EXT. BACKYARD, COLONIAL HOUSE — NIGHT

Emily and her friends quaff margaritas, in high spirits. Emily’s on her laptop, searching for something…

BECKY: You have any idea how dorky we are right now? We are literally Googling the Greek alphabet.
EMILY: Ooh, I like pi.
BECKY: Pi’s good.
MIA: Eh, too many carbs.
DOTTIE: You know it’s not food, right? It stands for 3.14-
BECKY: Dude, don’t harsh the buzz.
EMILY: Um, okay, definitely not mu.
BECKY: I think we can all agree on that.
EMILY: Beta.
MIA: Eww, like Betamax? Swipe left.
DOTTIE: Kinda appropriate, though. Just saying.
EMILY: Alpha?… Alpha’s not bad.
BECKY: Too guyish. (burps loudly) Alpha male, alpha dog…
MIA: I’ll swipe right on pi, but we need something cool to balance it out.
EMILY: Delta?
MIA: Ugh, like the airline? Hell, no!
DOTTIE: Well, actually, it means… (off Becky’s glare) Screw you guys.
EMILY: Omega?
MIA: Yes! Boom!
DOTTIE: How is that a boom?
MIA: Uh, Omega-3’s. Duh.
EMILY: I don’t really know what that is.
MIA: No one does! Who cares? It’s healthy.
EMILY: Hmm, ‘Pi Omega.’
BECKY: That’s not terrible, actually.
DOTTIE: Pecan pie and fish oil.
MIA: Sort of a ying yang kinda thing.
DOTTIE: Did you say ‘ying?’
EMILY: Ooh, I gotta call Linds.
BECKY: Uh, you might wanna wait on that.

Too late. Thrilled and tipsy, Emily calls Lindsay…

EMILY: Oh- hey! You answered. Guess what? We’re starting a sorority!
LINDSAY V.O.: You’re… what?
EMILY: I texted you I was going back to school.
LINDSAY V.O.: Weird but understandable.
EMILY: Well, it’s a long story- I’ll tell you later- but… Becks and the girls, we’re gonna start a sorority. Isn’t that awesome?!
LINDSAY V.O.: Not the word that comes to mind.
EMILY: Hey, so, whaddya think would be a cool name? We’re thinking Pi Omega.
LINDSAY V.O.: Hmmm… how do you say ‘mid-life crisis’ in Greek? I’d go with that.

Just like that, Emily’s exuberance vanishes. Poof. Becky grumbles, wishing she hadn’t made the freaking call.

The screenplay TIMELY presents a compelling narrative that intertwines themes of mortality, redemption, and the complexities of human relationships. The character arcs, particularly that of Brad Eckhart, are well-developed, showcasing a journey from superficiality to a deeper understanding of life and love. The screenplay effectively balances humor and drama. Overall, it is a strong piece that resonates with audiences seeking both entertainment and emotional depth.

The writer’s voice is a blend of gritty realism, wry humor, and a keen understanding of human vulnerability. The dialogue is sharp, witty, and often laced with cynicism, reflecting the characters’ struggles with fame, mortality, and the search for connection. The narrative weaves between the mundane and the extraordinary, creating a world that feels both familiar and unsettling. The direction, while not explicitly detailed, suggests a visual style that is both stark and intimate, emphasizing the emotional and physical landscapes of the characters’ lives

INT. LOBBY, OFFICE OF VITAL RECORDS

Plain. Ordinary. Except for the passageway that leads to the back room: looks like a full body scanner, the kind you pass through at airport security. Strange.

CHICO O.S.: First rule a’ the street: get the other guy ‘fore he gets you.
ASHLEY: My gosh, you had some life.

BACK ROOM.

Cramped. Musty. Ancient computers and filing cabinets. A dusty clock on the wall reads 1:11. Tick-tick-tick.

CHICO O.S.: Made some changes.
ASHLEY O.S.: I’ll say.

Two workers slouch at their desks, scarfing down lunch boxes of fried chicken: ASHLEY (20s), a shapely Southern belle, and CHICO (50s), a wiry, reformed street hustler.

CHICO: What about you?
ASHLEY: Nothing like that, I mean… I dunno… reckon I wasn’t always the most faithful girlfriend.

On the wall, one of those glass IN CASE OF EMERGENCY boxes. Instead of an ax, though, there’s an aged, black book inside. Something’s very odd about this place.

CHICO: Ah, you’re young.
ASHLEY (softly): Was.

Instantly, a chill strangles the air.

CHICO: Should prob’ly get back to work.

Goes to wipe his hands, but there’s no napkins, so he licks his greasy fingers. Glimpses Ashley’s sexy legs- she’s wearing a flowery summer dress- as he clicks the mouse.

CHICO: Don’t wanna upset the big man.
ASHLEY: ‘Specially my first day.

The printer whirs as Ashley collects her trash. Chico grabs the document from the printer. On the way to the trash can, Ashley drops her plastic fork. Bends over to pick it up… Chico ogles her creamy thighs as he stuffs the letter into a manila envelope, smudging it with his greasy fingers. The envelope’s addressed to BRADLEY ECKHART.

Title: LOS ANGELES

EXT. AMERICAN SPORTS NETWORK (ASN), CENTURY CITY

Sunlight shimmers off the sleek building.

