving artist would kindly offer to ‘read’ (in quotations for a reason) a sample of your work. It’s just polite.

Case and point: My 15-yr. old sister recently had the pleasure of meeting Paul Anka (A heartthrob from your youth? Mine too! Total dreamboat...) My sister, while possessing some vocal talent, is about as close to making a living singing as I am to playing in the NBA. Just because I can put the ball in the basket, doesn’t mean I'm automatically qualified for the draft. Anka asked her what she did, and when she responded that she had a band, the man responsible for Michael Buble gave her a business card and offered to give a listen if she sent him a tape. It was a polite gesture and all that – but he kinda had to, didn’t he? Much like the producers visiting the CFC – they would have to be really put off - even borderline allergic – to whomever was in front of them to not offer the requisite courtesy. Actually reading it is another story…

But anyway, I’m cautiously excited. I’m told that our ‘angle’ will be that the project is young and pliable (that’s how I like my women – zing!) and that I’m really into collaborating. Sound dangerous? You betcha. I’ll let you know if anything comes from this – but for now I’m going to wait to hit the draft until I get feedback one way or the other.

In the interim, I plan to outline CHUB, get into Henchman Draft 2, and I also think I’m gonna take a stab at an early teen spec TV script. I hear from every corner that it’s a smart thing to do – that money flows like goat’s blood from the fangs of children’s programmers.

Onward: With last Monday’s exciting news, I could hardly hope for the same this week…or could I? I received an email from a producer with a comedy series in development at Global, saying that Miss May had given her my name (along with the other 7 residents, I’m quite sure) and that they would love to read some of my work. Not enough can be said for the kind efforts made by the established screenwriters I’ve met to help introduce and integrate us youngin’s into the industry. You’re good people, and I promise - knock wood - to one day pay it forward. End obvious yet sincere ass-kissing here. Here’s hoping they find my amusing yet unstructured scripts funny enough to want to meet me.

As an aside, I finally did what so many people have already done and signed up for zip.ca. I then spent the next two hours of my day marking 72 film and TV masterpieces to ‘zip’, whatever that means.

(An honest truth: I’ve been avoiding this whole zip revolution because I thought that the process of receiving movies had something to do with the whole process of ‘zipping’ large files on the computer – a phenomenon I have never been comfortable with. This, along with the whole ‘bit torrent’ mystery, continue to be the two most successful technologies at preventing me from downloading the episodes of Family Guy and Lost that I miss. Apparently, the two zips are completely separate entities and not only do they have nothing to do with one another, but I’m also a huge asshole for thinking so.)

Anyhow, I’ve got about 60 films I’ve never seen as well as a few seasons of TV coming my way sometime or another. I’ll be sure to share anything that I, in my infinite wisdom and good taste, deem worthy of sharing.

Giving myself a softball segue, I’ll leave by sharing my opinion that C.R.A.Z.Y. is one great movie. I watched it at the Spoke Club this weekend with Whitzman. That I’m not cool enough to be watching the film in their dining room never fazed me – that’s how good the movie was. If you haven’t seen it (but I’m sure you have), you’re a bad Canadian.

Whatever you say, I stick by my statement. After all, if I wasn’t from Jamaica, then why would I wear this silly hat?

(A reference to probably the worst movie referenced in this posting. Referencing a reference - I’m SO Po-Mo.)

By next post, I should have already experienced my company bowl-off. That’s right, we’re going bowling. Two things that make this suck exponentially more than regular bowling:

1. There is a theme. 80’s trash. Since the announcement it has expanded to encompass trash of all eras. Truth be told, I know their initial theme was White Trash, but they deemed the phrase ‘irresponsible’ and instead diluted the title while maintaining the elements of White Trashiness that are so inherently funny.

2. Some newly-engaged khaki-and-baby-blue ‘workin’ hard or hardly workin’ gal had the gall to make me ‘Team Spirit Leader’. Talk about poor planning. I’m responsible for ensuring all my teammates show up in costume.

Trust me, I’m getting RIGHT on that.

Please Don't Feed The Writer...He Doesn't Deserve Your Scraps

Surely I haven’t posted in a while because I’m busy. Surely there’s an epic opus commanding my attention at every waking moment. Surely I’ve been washed away by the torrential ‘day drone’ downpour, left soggy and disoriented on a bank of some metropolitan booze-can.

Surely I haven’t posted in a while because I’m lazy.

