by Ben Peller
HOW TO TRAP A COUGAR
1. Never ask a cougar her age, gentlemen. Chances are they’ll take a bit of offense, and for good reason. It’s really not any of our business. These women have more than likely either divorced or buried ex-husbands, and have probably raised children. They’ve paid their dues, and are deserving of some serious fun and don’t need to worry about some young nitwit with the sexual appetite of a young nitwit being concerned about their age. Accord them the respect they’re due.
2. On the other side of the coin, never reveal your real age right off the bat. If questioned as to exactly how old you are, simply reply, “How old do you want me to be,” while, if you have the gift, cocking an eyebrow at the same time. This not only provides them an opportunity to laugh at your sophomoric wit but also an excuse to put aside the fact that they may have been dancing at their high school prom the year you were just learning to walk.
3. Refrain from mentioning the word parents in any way shape or form (i.e. “my parents really liked/hated that show/band/movie”) until she’s shared at least twenty orgasms with you. By that point she’ll most likely be willing to accept the fact that your parents probably got stoned to the same music she did as a teenager. “You’re so mature” is another statement that is to be avoided at all costs. As a cub it’s your job to act halfway mature; as a cougar she’s already spent more than enough years doing so.
4. Be forewarned: eventually one (or all) of her friends, her ex, or even her offspring will refer to you as her “boy toy.” This is inevitable, especially if she sees fit to brag about the awesome sex you two are sharing, or if people notice the pleasant glow on her face. When she informs you of this supposed taunt, do not feel in the least bit offended. Boy toy? Balls. What you are is a walking fountain of youth. You bequeath to your cougar the sweet blossoms of springtime, and she in turn makes you appreciate your current moments by reminding you of the blade of mortality. It’s a win-win situation. (Note: If you happen to know the lyrics to my namesake’s entrance music back when he was a pro wrestler, in which he emphatically croons that he’s not a boy toy, but just a sexy boy, all the better. Sing it to her while doing a striptease. This has been known to lead to some earth shattering climaxes.)
5. Be an artist of some kind, or pretend to be one. Bring her a collection of rocks super-glued inside a shoebox and proclaim yourself an avant-garde craftsman. Many cougars enjoy younger men because they themselves spent their youths toiling away at jobs with an insane intent to climb the corporate ladder while at the same time under the mistaken belief that a young woman who has sex with no guilt is a “whore” when in fact they’re simply human beings who happen to be born female instead of male. In addition, the men these women did happen to get involved with were usually humorless unimaginative drones who were also so obsessed with their career that they had no energy left to be passionate young men ready to change the world with their
a) four completed poems written over the past five months
b) half-finished third novel
c) ten unproduced screenplays
d) fill in the fucking blank, which leads to…
6. Regardless of whether you’re successful as an artist or not, always maintain that you are an unsuccessful one. The world doesn’t understand you, your work is too advanced for people to comprehend, you don’t want to compromise your artistic integrity just to sell out, etc. The excuses for being hopelessly untalented and yet still trying to perpetrate your art on an unsuspecting world are enduring and endless. The plus side of being a starving artist while in the jaws of a cougar is that this tends to evoke the mothering instinct in them. They may offer to buy you a new mattress to replace the one that is sagging and laden with stains from Heaven-knows-what, or even perhaps replace your dresser that supports your television and is also strewn with caked liquid of a suspicious nature. A word of caution: Never ask a cougar to “help you out with your car payments,” especially when you’re drunk and have forgotten she already knows you don’t even have a valid driver’s license, much less a car.
7. When you manage to wrangle a cougar’s home phone number never leave a crazed hypo manic message on their machine the next day. Wait at least three days before leaving one. I know, it’s a cliché, but it is a true one: cougars tend to enjoy a bit of mysterious intrigue. Also, when leaving any message, try to do it before one in the morning. While a twenty-two year old might find a rambling message at three in the morning charming, cougars tend to growl that they need their sleep.
