It’s been a while since I posted the last excerpt from Allan Weisbecker’s book, Can’t You Get Along With Anyone: A Writer’s Memoir and Tale of a Lost Surfer’s Paradise (we call it CYGAWA for the sake of brevity).  But I promised six parts, and you’re getting six parts, dammit.

If you didn’t catch the first five excerpts, they start here (also a good place for some background on what the hell I’m talking about right now, in case you were confused). Included at the end of today’s excerpt, Allan has graciously begun offering CYGAWA in its entirety as a free e-book.  As Allan likes me to point out, out of 126 reader reviews, the book got 115 five-star ratings.  (I don’t mind pointing it out, because one of those five-star reviews was mine).

You call this a movie script? Give me a couple $5,000-a-week writers and I’ll write it myself.  -Joseph Pasternak, movie producer

Anyway, here it is, enjoy.

The day Lisa and I ran into Barry at the super in Golfito, I picked up an
International DHL package at the puddle jumper office, which is just down
the way from the super. The package contained the new In Search of Captain
Zero screenplay, the result of the studio/producer having hired another
screenwriter, the cost of whose labors was shared by Quiksilver, the mega-
buckola surf-wear company that was now pitching in with the tossing of
more money into the Zero movie-deal fire.

But a good question: Why would the studio/producers et al send me the
new screenplay, given my persona non grata status (to say the least) with
them (and Hollywood in general) and indeed with Sean Penn (the other
contractual producer), whose brain was no doubt still squirming with
fervent wishes for “something that resembles death” to befall my sorry
ass? (But holy shit Sean would have been pleased to know how my real life
was going!)

The answer to this good question resides in timing. As any standup
comedian worth his salt will tell you, with jokes, with comedy/humor/
whatever, timing is everything: the efficacy of a punch line, i.e., whether
you laugh or heckle the sap on stage, is determined by the timing with
which it’s delivered.

So in a sense, the for me sense, the punch line to the joke that was the
Zero movie deal was at hand, and the timing was good for both my real life
and our purposes here.* See, the end of the last contractual option period
was fast approaching (February 18, 2005), which meant that come that date
the studio/producers would not have the option of a re-option unless I
chose to give it to them via an addendum to our contract. If I refused the
addendum, in order to retain the rights to my book they’d have to buy
it outright, the remainder of the purchase price (after the option money
already paid) being 140 grand. Some fairly serious money, certainly from
my point of view.

Before I press on with further ridiculousness: I hope you’ll let me off the
greedy shitball motherfucker hook when I say that I just wanted to get as
much money as possible out of this fiasco, the whole 140 grand being my
goal. Although I coveted the money itself, at this point I also needed some
sort of a victory in my life. I hope you understand.

In describing my Zero deal legal position as February 2005 rolled around,
the phrase in the catbird seat comes to mind, although I had to play this
exactly right. Evidence of my catbird position is that in about mid January
I started hearing from the producer, chit-chatty calls and emails, affable
in the extreme, as if all had gone fine and dandy between us in this fiasco.
In her transparent attempts at bullshitting me into giving them the option
addendum she assured me that I would love the new screenplay, since it
stuck so close to my book – she had evidently forgotten my various voicings
of the catch-22 that there is no movie in my book.

But the point being that when, out of the usual sort of curiosity, I asked
to read the new screenplay, the producer couldn’t very well refuse me since
she was desperate to butter me up into giving them the option addendum.

So the screenplay arrives on the day Lisa and I run into Barry at the
super in Golfito and there is even more timing and symmetry in this,
which should make you suspicious that I’m diddling with facts, i.e., making
up some stuff: You’ll just have to trust me on this matter since although I
have a witness to the following scene in Lisa, it’s becoming increasingly
difficult to picture her backing me up in any assertions I might make in
this narrative. The added timing and symmetry: While Lisa was at a muni
office taking care of paperwork, with me waiting in the car, the producer
called my cell for more bullshitting and to see if I got the new screenplay
they’d DHL-ed. Lisa returned to the car sometime during the following:

Yep, I said to the producer, the screenplay is right here on my lap. I hadn’t
opened the package yet, figuring to stretch out on the living room couch at
home, open it then, get the effect of its contents in one fell blast, so to speak
– hence it would be better if I was lying down at the time. I mean I knew
what would be in there, more or less. As the producer started in on how
much the other writer loved and respected my book, plus me as a writer,
I was inspired to open the package, figuring to take a glance at a random
page as sort of a goofball accompaniment to the producer’s ramblings. I
didn’t get any further than the title page. There were two mistakes on it;
three, actually. Again: On the title page.

