Most of my male friends are divorced, and in every case, the divorce left them much poorer than before. They moved from large upscale homes with pools and spas to one-bedroom apartments. Their late-model BMWs transmogrified into old Toyota Corollas. They worked longer hours or took second jobs in order to make alimony and/or child support payments. They were lucky if they saw their children every other weekend.
Except for Kevin Williamson. (The names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.) He started out as a lighting technician, ultimately became a director of photography. Along the way, he met Sara, a producer who worked for a company that made low-budget infomercials. Kevin and Sara fell in love, moved into a fixer-upper near the Hollywood freeway, soon were married. On the weekends, they worked on their house together, went to movies and plays, did parties, had friends over, and every so often would take as long a vacation as the “biz” allowed—usually not more than a day or two. Those were rose-colored times.
Then Sara got an idea for a TV show. She pitched it to a network, and they gave her a deal for a pilot. (It was almost that simple.) Being a shrewd businesswoman, Sara retained a sizeable stake in her TV show, and within a year, her show had been picked up by the network and was number #1 in the ratings week after week. Sara’s production company grew from a dozen employees to almost a hundred. Meanwhile, Kevin continued working for his own clients, though by now Sara had become the major breadwinner. They moved to a newer, much nicer home in the hills.
Sara decided that she wanted kids. A few years later, the happy couple had three. They also had a ranch in Colorado and a bigger house in town. They built a weekend starter castle in La Jolla with a killer view of the Pacific. Her TV show had become “the golden goose that keeps on giving,” and besides financing their dream lifestyle, the show spawned spin-offs, TV movies and a few features.
Along the way, Kevin didn’t change much. Of course, he bought a BMW and started wearing designer jeans and sunglasses, but in L.A., this doesn’t mean one has changed. He watched the same TV shows, listened to heavy metal, kept the same friends, drank beer after work, and to this day, still smokes dope. Yes, he did “clean up” nicely for the requisite dinner parties and industry events as “Mr. Sara,” but he never talked about those times.
Sara, however, did change. Motherhood brought out the best in her. Not only was she running a successful company, she was raising three beautiful, perfect children. How can you go wrong when you take them to a baby gym at eighteen months? How can you make a bad decision when your show picks up the tab for all decisions?
Almost a decade passed. Sara’s children were fast approaching adolescence and her star was still rising, yet—much like a wayward teenager—Kevin was becoming a problem. Sara had grown weary of his small-time clients, his “ordinary” career that seemed flat-lined. In fact, she claimed that if it wasn’t for her reputation, he wouldn’t have any clients at all. Most of all, she objected to his smoking weed. Rightly so, she pointed out that it was illegal and a bad influence on the kids. She hounded him; she isolated him from his own family; her criticisms blossomed mercilessly. His clothes were wrong, his toothpaste was wrong; his opinions were shallow and moronic. Of course, she knew that by hanging onto his one bad habit, Kevin was psychologically hanging onto his identity. That didn’t matter.
One day, Kevin came home early. Sara greeted him outside their McMansion, and she wasn’t happy. Had he left the toilet seat up again or had she found a roach somewhere? We’ll never know. Academic, I suppose. This time when she started yelling at him, he nailed her with a clean left hook to the jaw and dropped her on the front lawn in front of God and everyone. Her priorities straight, Sara had the locks changed before going to Urgent Care.
The divorce was unique in that Sara was blind to her own arrogance. She was determined to prove that Kevin was a bad father not worthy of custody or normal visitation, so her attorneys trotted out his drug use and other faults. In a final attempt at character assassination, they produced tax returns which showed that Sara made fifty-five times more money a year than Kevin. I’m not sure if this makes him a scumbag, but Kevin’s attorneys took the tax returns and ran with them. Surely, if Sara makes that much more than Kevin, they claimed, then isn’t he entitled to half? At that time, Sara was worth 100 million.
Now Kevin owns his own business outright. He is a philanthropist and supports green causes. He dates and beds beautiful women, though most of them don’t stick around unless they have psychological problems. He travels to wherever he wants, whenever. He buys real estate and remodels homes. Though he’s heterosexual, his taste is pretty good. He sees his children occasionally, and—yes—he still smokes dope.
To my knowledge, Kevin has never been in a street fight or stepped in a ring. Yet one punch made him a wealthy man. However, if I were him, I’d rather climb in the ring with George Foreman than go ten-plus years with Sara.
