People often ask: “Bill, how do you find material to write about every week?”

My answer: “Easy. I keep fucking up.”

For better or worse, my life is a veritable treasure trove of fuckupedness. If my life turns out to be a legacy of ‘what not to do’s,’ I guess I will have to content myself with the fact that at least it’s a legacy. Despite the amount of metaphorical shit I have stirred, I can honestly say that the maelstroms I create are never inspired by malice or ill will, and my latest sphincter-puckering predicament was no different….

Last week, I began shooting a reality show pilot about dads who do standup comedy. I was “cast” as counterpoint — the cock-swinging, younger single guy who lives with no strings, has frivolous road sex, and never ever has to wear pants with pleats.

The setting was a pseudo –“Poker Night,” where we cast members were supposed to gather around a card table and fake friendship for about four hours while nerdy tech guys tip-toed behind us with HD cameras in an attempt to capture the “reality” of the shooting-the-shit exchange. So it was a quasi-reality show; think “The Hills” but with man-boobs instead of surgically-enhanced perky ones.

First off, I didn’t know any of the comics. I didn’t even recognize any of them, which is not to say they aren’t awesome comedians with thriving careers and stellar acts. I simply didn’t know shit about them. However, at ACTION!, we were supposed to be old pals playing our usual Tuesday night game of Texas Hold ‘Em telling tales about wacky wives — except for me, who, as counterpoint, was supposed to regale these 5 older men with sordid stories of bitches and road ho’s.

The production designer brought out a mini-bar and placed it right next to my left elbow, as if to say, “Bill, being hammered will help you get funnier.” I’m a consummate professional, so I proceeded to lube my esophagus with booze. Truth be told, I don’t hang out with married people (because they are profoundly boring and/or miserable) and the idea of talking about Pampers, parties at Chuck E. Cheese, and Ikea excursions was giving me existential angst, not to mention heebie-jeebies. The amber glow of Jack Daniels in the soft studio lights began to look like some sort of salvation. I unscrewed the black cap and, while ‘married talk’ ensued, I sipped with Jack in silent communion. Unknowingly, a couple of the elements for a perfect storm were already in place.

Ten minutes into filming, Jack started whispering things in my ear like, “Bill, how about you talk about sex and masturbation like an adult?” So, sure enough, when the cameras wheeled towards me I started slurring about threesomes and sex with strangers in hotel rooms, trying my best to play the role of the carefree cocksman. It didn’t feel like me, per se, but my avatar in this faux-reality world was 24, whimsical, and bulletproof.

Destiny for disaster kicked up several nautical knots when the cameras suddenly honed in on an older, subdued African-American comic who began to talk about his family. In a very beaten and laconic voice, the man went into detail about his problems, saying that his son was allergic to 70 different things or foods or substances.

“That’s weird, I didn’t know your son was Jewish,” I said, as Jack laughed hysterically.

For a brief nanosecond in that darkened room, propriety held the collective breath of the cast and crew. In that moment of suspended animation, if I were observant and sober, I may have been prescient enough to see the gale in the corner across from me turning into one tropical motherfucker.

“Look, I don’t know you,” the older black man murmered under his fedora, the hint of a shadow flitting across his weathered features.

Suddenly, the funny fat Fred Flintstone comic in the room let out a guffaw. Suspense was broken, everybody laughed and slapped the leather rim around the green felt, and large white veneered-teeth slowly parted the older black man’s lips into a dubious grin. If the fifth of Jack hadn’t been so tantalizingly near my left elbow beckoning for a refill, I might have noticed that his eyes remained cold, even in the frame of his crooked smile.

Whatever, we were busting balls! Old buddies at a card table, right?

Another man started talking about his daughter maturing faster than his son, and how their nipples are different now that she’s beginning to hit puberty.

“Oh yeah, I totally noticed that!” I yelled out, as I saluted my rocks glass of Jack to nothing. Silence. Then laughter. Perfect. I was on fire.

The conversation danced around the table for another 40 minutes. TiVo came up, Monday Night Football, wives double-knotting their sweats before bed, and of course, birthday parties at Chuck E. Cheese.