The writer, as part of his respect for me, had misspelled my last name in
crediting me as the author of… “the novel” blah blah and so forth. Novel?
My book of course is not a novel, which means fiction (right: made up); it’s a
memoir, nonfiction (right: whatever that means), a point that’s pretty hard to
miss if you’re paying any attention whatsoever while reading it. So that’s
two mistakes. The third one is that in film credits the convention is you
use the phrase “From the Book by”; you don’t use “Novel” or “Memoir” or
“Complete Crock of Shit” (I’m thinking of James Frey’s book, should the
movie deal I’ve heard about come to fruition) or whatever, in any case.

After my laughter subsided I pointed out all this to the producer (minus
the James Frey aspect, since his book hadn’t yet been exposed as a complete
crock of shit), adding that three fuck-ups on the title page is not a good
sign right out of the gate. I was able to laugh at the ridiculousness of this
because I had not yet run into Barry at the super. That fucked-up turn of
events would happen in a few minutes. So my mood had not yet gone to
dark and borderline murderous.

As it turned out, it took a while to get through the new Zero screenplay,
my being busy with border trips to arrange for the rearrangement of the
love of my life’s countenance and passing out while waiting for Hector’s
understudy; then the planning of my O.K. Corral extravaganza, plus the
matter of the coming squatter invasion, plus being the eyes and ears of The
Waterman Who Would Be King, plus keeping track of Logan and Ron’s
rumored deal-making, which maybe had to do with my assassination –
by Hector’s understudy for still more symmetry? Regarding this matter,
I was still vacillating between not thinking about being assassinated and
not caring if I was assassinated if I did happen to think about it; that fine
distinction.

Right: Plus getting through the day.

Still another Meanwhile: My sex drive slid way over to the left-hand end
of that spectrum after the Barry scene at the super. As sick a puppy as I
was regarding sex with Lisa, I wasn’t sick enough of a puppy to get past the
ex-pro V-ball-player’s dick images that would surface regarding what had
transpired on my bed. The sporadic sex Lisa and I did have would usually
be of this sort: It’s the dark of night and we’re in bed and I’m trying to mind
my own business (meaning not conjuring specific ex-pro V-ball-player dick
images), and suddenly Lisa is down there under the sheet rooting around
and pretty soon locates my sorry-ass dick and with the expertise gleaned
from her vast experience – and my dick having a mind of his goddamn
own – she eventually gets the desired response and is grinding away
on top, with me trying to get to the profound sense of fatigue and loss
of essence as quickly as possible, which I do. Lisa immediately slides off
saying, “Gotcha!” in obvious satisfaction, not of the sexual sort, but that
she’s been successful in causing me the loss of some of my essence.

I suspect that whatever fantasies I may have had during these trysts
were of shootouts at O.K. Corral extravaganzas and, possibly, Doomsday
Machines. Memory fails. (Yes, we’d come a ways since Lisa’s “otherworldly”
claim days, or, for that matter, me as a Sex God not wanting to think about
mastodons after going boom. Or, for that matter, my assertion that with
Lisa, this is it.)

During all of the above I exchanged calls on the coming Zero deadline with
Steven, my treacherous, big-mouth attorney, whom I had still not fired. In
fact, given all of the above (with some and-so-forths thrown in), I had nixed
altogether the idea of firing him. Through the process of elimination I was
starting to view Steven as my best buddy.

Steven’s plan was to try to extort (not the word he used) another 10k
or so out of the studio/producers for an option extension addendum. He
doubted that they’d cough up the whole 140. This after the studio called and
suggested, as they had exactly one year previously, that I extend the option
for free. I’ll not subject you to my reaction to this one. (A minor bright note/
bulletin from Steven: the executive who had written the memo extolling
the director’s outline as “soulful” and possessing “all the elements” had
been canned. I had spoken to his replacement, however. Predictably, there
was a shortage of wattage in getting his bulb to glow.)

Hold on. I forgot to mention my view of the new screenplay. How to
best accomplish this in the fewest words? Try this: The title page was the
screenplay’s strongest element, for the humor in it, if unintentional. The
worst screenplay in the history of the world assessment again comes to mind,
meaning that the extant screen adaptations of my two books – not counting
my own – were in a dead heat for the honor.**

In scheming how to best extort as much money as possible from this
fiasco, I quizzed the producer regarding who, outside her little circle of
idiots (not my exact words), had read the new screenplay. This was a vital
question. No one, she said, to my relief. The new screenplay “needed a
polish” before dissemination, she added, which the other writer was
currently working on.

It needed a polish? To return to a Titanic allusion, this was like claiming
that the ship, if raised, would only need some fresh paint before its next try
at a trans-Atlantic crossing.

