Pronoun Problems: A Novel About Friendship, Transgender and (eventually) Ninjas

32 - On A Scale Of One To Hitler

August, 2002

Dean the Limo Driver was, it turned out, clairvoyant. Not clairvoyant enough to see the tech crash coming, unfortunately, but enough to predict the dismal critical reaction to our show.

In the sweltering smoggy heat of summer, the mostly male, overweight, middle-age and dour members of The TV Critics Association converged on the swanky Langham Huntington Hotel in Pasadena, where they would screen the fall shows and ask questions to the show runners, producers and cast. Plus, there was free food.

TV critics wielded a lot more power back then they do now, having not yet been largely drowned out by social media. Facebook was still two years away, YouTube three years and and Twitter four. Opinions, as the saying goes, are like assholes; everyone has one. In 2002, these were the assholes that mattered most.

For our King of the Jungle panel the studio added some cheesy rainforest accoutrements to the stage. Fake trees and snakes and toucans and monkeys. A stuffed lion wearing a crown. (Get it? It's symbolism!)

The critics had already seen our pilot, but they'd also seen dozens of others so the studio helpfully played a minute-long trailer to jog their memory. From backstage we could hear the recorded laughter of the studio audience, but from the critics themselves, nothing. Not even a few courtesy claps when it was over. I looked at Tom, wide-eyed. He mouthed the words, "Oh, shit!"

We had been cautioned by Jasper and Holly, the incredibly upbeat Media Relations people, that our pilot "wasn't a favorite." We tried to pin Jasper down on what that meant, exactly, but he was evasive.

"On a scale of one to Hitler, how much do they hate our show?" I asked.

"Umm... Pinochet?" Holly said. Which, by murderous dictator standards, didn't sound so bad to me. "I was a Political Science major," she added brightly.

Jasper laughed, but when he made eye contact with Holly, it was clear she was going to get yelled at later on.

"You might get a few tough questions," he explained reassuringly, his smile broad and sincere. "But believe me" — he threw another angry glance Holly's way — "nobody hates your show."

Walking out onto the stage, it was clear that everyone hated our show: I could actually feel the heat of their enmity, waves of scorching hostility emanating from the scowling reviewers, their folded arms resting disapprovingly on their bulging bellies. And soon we discovered that their odium wasn't just targeted at our show, but at us personally, as if we had intentionally created a shitty show out of sheer spite.

When the critics asked questions of our star, Danny Weaver, they acted like Tom and I had abducted him at gun point and hauled him to the lot bound and gagged in the trunk of my car. (We couldn't possibly have used Tom's car because his trunk was full with an unbelievable amount of crap.)

"How on earth were you roped into this?" one critic asked Danny, to much snickering among the couch potato commentariat. Danny's face briefly registered surprise — unlike us, he had not been warned that we were the Augusto Pinochet of sitcoms — but he quickly regained his composure. He said that he loved the script and, in fact, had passed up three other shows to do this one. The critics shook their balding heads at what they believed to be a politic lie, but wasn't.

"And we were absolutely thrilled that we could land a such a huge talent like Danny," I said, which was a politic lie.

"It's great to have a bona fide comedy icon on our show," Tom enthused.

With the classic comic timing that had made her famous, Lydia conspicuously cleared her throat. "You mean two comedy icons." And that garnered a nice laugh from our bellicose audience.