June 21, 1998: I have been asked by director Barry Sonnenfeld to punch up the script for Warner’s upcoming summer tentpole, WILD WILD WEST. I am excited beyond words. I have been a huge fan of his since his days as a cinematographer for the Coen brothers. He says he is sending me the latest draft, and he would like to meet with me on the set tomorrow to discuss my ideas.

June 21, Later: Script arrived. After reading, I woke Barbara and asked her to kill me.

June 22: I arrive on the set. They are in the midst of shooting a scene where a well-known, classically trained actor piddles away his career. This is not part of the plot, just an observation. Barry introduces me to the cast. All are pleasant, particularly Kevin Kline. I ask Mr. Kline if he is being held against his will. He laughs. I offer to locate his family and set them free from whoever is holding them hostage. He laughs again, and then bestows me with the nickname "Goofy-Butt." I start to tell him that I’m not kidding, but Sonnenfeld has called for places.

I am taken aside by producer Jon Peters. Peters is wearing an oversized Wang Chung T-shirt and a feather boa, and, from what I can tell, not much else. He repeatedly calls me "Steve." I don’t have a chance to correct him. He asks me if I think the film needs more female impersonators, but does not wait for an answer. He asks me whether llamas are "erotic" or "sensual." I do not have a chance to answer.

Lunch is called, and I am taken to Sonnenfeld's trailer for a discussion of the script. "What changes would you make?" he asks me. Not many, I tell him, just all the dialogue, all the scenes, and, if possible, all the characters. He laughs and calls me silly. An assistant enters and tells him that there is an issue with the giant exploding Abe Lincoln head in the next scene, and Barry excuses himself, but first asks me to take a whack at the scene where the two characters get caught in homoerotic hijinks. I don't have a chance to ask him which one.

June 23, Morning: I call my agent, who also thinks I'm kidding. I resolve to meet with a voice coach.

June 23, Later: I am called into a meeting with Peters, who is clad entirely in pink, sort of a feminine Tom Wolfe. He asks me how he thinks we should do the scene where the villain, a bloodthirsty legless man portrayed by Kenneth Branagh, captures the two heroes, Jim West (Will Smith) and Artie Gordon (Kevin Kline). I suggest with humor, subtlety, and modesty. Peters says he was thinking more along the lines of "a whole bunch of cripple jokes."

I am sent to a trailer near the set to polish a scene where West, having offended a woman who he thought was his friend in drag by using her breasts as bongos, is lynched. My first pass, deleting it entirely, is rejected by Sonnenfeld, who calls me a "kidder." My second, replacing the entire scene with a long, extended apology delivered directly to the audience, is also rejected.

On the verge of weeping openly, I bump into Salma Hayek, playing the obligatory love interest, Rita, who is on her way to get coffee at the craft services table. I immediately remember why I got into this business: Because they pay you giant piles of money.

I resolve to give it my best shot.

June 24: My third day, having so far produced absolutely nothing of any use to anyone, I decide to get cracking. Make the best of a bad situation, as my father always used to say to me, although he was usually referring to his marriage. During a story conference, I am asked by Peters, clad in what appears to be Jane Fonda's costume from BARBARELLA, to rewrite the climactic scene where Branagh's character, Dr. Loveless, captures President Ulysses S. Grant using his giant mechanical spider. Loveless, you see, has a fixation on spiders. Giant mechanical ones.

Back in the trailer, I take a pass at the scene. I fill it with well-defined characters, thrilling action, wit, humor, and suspense. This, naturally, is rejected. Peters tells me to make it more "spider-y."

I respond just as anyone would: I call Peters a raving megalomaniac who wouldn't know a good story if he caught it having sex with his mother. I insist that lynchings, violence against women, and mass murder are generally not a good basis for comedy. I tell him to get out of the movie business and get into something he's better suited to, like eating paste. He asks me what my point is.

Epilogue: Peters said he liked my "spunk," and refused to fire me. I think I had an anyeurism or something, because the next few days were a complete blur. I remember something about dog collars, Tijuana, and a horse with a beard. And for some reason I now have a tattoo of Emmet Walsh on my lower back. I am also told that I produced six complete drafts of WILD WILD WEST, including one written entirely in Korean, a language I do not speak. I was paid handsomely.

The moral of the story: Llamas are kind of sexy, but not as sexy as giant piles of money.

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