The producer went on to inform me that after the polish they were going
to send the new screenplay to a slew of Hollywood mega-folks, including
Brad Pitt, with the notion of a Pitt/Penn match up. Hey, maybe there would
be conflict between the two stars in deciding who plays my old buddy,
Captain Zero (who, perhaps fittingly, had lost his mind) and who plays me
(ditto, come to think of it).

Speaking of minds (and having lost them), mine wandered to a possible
Variety headline:

Pitt Plus Penn Pugilize Pursuing Pal Pic Part!

Thing was, given her agenda (wheedling a cheap option addendum),
the producer could not have done a dumber-ass thing than issue the Brad
Pitt bulletin. In fact, the bulletin may have cost the whole gang of them
$140,000. See, when I combined the Brad Pitt fantasy with the concept that
no one outside her little circle of idiots had yet read the new screenplay, I
realized that if I stuck fast and demanded the whole 140k, they’d give it to
me. This is what I mean by the timing being perfect for my greed-driven
purposes: As soon as Pitt’s people or any people read the new screenplay
and responded with something along the lines of “Whaddare ya, nuts?” a
dose of reality might actually set in, making the coughing up of another
140k less likely.

By the way, assuming there’s some bizarro alternative universe out there
where this movie actually gets made, my preference in who will play me
leans toward Pitt, since Penn, given his sentiments toward my sorry ass,
would likely go into the tank. Meaning in his playing me.

But the final upshot: I told Steven to put on his lawyer game face, tell
the fuckers that no addendum was in the offing and to put up or shut up,
and by God they did. On February 19th, 2005, a check for $140,000 arrived
at my accountant’s office in North Carolina, to augment the $200,000 they’d
already paid me for my once-brilliant adaptation, plus options.***

Aside from my dizzy spells and double vision and agoraphobia and the
all of the above distractions in my life, and given that my mental state was a
sandwich or two short of a picnic, that I was able to rally and outthink some
of Hollywood’s finest minds, including that of Steven, my treacherous, big
mouth attorney, was pretty impressive, no?

But I wasn’t yet finished with Hollywood in terms of greed-driven
extortion; I was out of my mind and rolling now on a bunch of levels, aside
from the O.K. Corral extravaganza one. By way of explanation, a question:
What about my deal to write the adaptation of my other book, Cosmic
Banditos? It was now February, 2005, some six months after my meetings
with John Cusack’s people at New Crime Productions (plus my brink
hovering at the Stanford particle accelerator). Shouldn’t I have long ago
finished the adaptation and shouldn’t the movie itself currently be playing
in a theater near you?

What’s up with that deal?

If you’ll remember, on my stateside trip six months previously I’d pitched
my various bizarre thoughts on how to reinvent Banditos for the screen and
had been given the okay by Cusack’s people at New Crime. The plan was that
I’d put that stuff in writing in the form of a preliminary outline. I somehow
did so (no mean feat considering… right, all of the above) and emailed it to
them in mid-September. Contractually and decorum-wise, they should
have gotten back to me with notes within a couple of weeks, plus a go-
ahead to start the screenplay itself. Guess what? Now, in February – again,
six months, half a year later – I had not yet heard from them. Not a word.

If you’re thinking I must have gotten cranky at this added example of
Hollywood nonsense – think again. The last thing I needed during this
period was a go-ahead to write a goofball comedy about The Meaning
of Life. Without a recap of events since the previous summer/fall, which
might raise the final page count here into four figures, let’s just say that
my mood was not exactly conducive to comedic thinking. Imagine going
through election night with Clay then rising and shining all amped to
write howler scene sequences and dialog about The Meaning of Life. Ditto
with visions of strangling Doc Bruce and Lisa’s Linda Blair act (while my
sabotaged cell phone buzzed and blinked in my pocket) dancing in my
head. Enough said, drift-wise.

So, that the folks at New Crime had somehow just flat forgot about their
deal with my sorry ass – aside from being ridiculous – was a gift from
the gods, narrative and otherwise. But now, in February of 2005, with
my mood edging ever to the right-hand end of the demented spectrum,
and with my Zero deal victory still fresh, I had Steven call New Crime to
demand payment for the Banditos first draft screenplay that not only had I
not written, but had been – and continued to be – incapable of writing.

A ballsy move, no? And New Crime coughed it up – another $50,000 or so
going into my coffers – along with an apology for their tardiness. Even then,
and certainly reviewing my behavior now as I write, my move, though legal,
seems questionable. I mean, as I say, I liked the people at New Crime. (Plus,
as you’ll see, Cusack and New Crime subsequently did me a favor without
which this book might not even exist.)