8. There’s always the possibility that you’ll meet a cougar who is not only similar in age to your Aunt (or even Grandma) Dorothy, but also bears her name. Do not become disturbed if while you and Dorothy are in the throes of passion you call out her name and look up to see dear Aunt/Grandma Dorothy’s face pleading for you to come all over her breasts. This is easily remedied. Simply make up a “love name” for your cougar such as “Boo-di-boo,” “Schnukyms,” or depending on your level of kinkiness, “Fingers.” Refer to her as this during any type of sexual activity, and not only will she feel singled out as special (which of course she is) but it’ll avoid any embarrassing responses from you such as “Oh, Granny, what big melons you have.”
9. Familiarize yourself with songs by Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, et al. These tunes are eternal, and will serve you well when serenading a cougar (which is a must if you want to be taken seriously.) A working knowledge of Humphrey Bogart movies and other classics doesn’t hurt either.
10. Don’t forget to open the door for a cougar. Or to caress her after sex. Or to always stand when she returns to a table. And never call her ma’am. A cougar is not a “ma’am,” as they are mostly never married (or if they are, they certainly don’t want to be reminded of this when with their cub); a cougar is always a mademoiselle.
Now in the interest of fairness, here, for the cougars is the other side of the coin:
HOW TO TRAP A CUB
1. Smile at them.
Lawyers In Entrapment
(yet another piece of evidence as to why screenwriting success has managed to elude Shawn)
The nondescript building is right next to The Ivy, a very upscale Los Angeles restaurant where even a mundane Tuesday afternoon may be made memorable by the sight of the latest “hot starlet” dining with an established A-list director. As I pass the restaurant and its courtyard sprouting white umbrellas I tell myself firmly that there’s no way I would ever want to be a part of such an arrogant world, one which still relied on grades to classify people. “A-list,” “B-list,” “C-list,” and so on… what shit, I maintain. I’d left all that grade crap behind in school.
That I’ve managed to become a failure in life I manage not to think about as I stride with purpose past the privileged behind the Ivy’s white picket fence which somehow manages to be intimidating. My nose is invaded by a scent that, delicious as it may smell, belongs to something I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to pronounce.
I enter the building next door and climb its steps. Down a hallway with a creaky floor I find Laime and Associates. It’s a small office adorned with posters of movies that look to be hovering around the “D-List” level, with titles such as “RIP AND TEAR” and “ALWAYS HIT ON SEVENTEEN.” Scantily clad actresses and actors glare provocatively from framed worlds of danger and horror. However, even “D-list” movies require a hell of a lot of effort to get made. They employ people and allow at least a certain level of creative expression. Plus, they make great three A.M. viewing when one wants nothing but to zone out and forget the world’s out there, ready to grab you by the throat.
“Hey there!” a red-faced man bellows from behind a desk piled high with scripts. “Welcome to the agency! I’m John Laime, three different letters and I would’ve been John Wayne!”
Within two seconds he’s in front of me, hand extended. “Lame joke?” he asks before quickly answering his own question, “Of course, because I’m John Laime. Get it?” His eyes shine with what could be interpreted acros
s the board, from anticipation to rage, but seems most likely barren heartiness. “Pleasure to finally meet you, Mister Hope!”
“I’m not Mister Hope,” I explain, taking his hand and giving my name. “We spoke on the phone yesterday.” I add.
He releases my hand immediately. “Oh, you’re not my eleven o’clock?” he demands, and checks his watch. “Oh, right. This must be about that spec script sample from Dawn.”
“Shawn. Shawn Michals.”
“Right,” he waves his hand as though distracting a mosquito. “Yeah, I’ve got it for you.”
He ambles quickly back to his desk and opens a drawer. Out comes a handful of pages tucked together with a single brad (not the Pitt kind, but those brass things that are used to bind scripts). “You’re lucky you called when you did. These pages are all I have left,” he says, removing the brad and placing it in a small ashtray cluttered with several others, all obviously used.
