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From: James Waldby <j-waldby@pat7.com>
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Organization: SD
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Subject: FTSD: How to Write A Terrific FTSD Piece
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Date: Fri, 01 Dec 2000 06:56:24 GMT
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       How to Write A Terrific FTSD Piece

Yes, praise the Lord or whatever's up there, I'm now
a top-ranked t.b writing coach!  I'm thrilled I got
out of marketing and into training.  

Of course, no one can argue with the success of my
t.b pledge drive, with all those trained operators
standing by ready to give you your choice of pink- or
purple-painted anvils.  

And I never had a complaint, not one complaint ever,
about my t.b ghost writers service, even though as a
marketer I had to say stuff with lots of exclamation
marks, like "Are you dissatisfied with your lame
posts to t.b?  Now you can Ghosterize them!!!" which
you'd think *someone* would have complained about.

And of course for the t.b writers training course
("Now *you* can be the bully kicking sand in people's
smilies!!!") I got testimonials out the wazoo, like
"I was a newbie -- but now nobody can tell me from an
oldbie, and it's all because of this effin course!"

And the success of my t.b Connect-The-Dots Oldbie
Construction Kit ("Order your Oldbie kit now!  Just
like your gramma used to use!  You can be an instant
oldbie too!!!") was indisputable.

And I'm proud to report I helped shoot down the t.b
Connect-The-Dots Newbie Construction Kit ("Do you
suffer from the pain, suffering, and loneliness of
Oldbieness?  Order your Newbie kit now!  Just like
your niece and nephew use!") before it got inflicted
on a general and unsuspecting public.

                        ***

But anyway, like I say, I'm a top-ranked t.b writing
coach now.  Naturally the Hollywood studio heads get
gnarly for my services as t.b FTSD speeds rapidly
down the pipe toward them.

"James!" cries one.  "Help me write a saga that reeks
of majesty, that is redolent of Le Roi, that
polyphemoetherizes of reptoconglomomorphomectonianism,
that --"

"Arright arready!" I shout in disgust.  "II gott tthe
pixxur!  II knno wott yuu meen! -- Septt thatt lastt,
I'mm havving aa fitt getting myy little tenntaccles
rround thatt onn --"

Suddenly she takes an aggressive, ugly stance and
yells at me, "What part of
reptoconglomomorphomectonianism don't you understand?
Huh?  What part, you little troll?"

I back nervously away, fearful a lightning strike is
about to flash down from the blue and melt us both
into dead little crayons.  I know that would be good
drama and the Academy wants us both dead, but Hello!
This is me we're talking about here, and dead is not
my scene!

So I must suck up to her wishes a while.  "Look, mss
majjor studdio cheef," I quoth.  "Heers ann idee.
See, yuu yustt ... annd ... bzzbzz bzzbzz ..."  I go
on like that for a while, feeding Ms. Samantha
"Sucha" Nooby a little Raven's plot and she latches
on like a leech who's the guest of honor at a
Jamaican pool party. One thing you've got to give
these studio heads: When they hear a good idea, they
grab onto it so quick, so tight, it's just like
you've been hit between the eyes by a flying
anvilgram.  They love to piss things up themselves,

She begins to rock and buzz, and sputter and clank,
as her "creative" machinery cranks up.  I back
cautiously away, confident I've done my job.  My
check is in the mail, I'll get my cut from gross,
e. t. c., even if her t.b FTSD article falls flat as
a Chinese runway model's bum.

                     ***

As I speed away from Samantha's office and roar onto
the freeway, I muse briefly about my next client, The
Leg That.  One of those boy wonder film makers who
make a good film once, then climb steadily up the
heap on the strength of a good knife game.  Everyone
in Hollywood knows, if you want an idea sunk right,
just take it to Mr. That.

Before I step through the door to his Secretary's
Assistant's Helper's office, I carefully check my
appearance in a little pocket mirror I carry for just
that purpose.  In a Hollywood mogul's staff's
offices, it pays to be perfect. -- But not too.
Every hair in place -- but not all.  So they think
you've been working.  Or maybe they think you crawled
out from under a bridge down San Diego way.
Whatever, if you ain't perfect they can feed you up
the food chain with a clean conscience you won't
out-fashion anyone who matters.