INT. BRAD’S OFFICE, ASN

BRAD ECKHART (33), the Marlboro man with an LA makeover, studies his handsome face in a compact mirror, checking out the cut on his lip. He’s on speakerphone with his agent, MAX.

BRAD: It was good, right?

A video on his iPhone shows him baiting a lanky NFL quarterback during an interview, leading to a fistfight.

MAX V.O.: Kidding? Fantastic.

Plaques and awards and autographed jerseys cover the walls. The centerpiece is a large, glass frame containing six crumpled cocktail napkins, words scribbled all over ‘em.

BRAD: Tell ya, man, I was pumped. I was feeling it.

Struts around the room, towel around his neck like a boxer.

MAX V.O.: Two million hits.
BRAD: Wish I woulda got a shot in.
MAX V.O.: Ah.
BRAD: Happened so fast.
MAX V.O.: Don’t want a lawsuit, believe me.
BRAD: Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.
MAX V.O.: How does Kimmel sound? Wanna do Kimmel?

Brad plunks down in his plush leather chair.

BRAD: What’s up with Paris?
MAX V.O.: That all you think about?
BRAD: Aside from firing you? Yes.
MAX V.O.: Told ya, I’m taking care of it.
BRAD: Not waiting four years.
MAX V.O.: Wheels are in motion, believe me.
BRAD: Lampley was thir-
MAX V.O.: Just take care of your passport.
BRAD: Hmph.
MAX V.O.: I’ll take care of the rest.
BRAD (grumbles): Need my birth certificate first.
MAX V.O.: Birth certificate?
BRAD: Ah, couldn’t find it. Had to send for a new one.
MAX V.O.: … Jesus…
BRAD: Like six weeks ago.
MAX V.O.: Fucking bureaucrats.
BRAD (big): Can’t miss Paris, Max.

Knock on the door. MELANIE MCFEELY (26), the show’s producer, peeks her head in. A slim brunette with Midwest morality, there’s beauty lurking behind those glasses and pantsuit.

MELANIE: Your mom’s on line two.
BRAD: Great.
MELANIE: Want me to…
BRAD:… Prob’ly gonna ream me out…
MELANIE: … Tell her you’re in a meeting?
BRAD: You’re the best.
MELANIE: That’s why I get minimum wage adjacent.
BRAD: Know whatcha need, don’tcha?
MELANIE: Um…
BRAD: Max.
MAX V.O.: That’s the nicest thing-
BRAD: Still here? Go on, get outta here. Earn your five percent.
MAX V.O.: Ten-

Brad hangs up on him. Melanie steps inside.

MELANIE: Talked to the Records Department. They mailed your birth certificate.
BRAD: Hmph. ‘Bout time. (beat) Whadda I got tonight?
MELANIE: Really need an assistant.
BRAD: You’re the only one I trust.

She scans her phone.

MELANIE: Let’s see, uh… dinner with Lori.
BRAD: Lori?
MELANIE: Podiatrist from Playa.
BRAD: Say that five times fast.
MELANIE: Podi-
BRAD: Mel?

She abruptly stops, blushing.

BRAD: I was kidding.
MELANIE: Oh.
BRAD: Sure it’s not Lisa?
MELANIE: Dentist from Redondo.
BRAD: Ah. Right.

She strides out of the office. Brad gazes at her cute ass.

OPENING THOUGHTS

This is a really fun and enjoyable read. The concept is smart and excites us right from the beginning. There’s the fact that so many of us suffer from student debt, and that makes the story highly relatable right off the bat. The story features a great cat and mouse game. Keith is actively hunting Chas, and that is exciting to watch and keeps the stakes high. Funnily enough, Keith is also running out of time to make a payment, adding another layer of stakes to the story.

The script is already in great shape, and the story works so well. There aren’t any major adjustment needed. My notes will focus on some smaller details, but all in all, the script works as it is. It’s an easy read, the pages fly by fast, and the script looks professional.

PLOT

The plot is well crafted and already works extremely well. The setup is simple but effective. Chas ha never made a payment on his student loan, and Keith is tasked with collecting the payments. Keith’s methods are unethical, and he ends up getting fired. But, he is also under money pressure and needs to make a payment, and his only option for getting money is Chas.

Chas falls in love with Christie and pretends to be a doctor. This gives Chas so many problems and issues at the same, making the stakes high and the story exciting. The constant chase keeps us on our toes, and we don’t dare to look away from the story. Chas’s con threatens to blow up at any second, and the tension that comes from this is just wonderful. There are a lot of moments where he almost gets caught but gets another chance.

As the political season swings into gear (please, no more debates), here’s a story of the 2000 convention in Los Angeles…

I was driving the rented Town Car somewhere between the Van Nuys airport and Staples Center- the venue of our destination, the Democratic Convention- bantering politics with President Clinton’s social director when the guy in the backseat leaned forward, his short, wiry frame a powder keg of displaced energy: “I think he should do a bunch of coke and give the best speech of his life.” He was referring to Al Gore and the fidgety man proffering advice was none other than Sean Penn.

