After Christian (Bale’s) funeral, I began lamenting some of my decisions at the production studio. “Maybe I shouldn’t have asked him to gain 150lbs,” I said.
“You’re one arrogant son of a bitch,” Jeffery Greco said.
“Don’t blame me for his death!” I replied. “Chris could’ve turned down the role!”
Kat was two sheets in the wind when she spoke up. “I’m finished in this town,” she said. “Because of you, I’ll never work again.”
“Lay off the sauce, Kat,” I said. “Now pour me a drink.”
“There’s no way we can release the film now,” Kat continued. “$7 billion down the toilet!”
“Now calm down!” I interrupted. “We’ll just have to do some reshoots. I’ll step in for Chris’s role. I’m an Academy Award-winning actor too, ya know?”
“Hold on there bucko,” Greco said. “There ain’t no way the studio will let you back on the set. Not after the lawsuit with Dallas and killing your leading man. That’s to say nothing about the numerous investigations into your international holdings!”
“If the film’s gonna be completed,” Kat said, “then your assistant, Pee-Wee, will finish production.”
“Well that Machiavellian son of a bitch,” I said. “I knew he had an ulterior motive.”
“Since we are 90% finished with filming, we’ll use CGI to complete Chris’s scenes,” explained Kat. “That will considerably jack up the budget, but we have no other choice.”
“Then I guess I’m fired,” I said as I stood up. “But I still want full credit for directing this picture.”
“Not happening,” Kat replied.
“Kat, you’ve crossed me for the last time,” I said. “I’m going to the Director’s Guild. If you want a court battle, you’ve got one sister!”
Pablo and I made the journey to Trainwreck Studios in Burbank. What a god-forsaken place. I swore to myself that I would never return.
“We’re here to see Kathleen Kennedy,” Pablo told the receptionist.
“And you are?”
“I’m Pablo Dunbar, the agent of James…”
The receptionist’s eyes widened when she saw my face. “You mean, James…”
“Yes, THAT James,” I interjected. “Tell Kat we’re here so that we can get this over with.”
“I thought you were retired…” she began to say as she stumbled through her words. “Anyway, she’s waiting for you. Fourth floor. The only way up there is through the air ducts. Elevator’s broken.”
So we climbed up the ducts into Kathleen’s office. “Damn it Kat,” I said, “when are you going to get that fucking elevator fixed?”
She turned around and was wearing sunglasses. She appeared to be somber over something.
“Hello James,” she said.
“Hello Kat.”
“Can I offer you gentlemen a glass of scotch?”
“I’ll take the bottle please.”
Kat sat down behind her desk and began to shuffle through some paperwork. Pablo and I plopped down in the leather chairs.
“So, what did you think of Antonio’s script?” she asked.
“To be honest Kat,” I said, “it needs some work. Too much talk. Film is a visual medium. ‘Show, don’t tell’ as they say. If I can do a second draft and clean up the dialogue…”
“James,” Kat interrupted, “Fart in a Windstorm is a court drama, there’s going to be a lot of dialogue. Besides, I already promised Antonio that he would get final say in the script.”
“Fine, whatever. But I need to put my stamp on it if this is going to be a film by James…”
“Look, I get what you’re saying,” Kat said. “But in agreement with the writer’s guild, he must get sole screenwriting credit. That’s going to put a limit on what you can do.”
I just stared at her.
“You don’t want to relinquish creative control to me,” I said. Out of my periphery, I could see Pablo getting uncomfortable.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Kat replied, “the studio is willing to put $1.5 billion into this project ONLY if YOU are signed on to direct. Once when this meeting is made public, Hollywood will be in a tizzy over the return of its most famous director.”
“Kat, you know I can’t make a small scale courtroom drama for anything less than $2 billion.”
She learned forward on her desk as she began rubbing her temples. She appeared as though she was about to be sick. I took a big gulp from the bottle of scotch.
“What’s with the sunglasses?” I asked her. “Did you have eye surgery? Did your husband beat you?”
Kat removed the glasses, revealing her puffy red eyes and makeup smeared from crying.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I said.
“We haven’t had a hit since This Taste Like Ass,” she said as tears rolled down her face. “The board wants me out. I’ve become the laughingstock of this town.”
“It’s no fun when the rabbit has the gun, eh?”