“What happened to the rest?”
“Of what?”
I indicate the ten or so sheets of paper he’s holding out to me. “Of Shawn’s script.”
“I uh… I recycled them.”
“Okay,” I nod, taking the loose band of pages and cradling them.
“Hey, paper isn’t cheap you know,” John Laime intones with a degree of certainty. “Spec scripts come in, some of these writers still only print on one side of the page. Morons… but what can you expect from most writers…?”
Mr. Laime looks upward with such urgency that I do as well just to see what I may be missing. “Lord, what is it with a bunch of idiots sending in scripts they think have meaning?” Mr. Laime questions a lazily turning ceiling fan. “Please Lord, send me a financier who just wants reality shows… guys who like to screw farm animals, hookers who actually like what they do… not a bunch of bullshit love and action stories with redemption and all that crap… send me someone who wants something I can sell!”
He snaps his gaze down to the floor beneath him and snarls, “You can feel free to send me some rich schmuck too, asshole! I got in this game because I believed you didn’t exist. Now, I think you do!”
As I back away towards the door, I note a movie poster that features a gang of leather-clad bikers blazing through a town on fire. Pigtailed women wearing miniskirts and glazed expressions are bent over on both borders of the poster which bears the title: “SATAN’S CROSSING.”
“Thanks, Mister Laime.” I say. “Take care.”
John Laime’s suspicious eyes shift from the Devil to me. “Yeah, whatever, kid,” he says. “About those pages, I wish you luck getting through them. You ever see Shawn whatever the hell his last name is, tell him he’d be better off slopping up pig’s shit on a farm in Iowa than being a screenwriter.”
On the way out I pass a man clad in a purple suit and an orange vest. His green eyes cast over me.
“Why, hello,” he croons. “You look familiar. Are you an actor on television?”
“No, never.”
“Movies, then?”
“No.” I say. “I’m a writer. Kind of.”
The man whistles. “Oh my,” he claps and keeps his hands locked with one another. “Well, if you’d like I can guarantee your next script gets produced. I have connections.”
“I actually write… books.”
“Ah, even better! I’ve got many associates in New York, and they owe me favors. You want a novel published, I can get it done like,” his left hand breaks free of his right and flares out. The snap of his fingers is close enough to my ear to make me jump. “That.”
“Sounds… tempting.” I allow. This man has filled the narrow hallway with the smell of smoke, one too strong to have come from the casual indulgence of a cigarette. More like he’s just walked through a raging inferno. Even his moustache looks slightly singed at its edges.
“I’m still collecting material,” I tell him. “But I can tell you Mister Laime’s office is back there. Last door on the left, Mister Hope.”
“How did you…?” his question dies off behind me as I storm down the steps three at a time and out into the street. Once securely outside I begin to read immediately. The title page is pleasant enough.
Lawyers In Entrapment
By Shawn Michals
But on the very next page is an epigraph, which while appreciated for novels, is usually wholly inappropriate for screenplays. This one makes this point abundantly clear:
“Love is like trying to pump a sheep in the ass with no lube and without hearing it bleat.”
- Unknown
Boy oh Boy, I think, as I hurry past The Ivy while scanning the first couple pages, which are recreated here:
INT. LUXURIOUS APARTMENT – NIGHT
A woman, CLAUDIA, 30s, hot rack and looking good in a blue nightie, takes a hit off a bottle of red wine as she lounges in a waterbed.
O.S., a toilet FLUSHES. Then emerges RICK, a hard-jawed man, mid 40s. The kind of guy who stopped taking shit in kindergarten. He’s smoking a cigarette.
RICK
So what’s eating you?
CLAUDIA
I was just wondering how good that slut you screwed last night was.
RICK
What slut?
CLAUDIA
The one you were staring at at the bar. The one you disappeared with for half an hour.
RICK
The only slut I was staring at at the bar was you.
CLAUDIA
You know which one. You lying bastard!