It was 2000 and a friend of a friend worked as a White House page. He was in Los Angeles for the convention and one of his duties was to secure a driver for his boss, Marilyn, the well connected woman mentioned above. Being a political junkie- and having no employment to speak of- I quickly volunteered. On Wednesday morning, the third day of the convention, I left the posh Century City hotel in the rented Lincoln. Marilyn, her gaze rarely diverted from her Blackberry, rode shotgun. It was only when I turned onto Avenue of the Stars that she, fingers tapping on her phone, told me my mission.

I picked up the actor at his production company in Beverly Hills, then drove to the airport where he was to greet Al Gore on the runway. Sean wore a blue suit the color of a robin’s egg and sunglasses. He didn’t say a word the entire ride, though his leg never ceased to twitch, up and down, up and down, a coiled snake of suppressed rage that could strike at any moment. The purpose of the visit wasn’t for a media hyped photo op. Sean (yes, I call him Sean) sought an audience with Gore to discuss the Senator’s stance on the death penalty. After filming Dead Man Walking, Sean had become a fierce opponent of state mandated killings. And while he generally agreed with Gore on most issues, particularly in contrast to Bush, Sean hoped to convince the Presidential aspirant of his position.

After dropping my guests off in front of the main terminal- where they were promptly escorted inside by earnest campaign staffers- I parked the Town Car a block away. Shuffling towards the airport, a young volunteer approached me. “Are you Dave Penn?” Yes, I answered. She led me into the lobby, then barked out: “I have Sean Penn’s brother!” The sea of spectators, a few hundred or so, waiting for a glimpse of (hopefully) our next President, parted. It was impossible not to blush during those glorious few seconds as I weaved through the crowd… the admiring looks, the clicking cameras… I sat next to Sean on the makeshift veranda set up on the runway. As we waited for Gore’s plane to arrive, my attempts to converse with the actor largely failed. Only the suggestion of “wish we had some beers” elicited a grin, albeit a small one.

The next stop was Paramount Studios, where Sean was putting the final touches on his film, The Pledge. The feeling of celebrity washed over me again at the commissary. Even in a place accustomed to stars of the highest order, every eyeball shot multiples glances our way as the three of us ate lunch together. Afterwards, while Sean went off to his screening room (a movie theater, in essence, reserved for him), I sat with Marilyn and Sean’s producing partner. A distinguished, gray-haired man in his late 50’s, the producer possessed a Brahmin accent, giving away his patrician roots. They spoke intimately of the Kennedy family, waxing about the trials and tribulations of raising Ethel. Though I was clearly out of my element- to paraphrase Diane Keaton in Manhattan, “I’m from Allentown”- they never made me feel like an intruder, a gratitude that hasn’t dissipated to this day.

It was time to head to the convention. During the drive to downtown, Marilyn chatted on the phone with Tipper, occasionally breaking into fits of laughter. Upon hanging up, she described Mrs. Gore as ‘randy,’ a far cry from the stiff, Stepford wife portrayed by the media. We whittled away the time discussing politics, namely the awfulness of Republicans and (strangely) Chris Matthews, whom she thought treated Clinton unfairly. Sean sat in the back, head darting, leg twitching, on the cusp of chiming in, but remaining silent. The cobra, after all, is more intimidating coiled. We parted ways in front of the Staples Center, my duties as chauffeur over; another volunteer, supposedly, was to retrieve the car. Marilyn thanked me for my service, then handed me a ticket to the convention. Sean nodded at me- his way of saying ‘nice to meet you,’ apparently- then strode away, the gait of a man twice his size. I watched them disappear through a VIP entrance, chagrin at the thought that I’d never see them again.

That night, Bill Bradley delivered one of the most thought provoking speeches I’ve ever heard- warm, intelligent, replete with philosophical ruminations more familiar to a college dorm room than a stadium packed with 15,000 acolytes. Unfortunately for the New Jersey Senator, his oration lacked the all-important soundbite, perhaps an indication of his campaign’s failure. He was overshadowed by Ted Kennedy, who not only provided the nightly news with useful tape, but encouraged audience participation in his rah-rah speech. Conventions, I realized, were merely adult versions of frat rush parties, converting the converted.

I watched the spectacle in a private suite with a handful of congressmen and assorted politicos. Taking full- and needlessly aggressive- advantage of the open bar, I made the grave mistake of invoking Ralph Nader in my increasingly slurred tirades. Nader was bete noire to these folks, a potential spoiler in the election (Many still blame him for the loss, though I point to Gore failing to capture his home state). Yet I clamored passionately on Nader’s behalf- at least for his inclusion in the upcoming debates- much to the dismay of my fellow recipients of free booze. Finally, one of the friends of a friend warned me to cool it. I ordered another rum and Coke and listened silently to the rest of the charade.

After the convention, seemingly the entire crowd trekked over to the Paramount lot (twice in one day!) which was now decorated in a Mardi Gras motif. The bash was hosted, fittingly enough, by Louisiana Senator John Breaux and couldn’t have been more debaucherous if held in the Big Easy itself. Once again, food and drinks were gratis. Despite my relative youth, I was asked- by attractive women, no less- if I was a delegate. More offended than honored, I replied emphatically in the negative. Instantly, their interest waned. In hindsight, I should have lied. Even if I was discovered to be a fraud, the act of deceiving to gain advantage would hardly have been frowned upon at a political event.