“James,” Pablo said. “Mrs. Kennedy, James and I are both in agreement that this script is doable. Sure, there are problems that need ironing out, but we are committed to making this work. Right James?”
I just shrugged.
“Really?” Kat said.
“Absolutely, the gang’s back together. Let’s have a drink on it!”
We all stood up and Pablo forced a group hug. Kat’s spirits seemed to have been lifted slightly.
As we were climbing back down the air ducts, I grabbed Pablo by the ankle. “You better not fuck me out of this contract like you did last time!” I told him.
“Pablo, I have everything I want. I’m happily married to a Vietnamese hooker I met in Van Nuys. I’ve got a son and a house in the hills. I’ve got more money than god thanks to This Taste Like Ass. I’m done with Hollywood. Fuck Kathleen, fuck the studios. I’m retired.”
Pablo shook his head and looked down at his beer. “You know what they say about you?” he asked. “They say you’re a one-hit wonder. That you got lucky with This Tastes Like Ass, and lightening doesn’t strike twice.”
“And they’re right!” I replied.
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Pablo said. “I remember when I first read your script years ago. I said ‘this guy is going places’ and I thought it was a privilege to represent you.”
He stood up and looked at my three Oscars mounted proudly behind a glass case. “When we first met, you told me that the worst fate someone could have in this town is to have a career like Michael Cimino,” Pablo continued. Then he turned around and looked me in the eye. “Do what Cimino couldn’t do. Prove Hollywood wrong: make another great film.”
I looked away. “Like I said: I’m retired,” I replied.
Pablo stood up straight and laid the script down on the coffee table. “I’ll leave this here with you,” he said then showed himself out the door.
I picked up the script.
“Like a Fart in a Windstorm by Dallas Austin Antonio,” it read.
***
Later that night, my son put on a film streaming on Amazonian Prime. I don’t remember what it was called. “Big Gay Ted’s Excellent Adventure,” or something. I was too drunk to care.
But my blood began to boil during the sex scenes. The action was not much better. Finally I had enough and in a drunken rage, I slammed my foot into the TV.
“What the fuck is this shit?!” I yelled.
“Dad you’re drunk! Go to bed!” my son, Slick Rick, said.
“Fuck you asshole! My creativity built this house! I own Hollywood! Back in my day, we showed rock hard cock, full frontal nudity, and absurdly graphic violence! Not this pussy shit! No tits, no penis? Why is there a plot? We never cared about that crap! What happened to kids these days!?Hollywood just ain’t the same anymore Slick Rick, I’m tellin ya.”
“Dad, you need to get a hobby,” he replied.
I sat down next to Rick and patted him on the knee. “You’re a good son,” I said. “Now go help your mother.”
I then wrapped my bottle of Evan Williams in a paper bag and began wondering the streets Laurel Canyon.
The next morning, when I woke up in my neighbor’s backyard, I began to ponder Pablo’s words. I took out my cellphone and called him up.
“James, where the hell have you been?” he said. “Your wife’s been frantically calling me, wondering if I knew where you were!”
“Nevermind that,” I replied. “Get me a meeting with Kathleen Kennedy (not THAT Kathleen Kennedy, the other one).”
“So you read the script?” Pablo asked.
“Yes, I took your advice. We’re back in business.”
I’m assuming Western history and civilization is defined by the culture of Europe and North America from the time of Alexander the Great onward.
Eastern civilization, I guess, includes India and China.
Meanwhile Ancient Egypt is left in no man’s land, along with the Middle East, Latin America, and Polynesia. And African civilization, history, religion, and philosophy gets neglected entirely.
And somehow, if common logic is to be believed, none of these civilizations interacted and influenced each other. Ever.
Civilization itself is a nebulous term. Same thing with culture (I’m not including “society” here because apparently, as some academic jerk wad told me, “society” doesn’t exist. Whatever that means). Yet somehow, for some reason, we’re supposed to preserve these things because that’s what shaped our perspective on things.
I’m not saying that I disagree, I’m just asking people to interrogate these things a little further. I’ve said before that a sense of belonging is necessary to form an identity. We are who we are by our relationship with others.
But how much is culture and civilization, both ill-defined terms, a part of achieving a sense of fulfillment? I’ve heard people from all different stripes…from Conservatives, Marxists, and even libs….that this is the case, but it’s never been explained. It’s not like we have a choice in the matter, and it operates under the presumption that people are essentially blank slates and are nothing like you and me.
It’s just not true.
We’re still cavemen, meant to dwell in tribes of only a few hundred people, yet we’re faced with a constantly changing world. We have fallen into what Benedict Anderson calls an “imagined community”, where no one knows each other, not even our neighbors, but we’re supposed to believe we form some kind of community. I guess our natural instinct is to preserve what we have.
Anderson was specifically addressing the phenomenon of nationalism and how traditional political philosophy failed to account for its emergence. It’s hard for us to believe, but nationalism is a fairly recent development. It is not intrinsic to our understanding of community. But along with all the political paradigms that came before, the concept of nation state will also go away.
I’ve said it before, and we all know it, but change is the fundamental force in the universe. You can fight that, but it’s futile. Permanence is an illusion. The sense of permanent self is also an illusion: our bodies, minds, memories too, are constantly changing
Being a caveman and defining yourself against the “other” is easy. And maybe I’m wrong. But at least be honest with yourself.
Anyone who claims to be is conning you out of your money.
Especially if you’re a guy, avoid these “experts” like the plague. Women should too, but I don’t think women take that shit seriously. Men on the other hand…there can be disastrous consequences.
Sucks for all you single people out there. You should really get in a relationship.
I read a lot of blogs from single folks. I get it, dating sucks. Not that YOU suck, it’s just the whole rigamarole.
I haven’t been single in 10 years. Love my family. Best thing that ever happened to me. Couldn’t recommend it enough.
But I’ve been there. I’ve hopped from one dating site to another, scrolling through countless boring profiles. It’s easy to get resentful, I would know. Outside of relationships, I’m the most resentful person you’ll ever meet. So I’ve seen that side.
I’m average looking, got a small pp, have no money, and I’m a dumbass. So if I can do it, so can you!
Here’s my advice: stop overthinking it.
You either feel it or you don’t. If you keep getting rejected, sorry bud…I’m sure you’ve heard it before, YOU’RE the common denominator. Accept the challenge. We’ve all had to spend our time in the wilderness. Your issues probably stem from problems that are hindering your romantic capabilities. You should probably address those. Just sayin’.
A lot of people want to discuss the differences between men and women, but I’ve learned something: other than our physical differences, men and women are exactly the same, at least in terms of needs and wants. No one likes to hear that because projecting their insecurities on the opposite sex justifies their resentment. But it’s true. Sorry.
If you’re looking for a fuck, that’s easy.
But if you’re looking for love, you got it all wrong. If you have a perfect image of “Eros” that no one can live up to, you don’t deserve love.
Love is built on respect, concern, a desire for another’s wellbeing. It requires you to get out of your own head. To many of you single folks haven’t learned how to check your own selfishness. If you’re only concerned on what your “lover” can give you, you don’t deserve love and I hope you remain single forever.
I tried to do one of those challenges where people write a book in a month. It didn’t work.
It’s a good story too: about some dumbass that works at a toilet factory whose boss gets kidnapped. All of this causes uproar in this small town. As the situation grows more absurd and contrived, our dumbass has to rescue his boss. I was exploring my contempt for politics and storytelling in general.
While I think about it, contempt is actually the driving force behind all of my writing. Whenever I begin to write, I have to hold back my urge to say “im gay suck my penis lolz.”
If I did ever write a finished work, it would go something like this:
“Chapter 1: Fuck you
Chapter 2: my dick is small
Chapter 3: my balls are too
Chapter 4: I’ve definitely had sex before
The eND“
Now if I read that, I’d think “that’s a damn good book.” But it would have an audience of exactly one person. Most people expect a novel to be “good”, and “have a story”, or whatever.
My style just doesn’t transfer into long form, immersive storytelling.
Nor into short form really. My way into writing a story consists of how many times I can say “penis”, “gay sex”, “cum”, and have people actually read it. That’s why “A Shot at the Title” is my finest short story. Honestly it’s a banger. Someone should probably give me an award for it. But most times, when the author doesn’t give a shit and hates their audience, the work’s just not gonna be good. Ya know?
That’s why I’ll probably never go back to writing on Medium or any other platform for that matter. I don’t think the shit I want to do would transfer over there. I have complete creative control over here. If I want to post a video of me spreading my ass and saying “this is what I think of Denmark”, no one can tell me no.
I watched two movies back-to-back (unintentionally) that had helicopter chases.