Thus I make my way up through the ranks, through
successive layers of plush, velour, leather, and fur,
past faces that mysteriously grow younger as bodies
grow older, until suddenly there I am in Mr. That's
office, or more precisely, his Secretary's
Assistant's Helper's office.  For a while it happens
again again again.  First office ... second office
... third office ... first office ... second office
... third office ... It almost seems like I'm getting
nowhere.  So I get out my GPS, and after a few more
circuits and a bit of reckoning I figure it out: I'm
in a loop.

But what can I do?  Deciding to act like a mouse in a
maze, I hold my fingers up by my face, and wiggle
them like long mouse whiskers.  I go "Eek Eek!" at
every secretary, assistant, or helper who glances my
way.  They look at me disgustedly.  They've seen it
all before, of course.  But I get a few good bits of
cheese, and one "Big Roxy" even gives me her phone
number and pictures several times, but I discreetly
throw them away each time, so I won't have anything
like that on me when and if I meet with Mr. That.

And indeed, in Hollywood time it eventually happens.
I don't do anything different, my GPS still reads out
the same, but suddenly I'm kowtowing in Mr. That's
office.  "Yessssssirrr Mrr Thatt!" I say.

"Hey, just call me Leg," he says.  It's the start of
a beautiful writing relationship.  Truly great FTSD
ideas flowing like wine at a Wednesday morning
bachelorette party.  Well, even if they're all idea-
and content-free notions, everyone of them's worth
three weeks of Get-out-of-killfile-free certificates.

Then he sees me glance casually at my wrist.  He
scopes instantly I've got other clients waiting.  And
just as instantly I see his Be Selfish wheels
lurching into gear.  Suddenly there's a Goomba at my
every elbow, escorting me to a comfy cell where
Mr. Leg plans I should stay 'til FTSD is safely past.

                        ***

Well, yes, so I'm in stir a week or seven days.  But
no, Leg doesn't shut down my Broma-ku business.  He
lets me go on making and selling all those Guaranteed
Antique sayings I'm so famous for ... and I not only
pick up some pocket money, but put together a little
Infernal Machine and blast my way out.

But as I run blindly by her desk, Big Roxy snags me
by the neck.  "Hey, James, you never called me!  I
waited by my phone all week."

"Oww, mmy Darjeeling, yuu knno I'vv been inn stirr,
annd nnow I'vv gott loose, I'vv gott tto kattchupp
inn jigg tymme!"  I exclaim.

"Oh, The Leg does That to all his guests.  Just come
to Big Momma and see what I've got for you," says
Roxy.  I see, I come, she conquers.  Another week
speeds by in which we are inseparable, until we fall
back upon our pillows, exhausted, and Roxy says she
never wants to see me again, and I agree that would
be too soon for me.

Later I hear she writes a terrific tell-all for FTSD
and I better watch my back.

                        ***

I glance at my wrist and decide I've just got time
for two more studio calls before the dawn of the
fateful day.  Fatefully, I decide to head first for
Weenie Brothers.  When I get there, none of this
merry-go-round like at Leg's place.  They rocket me
out poolside and plop me into a lounge chair, front
and center in front of Sam Weenie.

"Where you been, son?" he snaps.  "We were looking
to have our stuff wrapped two weeks ago!"

I mention The Leg That and Big Roxy.  Tom looks at me
in a way both inquiring and knowing, as the poolside
wind ripples through the thatch of his dimestore
toupee on the table beside him, and his togalike swim
trunks.  He sips his trademark drink, tomato juice
perked up with a dash of FDA-certified-safe Pink Lady
food coloring.  Then he looks at me inquiringly
again.

"Aa gennttellmann nevver tells," I say.

"True, true ... so give with it, already."

"Noo," I say.  I tell him I'd sooner rip open the
underbelly of the universe like a potato chip sack at
a party with nothing but dips than tell him about
Roxy and me.  You can imagine how sententious I
sound when I say this, in spite of being sincere.

"But I bet there's a great piece in it!" he says.
"Think what I could do with this on FTSD!"

"There is, there certainly is," I ruminate out loud.
(I never misspell when I'm just thinking.)  Then I
tell Tom of Roxy's ready-to-rock tell-all.  To his
credit, he's undismayed.

"When you been in Hollywood long as I have," he says,
"you learn there's more than one way to cat a skin."

I have to agree, since suddenly he's got *two*
Goombas at my every arm, marching me into his writing
room.  They interrogate me and write down my every
word, correcting all my spelling errors, of course.
I'm afraid they're going to steal the story and print
it as their own, and keep me jigged up past the FTSD
deadline.  Sso yuu woon't heer fromm mee thiss yeer.

-jiw
----------------------
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