That night, like more than a few drunken escapades over the years, ended at Denny’s. It was 4 in the morning and my friends of a friend were engaged in a heated debate. The topic was Giuliani and his controversial mayorship. More pointedly, do the means justify the ends? After repeated reprimands from the waiter, we were asked to leave. While countless patrons, surely, have been expelled from Denny’s, we may have been the first booted for political banter. The sun was rising as I slumped on a bench, waiting for the bus to take me home. Nodding off, I thought of Sean Penn in his powder blue suit and smiled. If only I had a bunch of coke right now.

EXT. PARK, WASHINGTON, D.C. — NEXT DAY

Jack and Bobby sit on a bench, trying to look inconspicuous in their trench coats, fedoras, and sunglasses. They both hold newspapers: Bobby, a NY Times; Jack, a free XXX rag.

BOBBY: Wanna get caught? Spend your life in prison? We can’t be seen together- not at home, not the office. And we sure can’t talk about it on the phone.
JACK: We look ridiculous.
BOBBY: Speak for yourself, I look good.
JACK: So what do we got so far?
BOBBY: Obvious ones- poison, bomb, explosion of some kind.
JACK: How ‘bout a knife?
BOBBY: Tough to kill him.
JACK: Rope.
BOBBY: What, like the mafia?
JACK: Lead pipe.
BOBBY: Eh.
JACK: Candlestick.
BOBBY: (a beat) Are you naming Clue pieces?
JACK: You can learn a lot from a family board game.
BOBBY: Jesus, Jack.
JACK: Hitler played Risk. (Bobby sighs) From the suggested age of 8 and up.

Speaking of 8-year-olds, a tour guide leads a Cub Scout troop past them, lecturing on the wonders of democracy. Jack and Bobby wave to the boys. Thinking they’re pedophiles, the tour guide hurries the Scouts along.

BOBBY: You know the President, you been to his house. What does he like?
JACK: Fine china.
BOBBY: How does that possibly…
JACK: Princess Di commemorative plates. (big) Franklin Mint.
BOBBY: Something we can use, something-
JACK: He likes 20-year-old scotch.
BOBBY: Who doesn’t?
JACK: And 20-year-olds.
BOBBY: (perks up) Girls?
JACK: Preferably with the scotch.
BOBBY: You serious right now?
JACK: Oh, yeah. He makes Clinton look like a…

Wracks his brain, trying to say ‘teetotaler.’

JACK: … Tee-tote….
BOBBY: Jack, you beautiful bastard!
JACK: … Uh, tee-tot…
BOBBY: We got our in.
JACK: … Tater tot… (nailed it) Makes him look a tater tot.

A policeman swaggers past. Jack and Bobby sit upright and straighten their clothes. The cop eyes them suspiciously.

BOBBY: Okay, okay. Anything else you can think of?
JACK: He hates clowns.
BOBBY: Everyone hates clowns.
JACK: And babies.
BOBBY: Really?
JACK: And bunnies. And pandas. And peanuts. And-
BOBBY: Peanuts?

JACK: That’s what you took from that?
BOBBY: Wait- does he not like them or is he allergic?
JACK: What’s the difference?
BOBBY: Us sleeping on this bench or napping in the Lincoln bedroom.
JACK: I do like naps.
BOBBY: If he’s allergic…
JACK: (realizing) … We could frame Mr. Peanut.
BOBBY: Exactly.
JACK: So pretentious with his cane and monocle. Like to take a fork and-
BOBBY: (beaming) Think we found our weapon.
JACK: Fork?
BOBBY: Peanut!
JACK: Frankly, I prefer the candlestick.
BOBBY: Next time, awright?
JACK: Promise?
BOBBY: You have my word, Jack. Next time we plot to assassinate a public figure, we’ll use a candlestick.
JACK: Thank you.

A guy dressed exactly like Jack and Bobby strolls past; there’s a good chance he has nothing under his coat.
He nods hello to Jack and Bobby- after all, they’re his peers. Jack and Bobby realize they look like perverts.

JACK: We should probably…
BOBBY: Yeah.

They spring off the bench. O.s., boys SHRIEK as the guy in the trench coat exposes himself to the Cub Scouts.

EXT. SAN FRANCISCO MARINA — AFTERNOON

Gorgeous, sunny day. Magnificent yachts line the harbor. Down a wooden pier, each boat gets smaller and smaller… at the end, a tiny, ragged sailboat. A rusted bike lays on the deck.

VOICEMAIL: … Hi, you’ve reached Chas. Not in the casa right now, but leave a mesh, I’ll hit ya back. Peace.

INT. SAILBOAT

Cramped. Messy. Someone actually lives here? Beep.

KEITH V.O. (pleasant): … Hey, Charles. Keith here, Department of Education. Just wanna give you a friendly heads-up: your student loan’s a month overdue…

Floor’s littered with dirty clothes, unopened bills and books from a wide range of subjects. A fraternity paddle and photos of happy, drunken college kids hang on the walls. Beep.

KEITH V.O.: … Hey. Keith again, Department of Education. Haven’t heard from ya, buddy. Been a few months, gettin’ a lil’ worried. Gimme a call…

CHARLES ‘CHAS’ CHANDLER (27) straggles to his feet, groggy. Wearing a frayed SAUCY STATE #1 PARTY SCHOOL t-shirt, he scuffles a few feet over to the ‘kitchen.’ Beep.

