Stardate 28 November 2005.

I should have done this on Friday and I’m sure all three of you who read this are waiting with baited breath for my blog so sorry for the delay. In between downloading porn and jerking off you now again have something good to read.

I had some personal problems I had to deal with. No, not gonna tell you thus the reason I use the word “Personal.” Get a clue, will ya.

It’s that time of the year again that the studios send me DVD’s of their movies and presents and fruit baskets to get me to vote for their movie come Oscar time. Well, I’m not a member of the Oscar’s, but they want me to spread the word how fucking great their movies are. They need to bribe me better. Especially this year. I don’t think seven hookers and an eight ball would get me to spread good cheer about their shit ass movies.

Last year was shit too until the last six weeks and then they came out with a bunch of good and some great movies.

Why the fuck do they always do it? You spend all year watching crap -- and then the last six weeks they bring out the good shit.

Except this year. So much shit.

And the sad thing is, two movies I thought were really good and should get nominated never will, because they are out and out comedies. Fucking Oscar voters. Comedy is the hardest thing to write, act, direct... But noooooooo. If we laugh too much, it’s not deep enough to be an Oscar winner.

Fuck you!

And the whole thing about actors who have afflictions getting Oscars? Not for nothing, but that’s the easy shit. Sure, Leo was great in Gilbert Grape-- but Johnny D had the much harder part and pulled it off like a master. There’s someone I’d love to sign to my stable. Man’s built a great career-- so I guess he doesn’t need me since he’s done just fine without me.

Fuck that! You really believe I meant that shit? Fuck no! They ALL need me. If I didn’t think that, I should tuck my tail between my legs and head home. No matter how good someone’s career is going-- I can make it better. And their lives. That’s because I just don’t manage a career, I manage a person. Well, when I like you that’s how it is. Sure, I’ve got some asshole clients I keep on the call sheet because they work or they will get work-- but those guys I don’t put my heart into because I know no matter how successful they are, they’ll always be hacks. They could be making twenty million a year -- still hacks. Carbon copies of someone else who the main fucking stream likes because they’re vanilla. Mediocrity celebrating mediocrity.

Stanley Kubrick once said to me when I was a young turk in the business, “It takes genius to discover genius.” Didn’t know what he meant until I started getting in the face of studio chiefs trying to convince them to make a movie instead of the same old crap they were making.

I then realized that people are afraid to go outside their comfort zone. And 90% of the world has settled for mediocrity so they champion that (Birds of a feather). Anything else frightens them. Bernie Brillstien, a legend when it comes to managers in this town, once said “Anytime anything good gets on TV, someone fucked up somewhere.” Meaning, it’s rare when that happens.

He was 110% right. But you can add movies, music, art, even bus driving. Yeah, a bus drive can be an artist if he does it with flair. More of an artist than most of the hacks that call themselves artist.

But when I have someone I think can leap beyond the genre, like Michael Jordan did in basketball, or Frank D does with his writing-- then I manage their life. And no one is going to do a better job at it than me. Because I want to see them raise the bar. Because in this town, the bar is sooooooooooo fucking low.

I just got a script from the hot writer in town. They want one of my clients to play the lead guy. It’s a romantic comedy. Check that. It’s a romantic, supposed to be comedy. I laughed once, chuckled once, that’s it. And the story?! Fuck me!!!! Stupid as fuck, seen it before done a lot better-- did I mention stupid as fuck. And the writing? Fuck me! I could fart a better script.

One of the many reasons I live in Venice is to get away from shit like that. To see that people can go beyond what most think is “The status quo.” Venice Beach, the whole thing, was conceived by an artist. A guy named Abbot Kinney. He built this whole place. He thought it should have a cool, open, artistic feel to it. He built the canals, and all of it. At one time, this place had tons of amusement parks and rides and games. Abbot raised the fucking bar. It was a colony. Then it went to shit. But then another group of artist saw gold in the shit. And they raised the bar by creating a new wave of skateboarding that the world had never seen. It was so real, so pure and raw, that the beauty was extraordinary. Yeah, that’s one of the reason I live in Venice. So I remember that there is gold in shit. And that those who can see beyond they ordinary, create a better world.

Do you smell that? That’s right-- smells like pussy.

So I'm so SOOH. (Sid Out Of Here.)

See you next time, suckers.

Side Blog: Stardate 10 November 2005

Sid here. Bet you wish I was there. If you had half a fuckin’ brain you’d wish I was there, at your side, in your corner, got your back because I’m a career maker and I’d make your career.

Okay, I know you already know that so why should I tell you again?

BECAUSE PEOPLE DON’T LISTEN!!!

