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Written by Ken Hegan
Published: Vancouver Magazine, 2000

August 1999 I get the call. A journalist for Variety magazine wants to profile me for its list of 10 Canadians to Watch. Also on the list: actually famous people like Tom Green and Chantal Kreviazuk. This is career steroids. Variety is the international bible of film and TV.

Granted, I've been deemed watchable before. Two Vancouver papers put me on their cover: Terminal City, a freebie, and Spare Change, a street paper sold by recovering alcoholics. Both periodicals have since folded. I'm sure it had nothing to do with me.

But Variety? Huge. Tickled, I call my parents and dance my little victory jig. Five minutes later, Variety calls back. They're cancelling the Canadian content. They couldn't sell enough ad space.

February 9, 2000 Sweet! Variety's reviving the Canuck issue for April. They instruct me to send my bio and photo to L.A. I send five pictures of me directing actors and pointing at cheap props.

For my bio, I write a steaming pile of horseshit that starts with "Ken Hegan is Canada's premier action-comedy director." I figure this won't piss anyone off, since I've never heard of other Canadian action-comedy directors. Well, none dumb enough to hang around up here, waiting to starve.

February 25 I concoct a cunning plan: when the issue hits the newsstands, I will fly to L.A. and get myself an agent. I ask my roommate, Jim, to join me for a lost weekend of booze, schmooze and floozies. I melted his VCR, so I owe him a good time. Plus, Jim's lung has collapsed twice this year; I figure he'll party like he could die any second.

To exploit the Variety blurb, I plan to:
1. Cruise around Beverly Hills and huck my screenplays into passing convertibles.
2. Tattoo the Variety logo onto my butt and have Jim charge tourists a buck to get their picture taken with me.
3. Pitch Vancouver magazine on a travel diary to pay for the debauchery.

March 7 I ask Hollywood veteran Dean Haglund (Langly on The X-Files) how to make it in L.A. His advice: "Dress like a UPS courier. Steal a bunch of UPS envelopes and place your script in them. Make sure your cover page isn't your title page, but a photocopy of a big-time agency, or they won't read it. Then buy a Map of the Stars' Homes and start delivering. Warning: California just passed stringent anti-stalking laws."

March 27 A week before publication, Variety sends me its version of my bio. Turns out I'm not Canada's premier action-comedy director: I'm a "West Coast cult TV maven" and "not quite a household name."

Maven? What the hell's a maven? Sounds kind of femmy, like I'm Vancouver's Dame Edna or something. And studios don't hire cult directors. "No, no, no," says my girlfriend. "Cult is cool."

By now, I'm telling everyone about the list. Neighbours, telemarketers, ESL students.

Friday, April 7. 4 p.m. The big day. Our flight leaves in three hours. On the third floor of the Robson Street Chapters, I grab the new Variety and read it cover to cover. Then I read it again. And a third time. Where the hell is my name?

There's Tom Green's picture. And a glowing bio on Chantal Kreviazuk. I see that Kevin Spencer, a 2-D cartoon character, is One to Watch. But oh, what's this? Right where they said my face would be is Rolie Polie Olie, a computer-animated robot created by a French company in Toronto.

I'm stunned. Variety has replaced me with a puppet.

What about me? They told me I was one of 10 Canadians to Watch! Now I'm just one of 31 million Canadians that Americans Will Continue to Ignore. Jesus, what do I tell Vancouver magazine? My editor's expecting a story. And "I'm a loser" is a pretty short story.

6 p.m. Airport taxi. I'm pissed. Variety owes me. I. Demand. To. Be. Watched! Stewing, I devise a new and improved mission: I will fly to L.A., penetrate Variety's offices and find out how to make it in Hollywood.

To make me feel better, Jim promises to be a drunken boor for three days straight.

8 p.m. Alaska Airlines flight 672. Over many gin and tonics, I read up on Rolie Polie Olie, that little French robot puke. I discover that:
1. Olie is a "straightforward freight train of optimistic activity."
2. Everybody loves Olie, and Olie loves everybody.
3. Olie lives in a teapot house.

