Morris Crimpanfotis V is getting all worked up about the first pitch he’s going to make in over a year. He figures it’s just like riding a bicycle. Once you get the hang of it, you never forget. But if his pitches were anything like riding a bicycle, he’d be pretty much scraped and bloodied and the bicycle would have bent tire rims from him falling over so much. His sister Noreen is the gatekeeper for all the pitches, and she rules with an iron fist. Morris will not be denied, though. His secret weapon is the bar of soap his assistant, Verona Kendermants, just handed him. It is scented with garlic, peanut butter and, of course, patchouli oil. Taking a deep whiff transports Morris to another world, and his sister suddenly seems a lot less threatening.

Revving Up the Ol’ Pitch Engine

Nothing Like Patchouli Oil to Fire up the Creative Juices

A full moon radiates through the turgid, swirling veil of snow. It is late winter and spring is right around the corner, but you’d never guess it. I try to envision Burbank right now. It’s probably in the eighties and everyone is busy getting ready for one production or another. And did I mention it’s three hours earlier there? Three hours can really make a difference when you’re producing world-class content.

Visions of Burbank and bustling sets draw into focus my overriding purpose in life: to create television programming. This is my raison d’etre, and in order to make up for lost time I must pitch like a maniac. It’s the least I can do; it’s what is expected of me.

Like Smelling Salts for My Creative Juices

I hustle inside, dusting off snowflakes. I can’t get enough of this garlic-scented hand soap that Verona Kendermants just pulled from the commercial kitchen of the opera house. I jam the odoriferous package under my nose and take a deep whiff. This is like smelling salts for my creative juices. I can’t believe the euphoria that bursts upon me. It has been over a year since I made my last pitch to Noreen. I don’t even remember what it was; all that is about it change. Once again, it’s open season for pitches.

I drop the block of soap atop my cluttered desk and wrestle from my top coat. It’s been so long now; I try to remember how to pitch Noreen. She is the gatekeeper, the one I have to go through to get my pitches listened to and ultimately produced as viable TV shows. Straightening my tie, I formulate a game plan, strategizing the best way to pitch Noreen. As always, I have to make her feel as though she’s in the driver’s seat.

TV Concept Comes like a Bolt out of the Blue

The process goes like this: I come up with the concept for a TV show or movie. A lot of times it just hits me like a bolt out of the blue. I immediately pick up the phone and pitch Noreen. Ideally, I would take my time massaging all the nuances and ramifications of birthing a show, starting with a couple sentences on paper then expanding it to a one-sheet followed by a three-page treatment. But that’s a perfect world scenario, and we all know, we’re not living in a perfect world. So like I say, most of the time I get impatient and just pick up the phone.

I rely on spontaneity in my pitches which for me can be a real liability because people tell me I’m not all that swift on my feet. One big thing when pitching Princess No (and everyone needs to be mindful of this when pitching her): you always need to factor in the one-hour time difference–Central vs. East Coast–so you’re not bugging her during lunch. Sometimes I get her when she’s having her nails done.  No sweat, if it’s anything like the past, she’ll shoot me down no matter what the venue. It’s always the same old same old: nothing I pitch is ever good enough.

Still, it’s better than being on the West Coast, when you have the two-hour time difference that goes the other way.

Greenlighting It Because She Can

Of course, Noreen has already green-lighted one of her own shows: a group of convenience store clerks from the San Fernando Valley sit around commenting on celebrities who visited their establishments during the previous week.

There was a question about reenacting the interludes with celebrity stunt doubles and lookalikes. Then the decision was made to actually have the celebrities themselves reenact the interlude.

So far, in requests made to agents, PR firms and management companies, there have been no takers.

Go figure.

It has been a long winter, in more ways than one. For me, Morris Crimpanfortis V, my long winter started in the heaving vortex of terror that was the Burbank studio where my ill-timed infomercial misfired. You know . . . the one where contestants came clean with their brutal organic cleanse. On-camera of course. Don’t remind me, I should have cleared the product with the FDA first. Come to think of it, that should have included the EPA. So I spent the last 12-plus months in this woebegone specter of a once-thriving bastion of industry – until now. As I shovel my hundredth load of flakes this hour, I suddenly stop, pause . . . and realize that a whole new day is dawning.

A Snowy – Yet Earthshaking – Day in Coal Country

What Should I Do: Shovel Snow or Pitch Shows?

A day of celebration begins. Or should I say a whole new lifetime of celebrating?

I’m back! I’ve come roaring back and I’m untamable! Unstoppable! The pitch juices are flowing once again. Like hot saliva through a tiger’s fangs, I’m ready to jump back into the fray and not stop pitching until I have an entire network’s worth of shows.

The floodgates are wide open, and all the pent-up emotion and frustration building over the last year is suddenly released. I haven’t felt this way since strolling through the boiler room at the Burbank studios. All the shame I felt over the debacle of my last production suddenly vanishes. That’s all in the past, totally forgotten. The creative juices roar through me again. I am put on earth to create TV shows. And there’s no time like the present to jump back in the ballgame.

The light, airy snow flutters all around me. I joyfully shovel the powder into piles. I pretend that I’m shoveling “shows” not snow. I have so many shows to pitch I barely know where to start! Weird how the words “show” and “snow” are so similar, separated only by the letters “h” and “n.” Remove the “s” at the front of them and the words spell “how” and “now,” as in…”how now brown cow…”

Wow! Sometimes I impress even myself!

Beaver Knows Best

Instead of a cow, I’m staring at a gigantic beaver in the middle of town square. I see in its two prominent front teeth reflections of the pivotal letters being scrutinized: “h” and “n.” How are these letters tied together in words other than “snow” and “show?” “Shone” and “honey” are two that come to mind. Maybe the next show I pitch should contain elements of etymology and sentence structure. My host will be a prominent grammar coach, or an English prof, and contestants will go on word safaris to the bowels of literary hell. Prizes will be awarded to the most proficient and domineering etymological sleuth.

Show proposals spiral through my mind like dazzling snowflakes. Everything is swirling around so fast, I feel weak on my feet, I feel dizzy, like I’m going to pass out and make a clumsy snow angel right in the middle of town square. I dance with my snow shovel, waltzing through the springtime blizzard. I catch snowflakes on my tongue, reveling in my newfound optimism, my hope that springs eternally. I think of the talk show I want to produce, a, late-night entry that really explores the issues, a show that is as hard-hitting as it is provocative but most of all entertaining.

Are These People Jealous Enough to Kill Me?

I stop dancing and stare at the beaver. I brush snow off its bronzed back. I don’t know it at the time, but I have quite an audience. People watch curiously from the shops and storefronts lining the quaint town square. As well they should. This is a great day of awakening, and I won’t stop until Daddy’s network is filled with my shows, shows of every nature and description including sitcoms, primetime dramas, game shows, outdoors shows and children’s shows–and of course my talk show.

The Apparition of Verona Kendermants

Turning from the beaver to continue my celebration, I am suddenly distracted. Verona Kendermants appears at the front door in antiquated goggles, a worn rubber apron, thick latex gloves up to her elbows and a grateful smile. “Mr. Crimpanfortis,” she declares, “I think I’ve finally arrived at a hand soap that will take the market by storm: patchouli oil and garlic. You really need to try this.” She holds up a little rectangular block in a brown wrapper, tied off with a pretty green ribbon and a matching bow.