KEITH V.O. (no longer pleasant): … So, what, think you can just hide away? Huh? Pretend I don’t exist? Like I’m a figment of your fucking imagination?…

Chas grabs a box of generic kid’s cereal. Opens the dorm room fridge… all that’s inside is a near-empty carton of milk. Goes to dump the rest in his cereal, when he notices a saucer on the floor… pours the milk into the saucer instead and whistles. His cat, SAUCY, sashays over and laps it up. Beep.

KEITH V.O.: Know this is gonna fuck up your credit, don’tcha? Shit, you won’t be able to get a Discover card- and they hand those out to the fucking homeless.

Chas plops down at the small, wobbly table. Powers on his ragged laptop as he eats cereal right out of the box. Beep.

KEITH V.O.: … Awright, listen up, dickface. I am fresh outta fucks- like decent looking whores after last call. I swear to Christ, I will HUNT your pussy ass down. Do not push me…

He opens World of Warcraft, a fantasy game. Chooses an avatar- healer. Next, he has to pick an occupation. Scrolls through the options. Like in his real life, it’s a tough decision…

His phone rings, a raunchy hip-hop ringtone. He eyes his cell: a ‘208’ number. Keith, his student loan collector. Chas shudders, fear coursing through him. Declines the call, then shuts off his phone. Back to the game. Back to fantasy.

EXT. STRIP MALL, HOMEDALE, IDAHO — CONTINUOUS

Empty mom and pop shops in a dying town. On the 2nd floor, a business: PERFECTION COLLECTION, a smiley face on the door.

KEITH V.O.: … And, oh yeah, full disclosure- did 8 years for aggravated assault. Bashed this fucker’s head in so bad, dumb shit got brain damage…

INT. PERFECTION COLLECTION

Shoddy gray cubicles. Scraggly collectors work the phones. These scoundrels reek of booze, body odor and broken homes.

KEITH V.O.: … Now he’s a vegetable, thank you very much. And not even the smart kind. More like a… lima bean.

MANAGER’S OFFICE.

KEITH HOLMES (42) slumps in a chair. With his mullet, mustache, and Metallica T-shirt, he’s forever stuck in 1987. He’s calm now, but there’s menace lurking in his pudgy body.

KEITH V.O.: … Think I give a shit I go back? Called room and board, dickhead. And guess what? Mine’s free….

He sits across from his boss, PATRICK (50s), a hippie with a ponytail. In stark contrast to the boiler room operation, the office is chock full of candles and incense- a mystic vibe.
They’re listening to the messages that Keith left for Chas.

KEITH V.O.: … So don’t think I won’t come out to that Saddam and Gum-whora city-

Patrick shuts off the recording, sighing.

PATRICK: How many times we gone over this?
KEITH: I dunno. How many times I told ya we gotta go alpha dog on their asses? All they understand is force- like terrorists. Why you think waterboarding works so good?
PATRICK: … Well, actually…
KEITH: Shit. Hitler be runnin’ amok today, didn’t fake drown his generals.
PATRICK: It’s not the way we do business here. We talked about this.
KEITH: Fucker’s got money, too. Know he lives in a 5 million dollar house?
PATRICK: Sorry, but… this is, uh… I’m gonna hafta let you go.
KEITH (chuckles): Yeah, right. Pretty sure that’s the incense talking.
PATRICK: Gave you a chance after, ya know…
KEITH: Thanks. Thanks for the opportunity of a commission-only job.
PATRICK: Not everyone hires ex-cons.
KEITH: Awright, fine. Fuck it, you win. I’ll play by your stupid rules.
PATRICK: I’m afraid it’s too late for that. Frankly, you’ve become a liability.
KEITH: Frankly, you become an asshole. (beat) How much cash I brought into this fucking place? Huh?
PATRICK: Zero, last couple months.
KEITH: Ah, that’s… you know I ain’t been right since my moms passed. (beat) Oh, and guess what? Goddamn IRS says she owes a shit ton a’ back taxes. Might lose the house.
PATRICK: Tsk, sorry to hear that. Wish there was something I could do.
KEITH: Yeah. Gimme my fucking job back.

Hating confrontation, Patrick reaches down and grabs a large, wrapped fruit basket off the floor. Sets it on the desk, proud of himself for solving the problem. Keith gawks at it.

KEITH: Fuck’s that?
PATRICK: Gift. From corporate. It’s supposed to go to the top man, but… go ‘head, take it.
KEITH (snickers): Gotta be… that’s my parting gift?
PATRICK: It’s a very nice assortment.

Keith springs to his feet, incensed.

KEITH: Know what, Patrick? Fuck you and the Hyundai you came in on.

And knocks over a stick of burning incense.

KEITH: Smells like Tibet in here.
PATRICK: Don’t make me call security.
KEITH: Call ‘em! Fuck do I care? Hell, I’d love a police escort, go out in style. Let’s OJ this bitch.

Snatches the fruit basket off the desk.

KEITH: Fuck it, I am taking this thing. Sell this shit on the street like a fucking Mexican… thank you, Patrick. You made me an illegal alien. Vaya cum dios, motherfucker.

And flips Patrick off as he stomps out of the room.