What can I say, except that I was not in the mood to cut anyone any slack.

Not only all this, fiscally, but I’d just sold two parcels of Pavones land Lisa
and I had invested in, to the tune of another couple hundred grand. You’d
think being financially flush would raise my spirits at least a smidgeon,
no?

No. Or, rather, only indirectly. One day, as a way of getting through the
day, I commenced work on a list of…  no, not of women I’ve had sex with –
that one was frozen-stuck at 119, the figure having gone up by one due to a
change of heart about the alpha whore who semi-raped me, who was now
included in the total**** – but shitball motherfuckers who, with all my money,
I could have professionally assassinated. My thought was that I’d hunt up
Hector’s understudy and make a lollapalooza of a package deal with him
– assuming he didn’t assassinate me first via a deal with Logan/Ron.

Even limiting the list to people who’d annoyed me just since 2000, the
turn of the millennium, I soon realized that Hector’s understudy would
probably have to do some farming out. Plus, with how long he’d be on my
payroll, he’d probably hit me up for a dental plan.

To include my list here would be ridiculous, in terms of clarity and
brevity (especially), as well as rhythm and pizzazz. I will say that I left out
heads of state and corporate CEOs, figuring they would be above Hector’s
understudy’s proficiency level – Bob Woodward was the closest to these
types who made the final hit list. (Oprah would have been on it had I
known at the time that she was going to stand behind the essential truth
of James Frey’s book.)† Still, the fucking thing was endless. Even after I
crossed out all the Hollywood shitball motherfuckers (figuring that they
were too dumb-ass to be held morally responsible for their behavior), it
occurred to me that it would take a fortune more along the lines of Bill
Gates’s to get it all done, even considering Hector’s understudy’s already
low per-hit going rate, without any package discount I might negotiate.

I exaggerate only slightly.

But I did blow off a little steam with my list, which was a positive.

So now February rolled into early March, and Barry continued to make
himself scarce. (All this shit transpired in under two weeks: Busy, busy,
no?) The one time he was home alone, a weekend with his workers off,
Lisa was off somewhere, doing whatever fucked-up thing she was doing.
And another time when it looked like conditions were perfect and, armed
to the teeth, I stumbled in Barry’s direction (I was having a dizzy, double-
visioned day), a carload of his gringo friends arrived before I reached his
property line.

But I persevered. I kept my Browning 12 and S & W .38 well-oiled and
within easy reach, Lisa figuring this was related to the coming squatter
invasion. I’d occasionally take the Browning 12 out and fire a round into
the ground. It had misfired on me once, so I was worried. It’s hard to think
of a greater humiliation than a shotgun misfire while you’re trying to blow
a hole in the house of a shitball motherfucker who fucked the love of your
life in your own bed. There’s some depressing symbolism in that sort of
turn of events, if you get my Freudian drift.

So as February became March my O.K. Corral extravaganza waited to
happen. Waited until Something Happened Next, a lightning bolt that
would change everything.
* I say for me because given that the deal started in July, 2001 and was still going nowhere at
high velocity in February of 2005 (and continues its voyage to oblivion a year later as I write),
its eventual fruition (a movie getting made) or abandonment (the cessation of money being
thrown into the fire) seems unlikely to occur any time before the universe finally decides
whether to keep expanding forever or start its contraction back to what physicists call the Big
Crunch. Point being: It’s unlikely I’ll be around for either of these events.

** Believe it or not, the new screenplay was written from the director’s dumb-ass outline. When,
on the phone, I voiced to the producer my concerns (that euphemism) about the screenplay, I
referred directly to my response to the dumb-ass outline, which had caused the shit storm way
back when and which had made them all look foolish publicly. Although I omitted the sarcasm,
dulled the edge of my rapier wit, my critique was pretty much verbatim. This was somehow all
new to her. At the end of the call she thanked me profusely for my insights, saying that I could
“give a seminar on screenwriting.” Truly, there is no way I could make up this shit.

***The next day, February 20, 2005, I heard that Hunter S. Thompson blew his brains out at his
home in Colorado. But Christ! Please! Can’t I even have a small victory, i.e., extort six figures
from Hollywood, without another whiz-bang zinger of a terminal loneliness trigger to offset
it?

~ My reasoning: Although money was involved in the semi-rape, I’d already paid her when the
semi-rape was cwhat I mean?

****That Oprah later tore Frey a new asshole only pissed me off further, since she was obviously
reacting to the media’s contempt that she hadn’t done that in the first place.

<Vince speaking again> AS PROMISED HERE’S CYGAWA IN ITS ENTIRETY

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PART 1
PART 2
PART 3
PART 4
AUTHOR’S NOTE
INTERVIEW