It took a horrible brush with death for Josh Friedman to miss a post. All it takes for Josh Budd to skip a week is bad weather, a slight migraine, or a (insert low-brow sitcom/cartoon here) marathon. If you consider this my apology, I’ll consider it accepted. Deal?

What’s new? To draft or not to draft…

I’ve done a couple of revisions of my thriller outline/treatment/whatever, and while I was critical of the outlining process, I’m slowly changing my tune. PT has done it with his latest script, and says he’ll never go back. If THE SPILL ends up decent, I’ll probably never rush to draft again. So far, feedback on the treatment has been pretty positive – aside from some logic problems (I still maintain that with any thriller, the audience is required –and subconsciously takes – faithful leaps in logic), I think that a draft pass will begin this weekend. And by ‘I think’, I mean ‘I really, really hope’. I’ll have you know, it takes a tremendous amount of discipline for me not to jump headfirst into a draft before it’s time, promising myself to fix the structural problems as I come across them. I’m proud of me – the train may be on a new sched at Budd central.

As an aside (read: shameless plug), a teacher friend of mine (www.joinjw.blogspot.com – if you ask nicely, he’ll post nude pictures, and baby, its better than Ezra) has also recently learned the value of the outline as it relates to his students’ essays. Pupils participating in a practical process. PPPP. It’s pathetic what makes me smile - please don't judge.

The harsh reality of being a Canadian scribe hit me this week while putting together pieces for a new story idea I’m working on. It carries all the Canuck requisites – a bit of humor in a heavy drama, characters you wouldn’t let babysit your children, and –gasp- some incestuous undertones. When this hit the page, alarms went off in my brain. Uh oh, spaghetti-oh! I promised myself to stay away from stories like this, but here I am, caught up in something I think is original and interesting, and lo and behold, the I-card pops up. Fucking your sister never seemed so logical. More on this story, which I’ve tentatively titled CHUB, as it comes.

I had that meeting with Super Secret Production company this week. Met with their development dude, which, as I suggested, makes for a better title and business card. It was less about a specific job, and more about a general meet and greet. After all, they can’t hire me if they don’t know me, can they?

For those of you who don’t know me, I humbly state that I consider myself capable of conversing with almost anyone north of the Mason/Dixon, and while I have always dreaded public speaking/pitching, my stay at the CFC gave me oodles more confidence (you have to be confident to use the word ‘oodles’). All this flew out the window when I walked in. I was nervous. Sweating nervous. And for no good reason. Development Dude is a nice guy, greeted me kindly, was casual, talkative, approachable, etc. So why was I nervous? I’m still trying to figure this out. I walked out of the meeting pretty positive that I stunk up the joint, and was angry at Internal Budd for fucking this up for External Budd.

I called my agent to cry, hoping for one of those ‘you’re a great writer Josh, and they’ll see right past your puddles of sweat and poorly placed jokes’ pep talks. Fortunately, when I called Very Accommodating (my agent), she informed me that the meeting went far better than I had thought – DD called her after I left to say so. I was shocked, pleasantly so, but still determined to find the root of my anxiety.

My dad always taught me to give back to those who have helped you. And so, I went to a fundraiser for my favorite post-secondary polytechnic, mostly to support a group of students that worked on a film I made a couple of years back. $5 to the end of the year screenings, packaged under the guise of a ‘festival’, although it bares almost no resemblance to one.

I sat alone in a bar deliberately decorated to look like an ocean vessel (and smelt like one), drinking cheap beer and watching too-cool-for-school Kensington medleys move in mysterious ways (Mom, I AM an individual! Billy and Lisa and Tommy and Kaitlin say so!). Am I the only one who finds hipster dancing identical to Elaine’s infamous limb-flailing shuffle on Seinfeld?

I finally realized what a B.F.A gives a young filmmaker – supreme overconfidence. I dodged this bullet only because I knew I wasn’t any good. Everyone comes out guaranteeing that they are the next Wes/P.T. Anderson. They’re just too cool to tell you. Or you’re not cool enough to hear it, one of the two.

A final note: I’m excited to report that more people are logging on to this online diary each week. This makes me happy. You know what else would make me happy? If you have any comments, criticisms, or new ‘guy walks into a bar’ jokes – POST THEM! I like chatting. Otherwise, I’m going to continue to feel like I’m talking about myself with myself and my head might explode. Don’t be afraid – we’re good people.

Except for you, Link. You’re pure evil. Delicious, savory evil.

Until next week…