Tuesday, September 14, 2010

SEX


Detention is an independent movie completely financed by myself, some creative loans, outside funding including family cash, and even some crew money. At this point, I probably owe some money to Jabba the Hutt as well. But I have bartered cowriter Mark Palermo’s body away as collateral so I have some time here.


What this ultimately means is that it’s a truly independent movie that has given me the oppurtunity to call the shots exactly the way I want them. Zero interference, complete creative control. So this will come straght from my head into your body, just like a casting call with an A list video director.

In otherwords, rape.


Speaking of which, let’s talk about director sex. My director friend Paul Hunter visited the set the other night and commented how I always seem to have the hottest girls on my shoots, which is funny since I think the same of his sets. Every video director thinks the other director has hotter girls.

Essentially on a biblical level, we covet each other’s goats that Yahweh has forbidden us to eat. We nerds don't eat the goats - AKA screw the girls - because of one big reason:

Filmmakers are boring.

We're not rock stars. We're dentists. We look at people's teeth and think to ourselves, "could be whiter." If Rock 'n Roll is highschool, directors are yearbook staff. If actors are the brightly colored tangs and clowns in a fishtank, we're the ugly gray thing sucking on the glass to make it clean. 

If we had real personality, we'd be in front of the camera. If we had a modicum of good looks, we probably wouldn't have had to fight so hard to be "The Man."

I actually think this is beyond sociological. It's pure evolution. Each abdominal muscle you lack equals $500,000 in net worth you must own to get laid with an equivalent quality of female that a man with a six pack would get. I would argue the better looking you are, the shittier director you probably are. This is Kahn's Recipricol Equation of Nerd Success.

Proof?

 

On a purely objective level, this face ain't gonna get him laid:

 

And neither will this guy's:

 

Now, if the three guys above made a television show about how they got rich and then started boning every starlett in Hollywood, that would still be a flop, because when the camera actually try to film these victory laps, there'd be no footage.


If the fellow ugly director by the name of Spike Lee made a film about my life, it would be titled: I Still Got No Game.


There is only so long you can fake being cool before you revert to your natural state of pussy-free comic book reading and Spielberg dvd marathons.

For the curious, the upkeep on a hot Hollywood girl is not terribly expensive for a reasonably successful director. It consists something along the lines of this:


1)      Sushi and drinks, with a +2 guest list for her girlfriends ($500)
2)      An occasional gift with Prada written somewhere on it ($2,000)
3)      V.I.P. table at hollywood club with Cristal ($3000)


This gets you the starter package. This is either the young wide-eyed actress/singer/model who just got here from Iowa in her hoopty car, or the drunk old chick who has fucked her way down the food chain until she's left with pathetic you and even more pathetic stories about Kelly Slater back in 1994.


So ultimately, this will never work. You may get the sex, but she's just doing Kelly Slater's favorite positions when he was into Pearl Jam. And ultimately, you're gonna just wanna watch The Color Purple.

Spielberg. He knows your favorite positions.

Now on the flipside, there are the girls who actually dig your personality, your intelligence, and your passion for your artform.

These girls are called PretentiousTM.

I have had two times in my life where I was going to get laid, but ended up in an argument where I have to defend Spielberg against her ranting on the superiority of independent movies, foreign films, or independent foreign films excluding the Republic of Ghana. Because Ghanans are sell outs.

The first time was when I was 19. I was a college dropout working behind a movie counter shuffling popcorn. Somehow I had convinced a local Texas model/aspiring filmmaker I was going to be a BIG SHOT one day, and it was inevitably going to lead to my spectacular de-virginification. But she felt Spielberg was a hack, and I defended him in a way she felt was over-simplifying and unintellectual.

She was 18 and modeled jeans at Target.


Years later I was in Puerto Rico on a location scout. A drunk American girl recognized me from television and invited me up to her apartment after the bars closed. This scenario does not happen as often as you think. Some aspiring directors imagine this kind of score as frequent as a basketball score of 86 to 84, but really, the score tally works more like low point soccer. Lots of running around and then standing at the end of the day trying to kick just one goddamn ball past the goalie.

And this drunk goalie blocked all my shots with one simple defense: The Spielberg-is-not-a-real-filmmaker knee to the groin. So instead of sex, I get an intellectual debate on my pathetic and shallow taste in movies. Puerto Rico 1, Spielberg 0.

I feel sorry for all you guys who want to be Michael Bay. Suckers.