She rises and goes to slap him. He catches her hand, then casually pulls the cigarette out of his mouth and holds it to hers.
RICK
Take a puff, baby. And clear out that conscience of yours. I happen to know you slept with Jimmy the bartender three nights ago. So what would you care?
CLAUDIA
I would care!
RICK
You don’t care about anything but where you’re going to dredge up your next drink.
CLAUDIA
(beginning to weep)
You fucked Constantine last night!
RICK
Maybe I did. She did buy me a drink, after all.
CLAUDIA
You’re a fucking whore!
RICK
You’re a fucking whore!
He clutches her tighter and pulls her lips to his. They cling together. Then slowly part.
RICK
Maybe we’re both whores.
CLAUDIA
In our own way. You prosecute. I defend.
RICK
In our own way.
(beat)
See you in court tomorrow?
CLAUDIA
Count on it, counselor.
The following pages introduce that these two “characters” are opposing lawyers on a case involving drug smugglers. There’s a car chase, explosions, a sex scene in a judge’s chambers, and numerous references to the Bible. By page ten Shawn Michals had managed to use the word ‘fuck’ twenty-six times, have an ‘eerie silence’ enter the fray on seven occasions, and have characters lighting cigarettes on an average of four times per page.
Since I hate to destroy writing, even if it threatens one’s faith in the human capacity for creativity, I return to John Laime’s offices the following day to give back the paper, knowing he’ll at least put it to good use as recyclable material.
When I reach the door to the office I’d visited just yesterday I find the brass nameplate that had borne his Agency’s name torn off the wall, leaving a flaky white space. Inside, the office space is almost empty, save for desk and chair. The walls are bare and the only paper inside appears to be a Racing Form, which is being read by a bald man behind the desk.
“Pardon me,” I say. “Is John Laime in?”
The man scowls over The Form. “That sonofabitch? He moved his stuff out last night, right under my nose. The bastard owes me two months back rent. Only reason I let him slide that long was he promised to put me in one of his films. What do you do, huh? What the
hell do you do?”
The emphasis on his final question makes me uneasy, as if he truly expects me to have an answer. “Shit,” I say. “I don’t know.”
“Lemme guess,” he laughs and slaps the Racing Form down on the desk. “You’re one of those writers.”
It’s as though by calling me a writer he’s offered a condemnation, that he’s privy to some dark secret about me that I’ve consciously blocked from myself.
“I’m a writer… yes.” I say with more than a trace of doubt. Does piecing together another’s life qualify someone as an actual writer?
“That your script?” he barks. “Bring it here.”
“It’s not my script,” I bark back hastily. “I mean I didn’t write it. A friend of mine did.”
“Bring it here,” the bald man’s hand waves grandly. It’s the overly polite gesture of one flagging down a waiter or waitress when in need of a bit more coffee.
I move into the office and offer him the pages. He begins to read. He chuckles at the first page, at Shawn’s outlandish epigraph. “Sheep in the ass. By God, I’ve heard of that.” By the third page he’s laughing, and by the last page he’s howling and tilting back and forth in his seat. “Hellfire!” he exclaims. “Some of this crap ain’t bad. So you know this Shawn Michals?”
I shrug, “Only slightly.”
“Know where to find him?”
“I’m kinda looking for him right now,” I confess. “That’s why I came here yesterday.”
“Well, when you get ahold of him, give him my card,” this bald madman says, fishing in the breast pocket of his short sleeved dress shirt adorned with thin blue lines that remind me unsettlingly of a prison uniform. “I got a friend who’s got mucho bucks. Ten, fifteen million… this seems like something he might be into.”
Another guy with a phantom multi-millionaire financier. If I had a dollar for every one of those I’ve met in L.A., I’d be a fucking millionaire. I take the card. The first thing that stands out is the top, which has a chart with a red arrow pointing to the upper righthand corner, presumably towards invisible riches which lay just beyond. Below this:
