Agent to the Stars | Page 6

Alien films, Independence Day,
Predator, Stargate, Starship Troopers. Good aliens get you *Batteries Not Included. No
contest."
"Well," Carl said, "There is E.T. And Close Encounters."
"I'll give you E.T.," I said. "But I don't buy Close Encounters. Those aliens were cute,
sure, but that doesn't mean they weren't evil. Once they got out of the solar system,
Richard Dreyfus was probably penned up like a veal. Anyway, no one really knows
what's going on in that movie. Spielberg must have been downing peyote frosties when
he thought that one up."
"The Star Trek movies have good aliens. So do the Star Wars movies."
"The Star Trek movies have bad aliens too, like the Klingons and those guys with the
wires in their heads."
"The Borg," Carl said.
"Right," I said. "And in Star Wars, no one was from Earth, so everyone, technically, was
an alien."
"Interesting," Carl said. He was steepling his fingers together. Apparently the revelation
that everyone in Star Wars had a passport from some other planet had transfixed him like
a particularly troublesome Zen koan.
"If you don't mind me asking, Carl," I said, "Why are we talking about this? Are we
putting together a package for a science fiction movie? Other than Earth Resurrected, I
mean."
"Not exactly," Carl said, unsteepling his fingers, and placing them, flat out, on the desk.
"I was having a discussion with a friend of mine about this and I wanted to get another
opinion on it. Your opinion on the matter is like his, by the way. He's pretty much of the
opinion that people are more comfortable with aliens as a hostile 'other' rather than a
group that would have friendly intentions."
"Well, I don't think most people really think of aliens one way or the other," I said. "I
mean, we're talking about movies, here. As much as I like the movies, it's not the same
time thing."

"Really?" The fingersteeple was suddenly back. "So if real aliens dropped from the sky,
people might accept that they'd be friendly?"
I was back to staring again. I remembered having a conversation like this, once before in
my life. The difference was that that conversation was back in my deeply stoned college
freshman days, in a room strung with Christmas lights and tin foil, lying on a beanbag.
The conversation I was having now was with one of the few men on the planet who could
have the President of the United States return his call. Within ten minutes (They roomed
together at Yale). Having this conversation with Carl was profoundly incongruous, right
up there with listening to your grandfather talk about the merits of the hottest new sports
kayak.
"Maybe," I ventured. When in doubt, equivocate.
"Hmmmm." Carl said. "So, Tom. Tell me about your clients."
I have a little man in the back of my brain. He likes to panic in situations like these. He
was looking around nervously. I kicked him back into his hole and started down the list.
First and foremost, obviously, was Michelle: beautiful, in demand, and not nearly smart
enough to realize the dumbest thing she could at this point in her life is not take the
money and run. I blamed myself.
Next up was Elliot Young, hunky young star of the ABC's "Pacific Rim". "Pacific Rim"
was second in its Wednesday 9 PM time slot and 63rd overall for the year. But thanks to
Elliot's tight, volleyball-player ass and ABC's willingness to have him drop his shorts to
solve crime at least once per episode, it was cleaning up in the 18-34 female viewers
category. ABC was selling a lot of ad time to yeast infection treatments and feminine
products with "wings". Everyone was happy. Elliot's looking to expand into film, but then,
of course, who isn't.
Rashaad Creek, urban comic, originally from the mean streets of Marin County, where
they'll busta cap in your ass for serving red wine with fish. Rashaad wasn't nearly as
neurotic as most comedians, which means on his own he's generally not as funny.
Nevertheless, thanks to some nice packaging work, we'd sold his pilot "Workin' Out!" to
UPN. Rashaad's budding career was watched over like a hawk by his overbearing
manager, who also happened to be his mother. We pause for a shudder here.
The unfortunately-named Tea Reader (pronounced tee-a), singer-turned-actress that I
inherited from my old podmate after his forebrain sucked inward. Tea, from what I can
figure, contributed a good half of his stress -- notoriously difficult and given to tantrums
far out of proportion to her track record (Three singles from one album, peaking at #9,
#13 and #24, respectively, a second female lead in a Pauly Shore flick, and a series of ads
for Mentos). She was just this side