“Speaking of Chuck E. Cheese, do you ever get birthday anal from your wife? Is there such a thing?” I interjected.

A very mellow comic on my right with dreads and glasses responded dryly, “Look, after 10 years, you can’t ask to change the script like that, trust me.”

“And I guess if you’ve been married for 10 years to a wife that loves anal, you’ve got a whole other mess of issues, don’t you?” I was on my 5th drink. Hey, Mr. Daniels thought is was hilarious.

Unfortunately, the female director didn’t. She popped into the room and gave a ‘general note’ about the ‘tone’ of the conversation, perhaps targeted just a smidge at myself. She felt that things should be calmer and maybe a little more family-oriented. Well, I thought, I guess I can’t segue into my abortion jokes now.

With the new low-key directive, the older black man, who had been quiet for a while, finally found an opportunity to insert some of his dulcet tones into the equation. He bet into the small blind and began:

“The other day, I went to the Target to get a toy for my kid –”

“THE Target? What’s with the ‘The?’ You ARE Jewish, aren’t you? And from Long Island apparently,” I quipped, Whiskey Balls in full effect. “Let me guess, your kid is allergic to TOYS!”

The older comic looked at me sideways while the other comics roared (comics love a well-timed callback) and, within seconds, the dialogue was miles away from the older black man and his toy shopping at the Target. The older black man sighed and sat there impotently, his story nipped in the bud.

I looked at him and felt bad. Poor guy. In drunken grandiosity, I decided that I had to navigate this ADD-addled crew back to his story.

“Okay, back to the Target. So, you were buying a toy for your retarded kid…”

I took a sweet sip of my best friend and soul mate Jack and waited for another couple of laughs before the story began again.

“Oooooooffff…”

It was Fred Flintstone, expelling air from his lungs like he’d been punched.

The older black man looked down at his hands, both his wrinkled and laminated ones, and then turned his gaze slowly towards me.

“Like I said, you don’t know me,” he said coolly and softly.

I didn’t. I also didn’t know what to say, so I laughed a little to myself.

His mouth moved silently for a little bit. It was unclear if he was going to start the story again or continue the same train of thought.

I sipped my Jack and Coke. Yummy.

“You don’t know ME!” the man reiterated, this time standing up and taking a rocks glass in his hand.

“My son is DISABLED!!!” he yelled, his voice in some twilight vibrato between a cry and and a scream. Suddenly, he threw his rocks glass against the wall to his right, shattering it.

My body, as is often the case, was way ahead of (and more saavy than) my mouth. My hands went into the air like I was being held up, and I leaned away from him in my chair in a completely submissive position.

“I’m so sorry, I had no idea,” I said.

There are 5 comics in this room — all with kids — and of course, the one kid that I called ‘retarded,’ just so happened to be, you know… handicapped. Damn you, Jack!!!

“I should jump across the table and put my boot in your ass!” he bellowed, rising to his full angry black man height.

“Hey man, I’m sorry, I really didn’t know what I was saying,” I repeated. “It’s just –”

“I should beat your fucking ass!” He stretched across the table, trying to figure out the calculus of getting to me and perhaps lodging some sort of shoe up into my anus.

At that point, the executive producer came over and ushered me out of the room. As I left, I repeated the mantra, “I’m sorry, I had no idea….” over and over, over my shoulder to the apoplectic and trembling man.

CUT! I was pulled into another room as the older man gathered his belongings and left the set without a word.

I left shortly after, without fans on the project and CLEARLY, without a job anymore.

I shuffled dumbly back to my beat-up Honda in the late Burbank nip.

How did I do this again? I’m such a damn fool! I thought.

But Mr. Daniels had his own lucidity on what happened. He knuckled up and help coalesce my thoughts into a slightly stiffer resolve:

If I get fired because of THAT! Because of one word resulting from one small error in judgment… well, that’s just fucking re…

grettable.

This entry was posted on Friday, December 4th, 2009 at 2:12 pm and is filed under All blog entries. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.