Saturday, April 8. 11:30 a.m. Hermosa Beach. I wake up on the floor of a friend's vacant apartment. My pores are oozing gin and the sun is screaming through the window. A cat meows. Jim is moaning and wheezing in the next room - he's deathly allergic to cats. Sounds like his lung's collapsing. Could be a long day. To regain strength, we postpone Variety until tomorrow. Today I'll find out how to make it in Hollywood.

1:30 p.m. Venice Beach. Behind a sign that reads Sex Counsellor sits an old black man named Downtown Bobby Brown.

I ask Downtown how to make it in Hollywood.

"Avoid the old agents," counsels Downtown. "They will bleed you dry. Hollywood is a rat race, man. Hook up with some kid out of film school. Hey, I'll hook you up. Call my man Terrill. He's an abstract painter. Very successful."

Next to Downtown is a wheelchair psychic named George. He inspects my palms, then tells me I have rare psychic powers.

"I myself have only one of the two powers: clairvoyance and precognition. You have both," says George.

"Wow! Didn't see that one coming."

"Ever wonder how you know what song's coming on the radio?"

"I'm from Vancouver, George. They only play three songs."

George looks more closely at my palms.

"You are prone to depression and are a bossy son-of-a-bitch. You must get your boiling rage out. Go to a thrift store and buy cheap plates. Wait till you're alone, then smash the plates. Is there anything you want to ask me?"

"Will I get international recognition as a filmmaker?"

"No. Above-average income? Sure. A good life? Okay. International success? Not in the cards."

I look bummed, so George throws me a bone.

"You will live to be 88, 89. Reasonably smart. Reasonably witty. Potential three sons, five daughters. But I don't need to tell you this. Practise your clairvoyance."

9:30 p.m. Outside the Sunset Room nightclub. Rare psychic powers, my ass. Jim and I have been waiting for an hour in this bar-lineup purgatory. The Sunset Room is aggressively exclusive, a shining example of the L.A. caste system. As we stand around like mules, a river of A-list celebs, like Byron Allen from Real People, meanders past us and straight into the club. Busty females in teeny-tiny tops? C'mon in! Rich guy flipping Lamborghini keys to the valet? Nice to see you, sir. Pasty Canadians wearing their only good shirts? Back of the line, cheeseheads.

Sunday, April 9. 3:15 p.m. En route to Variety, I take the wrong turnoff. Viciously lost, we follow a slew of Tourist Attraction signs to something called the Museum of Tolerance. Jim's Lonely Planet guide says this museum has high-tech, hands-on, experiential exhibits. Plus it has two entrance doors - one marked Prejudiced, the other Unprejudiced. If you try to walk through the Unprejudiced door, it will not open.

We decide to give the Museum of Tolerance a whirl. But the lobby's packed with snotty, jostling college kids. Admission prices: outrageous. No air-conditioning. This sucks. I hate the Museum of Tolerance.

5:20 p.m. Variety magazine HQ, 5700 Wilshire Boulevard. We stride up to Variety's security desk. There are three guards: Sal, Danny and Trina. I demand to speak to the editor.

"She's not here. Do you have an appointment?"

"No. Here's the deal: I'm number 11 on your 10 to Watch list. I got replaced by a robot. I'm here to find out what the hell happened."

"Who are you with?"

"I'm from Vancouver."

Blank stares.

"It's in Canada," says Jim.

"Is Canada part of the States?" asks Trina.

"Not yet."

"Do your Mounties really wear those red suits?" asks Danny.

"Yup. Especially off-duty," says Jim.

"Listen, I'm a filmmaker. I was supposed to be in this issue. I flew to Hollywood for the weekend so I could get an agent. Variety owes me."

They shrug. New tactic: I ask Sal how to make it in Hollywood. He rotates his elbows like a chicken.

"It's who you rub elbows with," says Sal. "Go to E! Entertainment Channel. Everybody starts there. But you don't want to get into porno."

