Jump in Even If You Don't Know How to Swim

Chapter One Jump In I pulled up to the guard gate at Universal Studios in my triple black 1969 Firebird convertible, living the Hollywood dream. I was on my way to meet with none other than Steven Spielberg. We had never met before, but I had dreamed of this day for years. Just getting this meeting had given me a temporary membership in Hollywood's Big Boy Club--with a heavy accent on "temporary." What I would do with that membership--whether I could turn it into an opportunity for greater success or whether I would fail to seize the moment--was up to me. Now, my triple black Firebird is a car near and dear to my heart. I grew up in London, but the muscle car phenomenon is distinctly American, something I saw only in the movies--something I always wished I'd been a part of but had missed out on. In fact, the only truly selfish gift I had bought myself after the success of my television shows was the Firebird. Only eleven hundred of this particular model with black exterior, black interior, and a black convertible soft top (hence "triple black") were manufactured. I love this car. There's nothing like putting down its roof and getting behind that wheel. Of course, it's an old car, constantly "running a little hot." Despite knowing it was over ninety degrees that afternoon in the San Fernando Valley, I still decided to put the roof down and drive the Firebird to my meeting with Spielberg. It felt so good as it rumbled nicely along the beach road through Malibu canyon and onto the 101 freeway, where the ocean breezes were replaced by the stifling heat of the Valley. As I drove toward Universal, the engine temperature rose a little, but all seemed well until I got off the exit and stopped at the first light. Once at a standstill, the engine coughed a little, and as the temperature dial rose quickly into the red, my anxiety rose with it. After what seemed like an eternity, the stoplight turned green. I breathed a sigh of relief as I drove on and the temperature dropped. This scenario repeated at each subsequent stoplight. Finally, I reached the guard gate at Universal Studios and gave my name. One guard punched it into the computer while another gave my car the requisite security once-over. Well, actually it was twice over. He loved the car and asked me a hundred and one questions about this beautiful piece of "Americana," failing to notice how the idling became more and more irregular as the engine temperature rose. I answered the questions about the wheels, the engine, and the brakes, all the while praying that the guard on the computer would hurry up before the triple black overheated. Then, well, the triple black died. For two whole minutes I turned the key in the ignition and pumped the gas, struggling to get it to start. Each time it would sputter and cough I felt a twinge of joy. But that glimmer of hope would end with the sound of silence as the engine died again. The line of cars at the gate, which is always four or five long, now numbered so many that I couldn't see its end when I turned back to look. The guard tried to be polite, but I could tell by the pained smile on his face that he didn't know quite what to do with me and my now-useless piece of Americana. So much for my Hollywood dream day. It wasn't supposed to be this way. I was on my way to the most important meeting of my life. Things were supposed to go smoothly. But then, my entire career has been built on making success out of calamity--well, if not calamity, then at least chaos. Why should this day be any different? Why, you might ask, would Steven Spielberg want to meet with me? After all, I just make reality television, and he makes some of the most important films of our time. The meeting came out of a new show I was making with Spielberg's partner at DreamWorks Studios, Jeffrey Katzenberg. The show is called The Contender, and it's unlike anything I'veBurnett, Mark is the author of 'Jump in Even If You Don't Know How to Swim', published 2006 under ISBN 9780345481023 and ISBN 034548102X.