This is the week of the network upfronts, or as one particularly funny (and pretty) Los Angelina referred to them, “the upcunts,” which actually made the whole thing sound a lot more sexual, and as a result—HOT. All the “industry-types” hailing from the land of Juicy Couture sweat suits, bringing with them the worldliness of Cameron Diaz, have converged on our less-endowed coast to break the big news. They’ve left their highways and their colorists to reveal, wait for it . . . wait for it . . . WHAT WE’LL BE WATCHING ON TV COME THIS FALL.
NBC, ABC, CBS, FOX, the WB . . . are you ready for their jelly? ABC, riding high on its wave of unhappy skinny white bitches, is adding one more to its roster—Commander in Chief, a show about (gasp!) a female president in the White House. The cohones on those network executives! Can you believe it? TV is like, so far-fetched. A woman in the white house? Puh-leaze! It’s not like India or the Brits have done that already!
CBS is adding more great shows to their already O.O.C (out of control) roster, which includes Two and a Half Men, starring Charlie Sheen. Which, incidentally, is exactly the number of men it would take to satisfy all the women Mr. Sheen thinks about boning every day. But that’s not all: the WB is doing its part by getting down on its knees (something Sheen would never do) to satisfy the American South by keeping Blue Collar TV alive and bucking.
And it’s only Wednesday! What other gems will be revealed come the Sabbath?
Despite all my bitter sarcasm (largely due to the probability of me writing for a network television show being, umm . . . zero), I have actually rather enjoyed the Upfronts. Every event I have attended to celebrate the glory of American network television has kept the Red Bull a-flowing and the vodka a-pouring. And if that’s not what dreams are made of, I’m stumped.
As the networks gaze longingly at tomorrow, wondering what their fates will be, if they will strike gold, and triumph with the next Ray Romano or Terri Hatcher, I look towards my own future with a similar apprehension.
Am I on track to triumph with Seinfeldian panache, or will my 20s be relegated to Living With Fran? Or worse, will they become an episode of Gray’s Anatomy? (Lacking, in other words, the excitement, the writing and the Mekhi Phifer of ER?)
Sunday night, I attended a hot-to-trot L.A. bash, filled with celebrities and those that hawk them alike. The crowd swayed with excitement. They greeted one another with warmth reserved for Bush and members of the Saudi royal family. (With the sincerity and integrity of a Newsweek reporter.) They danced about in their glittering rhinestone-studded tunics, their blond manes swinging back and forth under flashing lights. The midget stars, or “talent” as they are so often referred to, pushed through the throngs of managers and agents to perch atop banquettes, looking down at their disciples, grinning those Crest White Strip grins, and thinking, “damn it feels good to be a gangsta.” And that was just Wilmer Valderrama—he’s not even that big of a star.
In that moment, I was hit with an epiphany. I finally understood where the wild things are. I knew what dreams were really made of—not Red Bull and vodka—but television. And I knew, I knew in that millisecond, that my destiny was wholly and undoubtedly to be a gangsta.
L.A., here I come.