INT. PERFECTION COLLECTION — ONE MINUTE LATER

A security guard at his side (30s, fat, mustache), Keith cleans out his desk: half a baloney sandwich, bag of Funyons and a plastic flask. The security guard eyes him quizzically.

KEITH: What, gonna judge me? You’re a fucking mall cop. Strip mall.

Whips open his flip phone like a switchblade and snaps a photo of the computer screen: Chas’ info is on it.

EXT. PARKING LOT, STRIP MALL — ONE MINUTE LATER

The security guard escorts Keith to his car as he struggles to carry the fruit basket and all his belongings.

KEITH: Could help me, ya know. Fucker.

Opens the cab of his battered, mud-caked 1995 Ford F-150. Crams his stuff next to a stockpile of shotguns and rifles.

Cameron Crowe is a wise man- definitely not a guy (read on)- particularly on the matters of relationships and love. His films are replete with romantic bon mots, yet they rarely dip into the shallow waters of mawkishness. No Capra-corn here, folks… er, not much anyway. Here’s 12 lessons from the romcom master. Learn it, know it, live it as Brad Hamilton advises Spicoli in Fast Times.

1. SAY ANYTHING: The world is full of guys. Be a man. Don’t be a guy.

Yes, they’re similar: three-letter words meaning adults males. But there’s a world of difference between the two, as any woman knows. Men are mature. Responsible. Hunters and gatherers, sure, but also caretakers. Guys are, well, aging frat boys. The closest they’ll ever get to being a man is creating an eponymous cave to watch football while quaffing beers… with other guys, of course.

2. SAY ANYTHING:  I don’t know you very well, you know, but I wanted to ask you – how’d you get Diane Court to go out with you?/I called her up.

A common theme that weaves through Crowe’s movies is the spoils of taking initiative. Fortune favors the bold, as the Latin proverb goes. A more recent iteration of the motivational adage comes from none other than the great Canadian philosopher himself, Mr. Wayne Gretzky: ‘You miss 100 percent of the shots you never take.’ Indeed. Lloyd Dobler took a shot and cold called the girl of his dreams. Advice? Listen to the Great One. Make that call.

3. SAY ANYTHING: Did you really come here with Lloyd Dobler? How did that happen?/He made me laugh.

Okay, I’m a little skeptical of this one, though I desperately want it to be true… kinda like a no-carb pizza that, ya know, tastes like actual f’ng pizza. Women always proclaim that a sense of humor is vitally important, though I hate to say, I’d like to take a gander at Gilbert Gottfried’s wife (sorry for the cheap shot, Gil). My politically incorrect point is that the ability to make a woman laugh is nice, but it can’t stand on its own. A sense of humor, alas, must to be combined with looks or money- preferably both. Thankfully for Lloyd, he doesn’t look anything like Mr. Gottfried (apologies again, good sir).

4. SINGLES: Desperation: it’s the world’s worst cologne.

Yes, it’s even more toxic than Drakkar Noir… if that’s even possible. It reeks a country mile and has veto power over all the admirable traits mentioned above. Better a certified geek who looks like Gilbert Gottfried (last dig, I swear) who’s bizarrely confident than a good looking guy who’s, well… creepy. Takeaway here is, there must be something inherently disturbing about you- creepy, good looking guy- if you’re so g-damn desperate.

5. ALMOST FAMOUS: Let’s say all the things we never said.

Precious time, as Van Morrison poignantly sang, is slipping away. I know it sounds cheesy as hell, but there’s no time like the present to tell your partner- heck, friends and family members, too (well, some of ’em)- how much you care.  They could be gone tomorrow.  Today, in fact. Remember: regret is permanent. Embarrassment is temporary.

6. JERRY MAGUIRE: I love him! I love him for the man he wants to be. And I love him for the man he almost is.

Like the NBA draft, potential is a crucial factor in choosing the right partner. Like a caterpillar blossoming into a butterfly, a guy can be transformed into a man with the proper guidance. Perhaps you’re the person- maybe the only person- to bring out this concealed potential. Dorothy Boyd certainly was for his boss. And, in turn, Jerry became a man.

7. JERRY MAGUIRE: Maybe love shouldn’t be such hard work.

It shouldn’t. It should be natural and easy, like a bucolic creek in the woods, water flowing gently over the rocks. If a relationship becomes a daily struggle- if the pain dwarfs the pleasure- take Jordan Peele’s advice and Get Out. Now. Before you become indoctrinated… or, ya know, have your brain cut open.

8. FAST TIMES AT RIDGEMONT HIGH: All right, now pay attention. First of all, Rat, you never let on how much you like a girl. ‘Oh, Debbie. Hi.’

If you know the movie, this is the first of five nuggets of advice proffered by Damone, the ticket scalper. The other four are either sexist (‘you always call the shots’) or dated (‘put on side one of Led Zeppelin IV’), so I’ll focus on this one. This is some high school shit to be sure… in 1982, no less. But, yes, hiding your love away as the Beatles sang is a good rule of thumb. I wish this wasn’t the case- much like accepting the fact that decent pizza contains a ton of carbs- but you gotta play the game, you gotta be cool. ‘Specially if your name is Rat.