That’s what I dealt with today. I told the studio I could get Danny out of another project and onto their movie to do a production re-write for a mid six figures. (The other project Danny is working on is that fuckin’ radio station job he has for 9 bucks an hour. He’d make more money jerking off at a sperm bank-- have more fun too). Anyway, I totally got the studio going. Those shmucks go from “We don’t know if Danny is right for this assignment” to “What do you mean we can’t have him, we have to have him, he’s the only guy right for this assignment!” God, these people are so easy to manipulate. Just turn their fear against them. Works every time.

So yeah, I just made Danny a man with money. He can buy a new car, move to a better place, get his shit together. I’d like to say he could buy a house, but in LA, if you want to buy a $90,000 dollar house, you need to spend a million eight. The deals rich, but not that rich. After deal three, he can buy the house. Anyway, he’ll finally have money in his pocket, in the bank, and in places that will keep his hottie with him for a while longer.

But what does ol’ Dano do?

HE DOESN’T FUCKING LISTEN!!!

I don’t call him with the good news, I go down to his shit ass radio station where he works in a dark room that smells like beer, puke, pussy and cum so I can tell him face-to-face, because I feel good news, (as well as bad), should be handled like that. Not over a phone, not in a text, not in an Email. Needs to be personal. Unless I’m breaking up with some hoe, then a text or e-mail is the only way to go. Who needs all that crying and screaming and name calling? “Fuck you, Sid, you’re an asshole and you have a little dick. BEAT. Please don’t leave me, Sid! Pleaseeeeee!”

Why do they always say that to guys. All the guys I know, that’s what the woman says when a guy pisses them off and breaks up with them. Except my black friends. No, I take it back, Jimmy was told by his girlfriend he had a little dick when he broke up with her. So either that’s what women say to men all the time, or I hang with a bunch of guys who aren’t hung.

Where the fuck was I? Oh, in the shit-hole that Dan calls work. So I tell him that I got him this gig. Big smile on his face. Then he asks what the story is about. Big smile on his face. Then he says, “Who’s the producer?” That’s when his smile disappears. Fucker says he won’t work with him because he gives money to fight stem cell research and he’s against same sex marriage. I’m like, “Are you fucking kidding me?! So what?! You think his lousy investment in those things make’s a difference?!” Dan comes back with, “A pebble in the ocean can cause a ripple that becomes a tidal wave.”

First of all, don’t get all Eastern Philosophy on me, motherfucker. I’m the one who taught him that shit. I’m the one who gave him the books. I’m the one who introduced him to the Dali Fuckin’ Lama....so obviously, I’m the one who’s to blame for him not taking the gig!

No, I am not to blame. This has nothing to do with Zen, this has to do with Green. And he needs the Green and he needs people in the business to see his work. What he doesn’t need to do is spit in the face of someone who just busted his fucking nuts to get him a gig.

I was so pissed, I actually grabbed that fucker by the neck and Bobby Knighted him against the wall. Scared the piss out of him because he saw the East Coast temper in my eyes and he knows some things about my past. I’ll leave that at that.

I let the fucker go, and just shook my head and left.

I was about to get into my car, the one that you might remember was BASHED IN BY THAT CRAZY FUCKING PYHSCO HOE CUNT BITCH, when Danny comes running out. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Don’t be mad at me, Sid” So I say, “Ok, fine, does this mean you’re gonna take the gig?” He says; “No.” I just starred at him, blankly. He says, “I’m just sorry that you worked so hard on it and I’m not taking the gig. I feel bad for you.”

I had no choice but to burst out laughing. What the fuck could I say. He actually felt bad for me -- not for himself for being a shmuck who’s broker than hell and just lost out on a shit load of money. Sure, I would have liked the commission. No matter how much money you have, whether it’s millions or billions, you want more. Human nature, I guess. But I was more upset about the great job I had done maneuvering those shmucks to get him into the number one spot, only to have Mr. Number One Spot shoot it down.

I’m like, “Fine, Dano, fine. I’ll speak to you later. Tell that hottie of yours I said hello. If she’s still sticking around and sucking your lame ass cock, that is.” Then I get into my car, THE ONE THAT GOT BASHED IN BY THAT CRAZY FUCKING PYSCO HO CUNT BITCH, and what does Dano say; “Sid-- think you can spot me a hundred dollars? I’m short on this months rent.”

What the fuck?! I mean, what the fuck?!!!

I got out of my car, SLAMMED the door shut and moved toward him. I think he thought I was going to punch him in the face. But I took out a hundred dollar bill and gave it to him. Stubborn prick won’t take a job because of someone’s political beliefs and he can’t even afford rent. I thought about not giving it to him, teaching him a lesson-- tough love and all that. But then I didn’t want to see my client out on the street, sucking cock for a place to stay, so like I said gave him a hundred.

But what I didn’t tell you is, before I did, right in front of him so he could see, I took the hundred dollar bill, shoved it down the front of my pants and rubbed it on my balls. Then I gave it to him.

I had to have some fun considering he killed my buzz.