For the record, Kevin and I don’t talk much anymore. I don’t call him often because I don’t approve of how he earned his money. He doesn’t call me because I don’t have any.
Except for Kevin Williamson. (The names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.) He started out as a lighting technician, ultimately became a director of photography. Along the way, he met Sara, a producer who worked for a company that made low-budget infomercials. Kevin and Sara fell in love, moved into a fixer-upper near the Hollywood freeway, soon were married. On the weekends, they worked on their house together, went to movies and plays, did parties, had friends over, and every so often would take as long a vacation as the “biz” allowed—usually not more than a day or two. Those were rose-colored times.
Then Sara got an idea for a TV show. She pitched it to a network, and they gave her a deal for a pilot. (It was almost that simple.) Being a shrewd businesswoman, Sara retained a sizeable stake in her TV show, and within a year, her show had been picked up by the network and was number #1 in the ratings week after week. Sara’s production company grew from a dozen employees to almost a hundred. Meanwhile, Kevin continued working for his own clients, though by now Sara had become the major breadwinner. They moved to a newer, much nicer home in the hills.
Sara decided that she wanted kids. A few years later, the happy couple had three. They also had a ranch in Colorado and a bigger house in town. They built a weekend starter castle in La Jolla with a killer view of the Pacific. Her TV show had become “the golden goose that keeps on giving,” and besides financing their dream lifestyle, the show spawned spin-offs, TV movies and a few features.
Along the way, Kevin didn’t change much. Of course, he bought a BMW and started wearing designer jeans and sunglasses, but in L.A., this doesn’t mean one has changed. He watched the same TV shows, listened to heavy metal, kept the same friends, drank beer after work, and to this day, still smokes dope. Yes, he did “clean up” nicely for the requisite dinner parties and industry events as “Mr. Sara,” but he never talked about those times.
Sara, however, did change. Motherhood brought out the best in her. Not only was she running a successful company, she was raising three beautiful, perfect children. How can you go wrong when you take them to a baby gym at eighteen months? How can you make a bad decision when your show picks up the tab for all decisions?
Almost a decade passed. Sara’s children were fast approaching adolescence and her star was still rising, yet—much like a wayward teenager—Kevin was becoming a problem. Sara had grown weary of his small-time clients, his “ordinary” career that seemed flat-lined. In fact, she claimed that if it wasn’t for her reputation, he wouldn’t have any clients at all. Most of all, she objected to his smoking weed. Rightly so, she pointed out that it was illegal and a bad influence on the kids. She hounded him; she isolated him from his own family; her criticisms blossomed mercilessly. His clothes were wrong, his toothpaste was wrong; his opinions were shallow and moronic. Of course, she knew that by hanging onto his one bad habit, Kevin was psychologically hanging onto his identity. That didn’t matter.
One day, Kevin came home early. Sara greeted him outside their McMansion, and she wasn’t happy. Had he left the toilet seat up again or had she found a roach somewhere? We’ll never know. Academic, I suppose. This time when she started yelling at him, he nailed her with a clean left hook to the jaw and dropped her on the front lawn in front of God and everyone. Her priorities straight, Sara had the locks changed before going to Urgent Care.
The divorce was unique in that Sara was blind to her own arrogance. She was determined to prove that Kevin was a bad father not worthy of custody or normal visitation, so her attorneys trotted out his drug use and other faults. In a final attempt at character assassination, they produced tax returns which showed that Sara made fifty-five times more money a year than Kevin. I’m not sure if this makes him a scumbag, but Kevin’s attorneys took the tax returns and ran with them. Surely, if Sara makes that much more than Kevin, they claimed, then isn’t he entitled to half? At that time, Sara was worth 100 million.
Now Kevin owns his own business outright. He is a philanthropist and supports green causes. He dates and beds beautiful women, though most of them don’t stick around unless they have psychological problems. He travels to wherever he wants, whenever. He buys real estate and remodels homes. Though he’s heterosexual, his taste is pretty good. He sees his children occasionally, and—yes—he still smokes dope.
To my knowledge, Kevin has never been in a street fight or stepped in a ring. Yet one punch made him a wealthy man. However, if I were him, I’d rather climb in the ring with George Foreman than go ten-plus years with Sara.
For the record, Kevin and I don’t talk much anymore. I don’t call him often because I don’t approve of how he earned his money. He doesn’t call me because I don’t have any.
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