9. ELIZABETHTOWN: Most of the sex I’ve had in my life was not as personal as that kiss.

Birds do it. Bees do it. Even… whatever the hell the next animal in that stupid song goes. We get it- every dumb animal has sex. But how many primates kiss? Or better yet, make out? Along with the opposable thumb, it’s the thing that makes us human. And kissing is so much more intimate than sex. Not only is it STD free, you don’t hafta make that run to Walgreens a month later for the test strips.

10. WE BOUGHT a ZOO: You know, sometimes all you need is twenty seconds of insane courage. Just literally twenty seconds of just embarrassing bravery. And I promise you, something great will come of it.

Another quote worthy of Gretzky. Keep shooting till you score.

11. WE BOUGHT A ZOO: Well, talking to girls is easy. They’ll tell you everything. The secret to talking is listening.

Oldie but goodie. Two ears, one mouth, blah, blah, blah. And you don’t necessarily have to listen, per se, but at least pretend to. Nod a lot, throw in a few hmm-mmm’s and if the situation warrants, take Chris Rock’s advice and toss in ‘I told you that bitch crazy.’ You’re golden.

12. VANILLA SKY: You can do whatever you want with your life, but one day you’ll know what love truly is. It’s the sour and the sweet. And I know sour, which allows me to appreciate the sweet.

You can’t experience pleasure without having suffered pain. And they’ll be plenty of both in relationships, no matter how long you’ve been together. It’s the yin and yang, the sweet and sour… hmm, they’re both Chinese (well, ‘least the chicken, anyway)…  wait, where was I? Oh, yeah. It’s the knowing and accepting that when shit hits the fan- and it inevitably will- happy days will surely be here again… hopefully without the feces.

* 13 (for Christina). SAY ANYTHING: No one thinks it will work, do they?/No. You described every great success story. As Sinatra crooned, the best is yet to come. Believe.

I was driving the rented Town Car somewhere between the Van Nuys airport and Staples Center- the venue of our destination, the Democratic Convention- bantering politics with President Clinton’s social director when the guy in the backseat leaned forward, his short, wiry frame a powder keg of displaced energy: “I think he should do a bunch of coke and give the best speech of his life.” He was referring to Al Gore and the fidgety man proffering advice was none other than Sean Penn.

It was 2000 and a friend of a friend worked as a White House page. He was in Los Angeles for the convention and one of his duties was to secure a driver for his boss, Marilyn, the well connected woman mentioned above. Being a political junkie- and having no employment to speak of- I quickly volunteered. On Wednesday morning, the third day of the convention, I left the posh Century City hotel in the rented Lincoln. Marilyn, her gaze rarely diverted from her Blackberry, rode shotgun. It was only when I turned onto Avenue of the Stars that she, fingers tapping on her phone, told me my mission.

I picked up the actor at his production company in Beverly Hills, then drove to the airport where he was to greet Al Gore on the runway. Sean wore a blue suit the color of a robin’s egg and sunglasses. He didn’t say a word the entire ride, though his leg never ceased to twitch, up and down, up and down, a coiled snake of suppressed rage that could strike at any moment. The purpose of the visit wasn’t for a media hyped photo op. Sean (yes, I call him Sean) sought an audience with Gore to discuss the Senator’s stance on the death penalty. After filming Dead Man Walking, Sean had become a fierce opponent of state mandated killings. And while he generally agreed with Gore on most issues, particularly in contrast to Bush, Sean hoped to convince the Presidential aspirant of his position.

After dropping my guests off in front of the main terminal- where they were promptly escorted inside by earnest campaign staffers- I parked the Town Car a block away. Shuffling towards the airport, a young volunteer approached me. “Are you Dave Penn?” Yes, I answered. She led me into the lobby, then barked out: “I have Sean Penn’s brother!” The sea of spectators, a few hundred or so, waiting for a glimpse of (hopefully) our next President, parted. It was impossible not to blush during those glorious few seconds as I weaved through the crowd… the admiring looks, the clicking cameras… I sat next to Sean on the makeshift veranda set up on the runway. As we waited for Gore’s plane to arrive, my attempts to converse with the actor largely failed. Only the suggestion of “wish we had some beers” elicited a grin, albeit a small one.

The next stop was Paramount Studios, where Sean was putting the final touches on his film, The Pledge. The feeling of celebrity washed over me again at the commissary. Even in a place accustomed to stars of the highest order, every eyeball shot multiples glances our way as the three of us ate lunch together. Afterwards, while Sean went off to his screening room (a movie theater, in essence, reserved for him), I sat with Marilyn and Sean’s producing partner. A distinguished, gray-haired man in his late 50’s, the producer possessed a Brahmin accent, giving away his patrician roots. They spoke intimately of the Kennedy family, waxing about the trials and tribulations of raising Ethel. Though I was clearly out of my element- to paraphrase Diane Keaton in Manhattan, “I’m from Allentown”- they never made me feel like an intruder, a gratitude that hasn’t dissipated to this day.

