Dear Jerry Bruckheimer,
Yesterday your show Cold Case was shooting directly across the street from my apartment building at a hotel that's a popular filming location. I've seen movies, music videos and other TV shows film at this site for that necessary skanky flavor in scenes involving murder, prostitution and drug dealing. I've watched all this stuff happen for real on my street so I don't really need a TV show to point this out, but I commend your authenticity. Having your actors enter rooms I watched a 25 dollar crack whore stumble out of the night before? Kudos.
Anyway, I've always been mindful of the creative process when crew (yours and others) are shooting there. Never once have I put my stereo speakers in the window and cranked Judas Priest when I heard "Roll sound!" Nor have I used my Motorola walkie to break into Channel One to say things like "Release the background!" or "That's a wrap!" And I've never, ever leaned out my window and hollered "Cut!" in the middle of a scene. And as much as I love movies (just read my blog) I have been tempted to do all of these things, especially when production is such a pain in the ass for those of us living in the neighborhood--for those of us who have to park on the street.
Yes, parking which leads to the purpose of this letter. On the day of your shoot I was busy writing (three stories--one on slasher movies and two DVD Reviews--Modern Romance and Cisco Pike--ever seen Cisco Pike? You really should) and I completely forgot about one of my cars. I have three cars--a 1974 Datsun 260 Z, a 1971 Ford Torino and a 1968 Ford Falcon. The Falcon, parked in its usual legal space was what? Towed!
Yep, you towed me!
Listen. Jerry. I know I should have looked out of my bedroom window a few times, but I was working on a tight deadline and my mind was elsewhere. And yes, I do have three cars. But still and more importantly, I'm not made of money. And that $177 I paid to get my car out of the yard hurt. It hurt. You, of all people, should understand. Days of Thunder? Mo-fuckin' Gone in Sixty Seconds? I know you know how this feels.
So here's the deal. I want to be reimbursed for the $177. Why? Because I deserve it. For one, I liked Con Air. I even like the part where Nicolas Cage tells that dude to "put down the bunny." For two, I've defended how insanely violent and long Bad Boys II was. I defended the film--I even wrote about it. And for three, goddmammit, I love C.S.I. And I think William Petersen is one of the hottest men on TV.
And if this isn't enough to open your heart and wallet, that towed car? You used it in an episode of C.S.I.--for free. Your crew shot in my alley and Gary Dourdan was inspecting some dead body with my Falcon clearly visible as funky background. He even leaned on my car. I didn't mind because he's one of my favorite characters and he seems like a nice person. He's also super handsome and dresses really cool.
But, to continue. I want that $177. I don't care how much you may or may not be involved in Cold Case. You are executive producer and you are Jerry Bruckheimer so that's enough for me. And I don't want $177 with an invitation for a date from one of your sleazy AD's or producers who walks around my apartment building deluding themselves that they're Orson Freaking Welles. Or sorry, Michael Freaking Bay. I'd rather date a teamster in transpo, a guy who'd appreciate my badass Torino with a 351 Cleveland over some schmuck who drives his Orange County Chopper on Sundays for his "guilty" trip to Baskin Robbins. I know that sounds mean (and they probably wouldn't want to date me anyway, especially since I flipped a couple of them off) but these guys need to take a good look in the mirror once in a while. You should talk to some of them. Tell Gary Dourdan to give them a few tips.
So how about it? For you, this is peanuts--literally. So come on, you've got a soft spot. Be a good guy. Be a nice producer. Make a girl's day. Remember the Titans? Remember my Falcon.