Tom-Tom hated to have to align herself or even deal with her fellow loosers, she was more than just one of them, a loser mouseketeer, she was the CREATOR, the one with the VISION that would shower unknown riches down upon them if they were smart enough to latch on and go for it. She was going to do them the insane favor of frickin hand carrying their lame, out-of-work, no name selves from obscurity into the crystal light. She knew what she wanted the show to be, she wanted it to be poignant, but wild and woolly too, with that demented freewheeling super-spontaneous smells-like-Gary Busey spirit, the problem was she knew more about the Looser Syndrome than she cared to, knew she was going to have an uphill battle not because of the show’s concept, which was trippy and dynamic, she was 1000 % certain she could pitch it and sell it for real, no—not that, but rather because she knew all of the loosers had a deluded sense of importance, delusional self-worth came with the looser territory, the irony being they were incapable of seeing the truth (which in the end probably saved them), that they were drowning, and only by the benevolence of the stars (manifesting through Tom-Tom’s dreams and actions) were they being thrown life preservers, in the shape and form of a venue in which they could once again but this time maybe finally succeed at being losers. Tom-Tom knew she needed to be patient and merely consider them as spoiled invalid children, she knew they wouldn’t be able to shut up, they would be combative, they couldn’t help themselves, they were barely in the position to maintain breath in this world let alone bargain with Tom-Tom over the size and color of their fucking floatation vests, which was fine, but she’d rather be dealing with all that when they were already in the house, and filming—Tom-Tom wanted a reality show, fuck out-of-touch reality, at least if you were going to be out of touch be out of touch while the show’s fucking filming, though not too out of touch, because there wasn’t poignance in that and poignance was part of her Vision—not surrealism, she wanted no part of The Surreal Life’s Asshole World, fuckin Omarosa living in that senile piece of shit Glen Campbell’s old Holly estate, fuckin rickety Jerri Manthey, fuckin Ron Jeremy, fuckin Flavor Flav & mini-me, Tom-Tom wanted the folks at home to laugh at em then for em then with em, cry w/em too, tears were the secret sauce, Tom-Tom the creator/producer wanted to hit viewers in the gut & slap their hearts, wanted them to see themselves in the looser wrecking crew, you know, like all of us are only a fartbeat away from humiliation and defeat, & must then find the strength to pull ourselves up. . Bad News Bears/Daydream Believers/whatever must present the same suspenseful indomitability of spirit as magnificently evinced by Marky Mark & Christopher Bale in The Fighter, ergo apprehension & delight, and finally, invested emotion, she wanted the preverbial audience at home to be completely in sync with the houseful of loosers as they underwent painful public transformation, their pitiable collective charms finally breaking thru losershells to catharsis & chrysalis luminosity, with that special excitement glow ascribable only to newborn 
s and wingdusted butterflies taking virginal flight.
Tom-Tom knew she’d win, in the end, & bend the loosers to her will.
. .
She did her homework, heartened by what she learned.
Ooh Baby Baby It’s A Wild World Films was run by Brando Brainard. BB was a party boy cum producer, bankrolled by his father. She thought it commendable he’d resisted 24/7 agency gangbang invites, all clamoring to rep. He used his dad’s lawyers instead. When asked about that, Brainard said on http://www.a-billion-dollars-is-cool/interview/brando-brainard.html that he took his lead from Spielberg, who apocryphally operated without an agent for years.
Apparently (with the emphasis on parent), there was a lot of money there. Brando kept similar company cause it’s lonely at the top. He hung with the son and daughter of Larry Ellison, the $50 billion oracular man. David & Megan Ellison each had their own company, Skydance Prods and Annapurna Pictures respectively. The boy was 28 and raised $350 million the year before; the chick was 25, rode horses & Harleys and worked out of a $14 million home bought with a loan from Daddy’s Octopus Holdings (“octopus” sounded about right). It sucked not to be the Ellison kids. The key difference between them and Brando was that while Brando Brainard’s father, or his money anyway, was the gorilla in the room nobody seemed to be able to find the gorilla. Bertram Brainard was a recluse, an inventor with over a thousand patents to his name from medical devices to ideas. Tom-Tom thought it was very cool that a person could patent an idea. She crawled the websighs, servered the Clouds, & surf Safari’d, resulting in the provocatively useless knowledge that Brainard Senior was the wiz who came up with the 3-number security code on the back of credit cards. Which wouldn’t have been notable in itself, had it not been for the part about the information highway robbery allowing him to collect royalties on his innovative capitalistic tool for 15 years after the established copyright. Tom-Tom dragged, doubleclicked, triple beam surfed & snorted in an attempt to find out what royalties, and from who. As it turned out, the money gratefully poured forth from slaphappy banks & merchants who saved trillions in fraud. (She couldn’t find a $ amount re Warlock Brainard’s remuneration.) Another one of his frightening ideas was the concept of/technology behind those scary-cheap 7Eleven-type plastic bags made in Myanmar by dying 6-year-olds, bags so thin they just met the technical definition of “bag”—it’s hard to open them even if you’re at the right end, that’s because of their molecular structure, each time you tussle you’re almost certain the cashier handed you a defective single sheet. Finally you peel it back, & unless you triple-bag it, the freak plastic’s built-in genetic design code virtually commands it to tear open just as you’re getting in the car. The bags somehow left one feeling disempowered, even spiritually bereft, yet were now in 83 % of national convenient marts, shaving hundreds of millies off the stronger still-crap bags being used before. www.wikicorpsleak.com said Brainard’s attorneys were warlock geniuses themselves, as inspired & militant in finding arcane ways to trademark ideas as were the legendary tax-dodge lobbyist shysters hired by G.E…. Brainard’s men were pioneers of idea patenting, a relatively new area originally perceived by many as likely having the ½life of an ostrich blink. So far, no lawmakers had overturned it.