It was time to head to the convention. During the drive to downtown, Marilyn chatted on the phone with Tipper, occasionally breaking into fits of laughter. Upon hanging up, she described Mrs. Gore as ‘randy,’ a far cry from the stiff, Stepford wife portrayed by the media. We whittled away the time discussing politics, namely the awfulness of Republicans and (strangely) Chris Matthews, whom she thought treated Clinton unfairly. Sean sat in the back, head darting, leg twitching, on the cusp of chiming in, but remaining silent. The cobra, after all, is more intimidating coiled. We parted ways in front of the Staples Center, my duties as chauffeur over; another volunteer, supposedly, was to retrieve the car. Marilyn thanked me for my service, then handed me a ticket to the convention. Sean nodded at me- his way of saying ‘nice to meet you,’ apparently- then strode away, the gait of a man twice his size. I watched them disappear through a VIP entrance, chagrin at the thought that I’d never see them again.

That night, Bill Bradley delivered one of the most thought provoking speeches I’ve ever heard- warm, intelligent, replete with philosophical ruminations more familiar to a college dorm room than a stadium packed with 15,000 acolytes. Unfortunately for the New Jersey Senator, his oration lacked the all-important soundbite, perhaps an indication of his campaign’s failure. He was overshadowed by Ted Kennedy, who not only provided the nightly news with useful tape, but encouraged audience participation in his rah-rah speech. Conventions, I realized, were merely adult versions of frat rush parties, converting the converted.

I watched the spectacle in a private suite with a handful of congressmen and assorted politicos. Taking full- and needlessly aggressive- advantage of the open bar, I made the grave mistake of invoking Ralph Nader in my increasingly slurred tirades. Nader was bete noire to these folks, a potential spoiler in the election (Many still blame him for the loss, though I point to Gore failing to capture his home state). Yet I clamored passionately on Nader’s behalf- at least for his inclusion in the upcoming debates- much to the dismay of my fellow recipients of free booze. Finally, one of the friends of a friend warned me to cool it. I ordered another rum and Coke and listened silently to the rest of the charade.

After the convention, seemingly the entire crowd trekked over to the Paramount lot (twice in one day!) which was now decorated in a Mardi Gras motif. The bash was hosted, fittingly enough, by Louisiana Senator John Breaux and couldn’t have been more debaucherous if held in the Big Easy itself. Once again, food and drinks were gratis. Despite my relative youth, I was asked- by attractive women, no less- if I was a delegate. More offended than honored, I replied emphatically in the negative. Instantly, their interest waned. In hindsight, I should have lied. Even if I was discovered to be a fraud, the act of deceiving to gain advantage would hardly have been frowned upon at a political event.

That night, like more than a few drunken escapades over the years, ended at Denny’s. It was 4 in the morning and my friends of a friend were engaged in a heated debate. The topic was Giuliani and his controversial mayorship. More pointedly, do the means justify the ends? After repeated reprimands from the waiter, we were asked to leave. While countless patrons, surely, have been expelled from Denny’s, we may have been the first booted for political banter. The sun was rising as I slumped on a bench, waiting for the bus to take me home. Nodding off, I thought of Sean Penn in his powder blue suit and smiled. If only I had a bunch of coke right now.

EXT. BACKYARD, COLONIAL HOUSE — NIGHT

Emily and her friends quaff margaritas, in high spirits. Emily’s on her laptop, searching for something.

BECKY: You have any idea how dorky we are right now? We are literally Googling the Greek alphabet.
EMILY: Ooh, I like pi.
BECKY: Pi’s good.
MIA: Eh, too many carbs.
DOTTIE: You know it’s not food, right? It stands for 3.14-
BECKY: Dude, don’t harsh the buzz.
EMILY: Um, okay, definitely not mu.
BECKY: I think we can all agree on that.
EMILY: Beta.
MIA: Eww, like Betamax? Swipe left.
DOTTIE: Kinda appropriate, though. Just saying.
EMILY: Alpha?… Alpha’s not bad.
BECKY: Too guyish. (burps loudly) Alpha male, alpha dog…
MIA: I’ll swipe right on pi, but we need something cool to balance it out.
EMILY: Delta?
MIA: Ugh, like the airline? Hell, no!
DOTTIE: Well, actually, it means… (off Becky’s glare) Screw you guys.
EMILY: Omega?
MIA: Yes! Boom!
DOTTIE: How is that a boom?
MIA: Uh, Omega-3’s. Duh.
EMILY: I don’t really know what that is.
MIA: No one does! Who cares? It’s healthy.
EMILY: Hmm, ‘Pi Omega.’
BECKY: That’s not terrible, actually.
DOTTIE: Pecan pie and fish oil.
MIA: Sort of a ying yang kinda thing.
DOTTIE: Did you say ‘ying?’
EMILY: Ooh, I gotta call Linds.
BECKY: Uh, you might wanna wait on that.

Too late. Thrilled and tipsy, Emily calls Lindsay…

EMILY: Oh- hey! You answered. Guess what? We’re starting a sorority!
LINDSAY V.O.: You’re… what?
EMILY: I texted you I was going back to school.
LINDSAY V.O.: Weird but understandable.
EMILY: Well, it’s a long story- I’ll tell you later- but… Becks and the girls, we’re gonna start a sorority. Isn’t that awesome?!
LINDSAY V.O.: Not the word that comes to mind.
EMILY: Hey, so, whaddya think would be a cool name? We’re thinking Pi Omega.
LINDSAY V.O.: Hmmm… how do you say ‘mid-life crisis’ in Greek? I’d go with that.

And just like, Emily’s exuberance vanishes. Poof. Becky grumbles, wishing she hadn’t made the freaking call.