"What kinds of films you make?" asks Trina.

"Action-comedy."

Trina stares at me. "Are you Caucasian?" she says.

This catches me off guard. I only know one guy whiter than me, and he's a Scottish albino.

"Yes, I'm Caucasian."

"You gotta get out of your culture. You gotta get a black comedian in your action film. Black comedian and a white director? Gold."

I ask Trina if I can take her picture.

She says sure, but Danny says no. "It's against policy."

"Ha, Trina. Variety's cutting you, too. Hey, what if I take your picture anyway?"

"We'll chase you out."

"Would you beat me up, Danny?" I ask. Danny looks sad.

"We're not authorized to hurt you," he says.

They refuse to let me visit the editor's desk, turn on her computer and/or read through her files. But Trina suggests we meet after work to go rollerskating at a funky place called World on Wheels. She says we can meet interesting film people there. I cool down. This is nice. Variety wants to make amends. Agreeing to meet her, we leave the premises.

5:40 p.m. Wilshire Boulevard. Jim's on a pay phone with Nikale, our friend from the Sunset Room. We tell her that we've heard World on Wheels will have interesting film people, and invite her along. Nikale, who is African-American, is concerned.

"Someone's not giving you good advice. That area is just fucked."

"So we'll get killed down there?"

"You'll feel really uncomfortable."

"So there aren't any white people there?"

"No."

"You could protect us, right?"

"No."

My blood chills. Variety is trying to get me whacked. I'd call the cops, but Variety probably owns them, too.

9 p.m. Dublin's Irish Whiskey Pub, Hollywood. Dublin's has 153 TVs, and every third one shows the Grizzlies getting spanked by the Spurs. Nikale said to meet her here for drinks. Been waiting an hour now. She's stood us up.

I ask Vaughn, the bathroom attendant, how to make it in Hollywood.

"Good luck," sighs Vaughn, passing me a hand towel. "Though it's easier than years ago. The studios used to be closed shops. But there are more independent companies now."

Across from Dublin's is the driveway of the Chateau Marmont hotel. Billy Wilder lived there, John Belushi croaked there, and now they're shooting a Marky Mark movie on the roof. If any place can teach me the secrets of Hollywood success, it's the Marmont.

9:30 p.m. I imagined the Chateau Marmont to be a ratbag motel, but it's actually a gorgeous Norman castle. Arched stone terraces, obsequious waiters. We ride up and down in the skinny elevator. The paramedics must have stood Belushi's body upright to get it out.

After some monstrous $10 patio drinks, I enter a state of drunkenness that Jim later describes as "omnipotent." Out the bathroom window, I see a beautiful grove with fountains and $500-per-night cottages - inaccessible to bar guests. I climb out the window, hang from the sill and drop to a catwalk. Vaulting over a ledge, I land in the grove. It's serene and cool, the antithesis of L.A. life. There's a heated outdoor pool…and a blue life preserver with the Chateau Marmont logo.

"Whaddalovelysouvenir," thinks I. A police helicopter thumps overhead. Using it for noise cover, I sprint to the pool and stuff the life preserver up the back of my turtleneck. Willing myself to be invisible, I stroll through the lobby and down the driveway and manage to waddle across six lanes of traffic.

Monday, April 10. 7 a.m. Been up all night. We're still buzzed as our jet takes off. We rip the bottoms off the barf bags, then neatly refold the bags and tuck them back in the seat pockets. Jim's dad showed him this trick. We giggle like this is the funniest thing ever. Jim's laughing and coughing as if his lung's going to collapse.

Noon. My bedroom. I practise my rare psychic powers, predicting 10 messages and three offers of work. Damn. Only one message: my mum saying she couldn't find my name. "Maybe next issue, son."

In bed, can't sleep. "Integrity," I whisper, memorizing Stan the bathroom attendant's advice. I feel like a little kid again, sleeping with my birthday presents. I cling to my life preserver like...well, like it's a life preserver.

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