The first was Blue Thunder, staring the greatest leading man of all time…Roy Scheider. It is also the greatest movie that Paul Verhoeven never made.
No disrespect to the highly competent John Badham, but Verhoeven would have crushed the shit out of this material. The film takes place in 1980s LA and is about a police pilot and Vietnam vet, played by Scheider, who gets introduced to a military-style helicopter that the city wants to use for patrol. The villain is Malcolm McDowell, a British man that somehow became a Lt. Colonel in the US Army, who for some contrived reason wants to kill Scheider. The fascistic overtones are right up Verhoeven’s alley, and even some of the story beats would be echoed in Robocop four years later.
But the movie looks incredible. John A. Alonzo is really an unsung hero in the field of cinematography. The handheld work is really ahead of its time, and masterfully done. After watching the first scene of Scheider walking out to his helicopter, I was shocked that this came out in 1983. It’s a natural look that even films today have trouble emulating.
And that final helicopter chase was incredible. All of the concerns that Scheider’s character had regarding public safety goes out the window once when he gets hunted by fighter jets and Malcolm McDowell. Chicken factories and buildings get blown up while debris falls on the people below. Meanwhile, Candy Clark drives like a bat out of hell down the streets of LA. As far as 80s action movies go, I’m not saying that it’s up there with the Schwarzenegger, Verhoeven, and John McTiernan classics, but it is very good. In fact, I would say it was a prototype for subsequent 80s flicks.
The other film was less of a banger but no less interesting (for various reasons). It was Dennis Hopper’s Backtrack (or Catchfire, idk). There are apparently two versions: theatrical cut and a directors cut. I guess I watched the director’s cut.
Hopper himself was apparently dissatisfied with the original version and had his “directed by” credit given to Alan Smithee. Honestly, he should have taken his name off the director’s cut as well.
What’s it about? Not sure.
I think Jodie Foster accidentally sees a mob hit by Joe Pesci and Pesci tries to track her down by hiring Hopper and Hopper falls in love with her (and she with him).
Now I’ll say this because I’ve said enough about dude’s bodies in this blog and it’s time women get their due: Jodie Foster is fiiiiiiiiiiiine as hell in this movie. You could say that I was “sexually attracted” to her. It made me uncomfortable (in my pants specifically). I could understand why Hopper didn’t want to kill her.
But the problem with this movie (one of many) is that Dennis Hopper is, I’m sorry to say, not fit for the role. Hopper is at least 25 years older than Foster. There’s nothing romantic about their scenes together. They’re downright creepy. It’s a role that someone like Nicholas Cage, Mickey Rourke, or Sean Penn could have aced at that time.
That being said, Hopper REALLY makes some decisions in this movie, both in front of and behind the camera. To be honest, I don’t even know what he’s trying to do. Is that accent New York or Cajun? Does he know his lines or is he just making shit up? Now no one on God’s green earth could have saved this screenplay, but Hopper’s visual flair and strange acting decisions steal the show…almost to the point where you forget that heavy hitters like Joe Pesci and Vincent Price are also in the movie.
When I realize that there’s other people that are more miserable than me, that makes me happy.
In truth, I don’t know what happiness is.
I assume that it’s a state of contentment. This, as opposed to a constant state of euphoria. Presumably, many people would think that waking up with a blowjob while mainlining pure heroin then driving your Ferrari 95mph through a school zone would be peak happiness. But I don’t know, if someone lived a true carefree existence, that would breed some degree of resentment. Contentment wouldn’t necessarily only entail “being happy” all of the time, but it would be a place where daily struggles don’t cause a sense of existential dread.
Work, family, belonging, or having a sense of purpose in general, would be necessary to achieve this state of happiness.
Contrary to what you might believe about me, I actually have a good career, a loving family, and live in a place that I don’t necessarily love, but it doesn’t annoy the shit out of me. It wasn’t always this way, I just sort of stumbled into it (one of the amazing things that happen when you stop drinking). I’m not “happy” all of the time, but I would say that I’m in a general state of contentment.
My ideal state of pure bliss would be to own a cottage in the English countryside, wear a tweed jacket and monocle, and say “lovely” and “jolly good” all of the time. It’s not fame and fortune. I’m convinced that the only person that has found fame and fortune rewarding is Mark Wahlberg. Everyone else resents it.
The Internet Ruined Everything 