Dear Potential Spam: I Hate You

This Is Not a Cry for Help, But It’s Not Not That Either.

In addition to being the guy whose Substack occasionally ambushes your inbox like a Jehovah’s Witness, I also host a mildly popular adult beverage-themed podcast. And since you're here, I assume you already knew that. Or maybe you drunk-Googled “Does tequila cure loneliness?” or “Best wine to drink alone while hate-watching The Bachelor.” In which case, welcome. (Answers: yes, and Yellow Tail. Don’t overthink it.)

What you may not know is that I also write books and screenplays, some of which actual, above-board media companies have paid real American dollars for. Not “exposure.” Not a free tote bag. Actual, taxable income. Real. Human. Money.

Right now, I’ve got two feature films “set up” at well-known Hollywood production companies. And if you’re unfamiliar with that term, “set up” is industry-speak for we’ve had five Zooms, everyone said “love this” a bunch, and then absolutely no one did a goddamn thing. It’s like listing your spare bedroom on AirBnB and calling yourself a real estate mogul.

Projects that are “set up” rarely move. They just sit in development purgatory, waiting for some overcaffeinated junior exec to “circle back after Cannes.” It’s like being in a relationship with someone who says they love you but still won’t put a label on it. Are we exclusive or not, Brenda?

I also recently finished writing my first pure fiction novel. It’s called A Cheesesteak to Die For, and it might very well be the finest piece of literature ever written about two Philly sandwich shops at war with each other. History will be the judge. For now, my literary agent is shopping it to major publishers. He’s got hustle, charm, and the attention span of a gnat with a head injury. But dammit, I believe in him.

Writing things you're proud of is a beautiful, deeply underpaid experience. I say that not to flex (okay, maybe a small flex), but because my therapist says I need to stop basing my self-worth on Instagram likes and start celebrating actual accomplishments. Which is rich coming from a guy who charges $275 an hour to ask me how my week went while eating raw almonds out of a Ziplock bag. Honestly, it’s the healthiest toxic relationship I’ve ever had.

And look, writing isn’t fun. Anyone who says it is either lying or tripping on mushrooms with their laptop open. But finishing something? That’s a high. That’s better than sex. Or at least better than sex at my age, which involves a lot more stretching and apologizing than ever before.

Then comes the waiting. Sweet, unholy waiting. Hollywood’s favorite non-activity.

You wait for agents to read. You wait for actors to attach. You wait for directors to claim they “just saw it” while zip-lining in Tulum. You wait for someone—anyone—with power and taste (ideally both, but let’s not be greedy) to say, “Let’s make this thing.”

You wait for the phone to ring. And every time it does, your soul leaps out of your body like, “THIS IS IT! THIS IS THE CALL THAT CHANGES EVERYTHING!”

But it’s never that call. It’s always...

Potential Spam.

Let me tell you something about Potential Spam: I would kill for the legal right to hunt it for sport. I swear to God, if I ever learn the identity of the person responsible for Potential Spam, I will go full Liam Neeson. I will look for them. I will find them. I will block the living shit out of them.

I would rather be ghosted by an ex again than get another Potential Spam call. At least my ex had the decency to leave me emotionally shattered instead of trying to sell me knockoff boner pills from Bangladesh.

You think it’s funny to make me think I just sold a screenplay, when really you’re just trying to scam me into installing solar panels or refinancing my non-existent student loans?

I hope Potential Spam steps on a Lego.

I hope it gets jury duty for a six-month asbestos case in Bakersfield.

I hope it writes a heartfelt script about its childhood trauma and nobody reads it.

I hope it gets a call from its Potential Spam.

Potential Spam is the herpes of hope. It shows up uninvited, ruins everything, and just when you think it’s gone— surprise, it’s back. Potential Spam must be destroyed. It is the apex predator of disappointment. It is the devil’s robocall.

And if I had a dollar for every time it made me think my life was about to change, I could finance these damn movies myself.

So yeah. That’s what I’ve been up to. Writing things, waiting, screaming into the void. Occasionally muttering “this town’s a joke” to myself while staring at my phone like it owes me money.

At least I have this Substack to fall back on if all else fails.

Thanks for reading. Stay tuned for more. Or unsubscribe. No hard feelings. Just please, for the love of all that is good and holy, don’t mark this as spam.

I’ve suffered enough.