I took the California 1 up to Malibu. Again, I got pulled over.
“You need to stop fuckin around,” the officer said. “I’ve seen your kind before. You come around here thinking you solve everything. But you can’t. You’re just one man. You can’t change the system.”
“First off,” I replied. “Weren’t you a sheriff in San Luis Obispo last week? And secondly, I’m just helping the FBI on an investigation into Franco De Werner’s missing property. I’m not trying to change any system. And third, how the hell do you know who I am? Hand me my ticket and fuck off.”
The officer glared at me for awhile then wrote up the ticket.
“I better not see your face around here again. And fuck this piece of machinery that you call a vehicle,” he warned.
“I’ll have you know that I get 12 mpg in this piece of machinery,” I replied.
The cop flipped me the bird and walked away.
I pulled up to Werner’s beachfront property. As I walked towards the house, a 50 cal. machine gun knocked up a bunch of sand and blew my bowler off. I dropped to the ground and pulled out my .45.
Seconds later, there was a laugh and a man walked up. His smile was perfect.
“Those commie bastards did me a favor by shooting out my eye. My aim has never been better,” the man said.
I stood up and knocked the sand off.
“Mr. Franco De Werner, I presume?”
“Indeed,” he replied. “You must be the investigator the FBI sent. Welcome to my humble abode. Can I offer a refreshment? A bourbon perhaps?”
“A change of underwear if you’ve got it.”
We went inside to Franco’s Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired home. His servants offered cucumber sandwiches and some 90 proof Elijah Craig.
“I heard you slaughtered an entire mafia up in the mountains,” Franco said.
“How did you hear about that?” I asked.
“For a man in my position, it pays to have eyes everywhere,” he replied. “I could use a man like you.”
“I’m just here to assist the FBI, Mr. Werner. Not for a job interview,” I said.
“Right”
Franco sat back in his seat and lit up a cigar. Villains love their cigars.
“There was a whole shipment of M4s and Carbon 15s going to counter-revolutionary forces in the jungle. The communists had to of intercepted it,” Franco explained.
“How could they have known?” I asked.
“I must have a rat in my midst,” he explained as he puffed on his cigar. “I need you to sniff him out Mr. James.”
“I’m a simple private investigator Mr. Werner. Not an undercover agent.”
Franco took a drink of his bourbon.
“I know about your troubles. I know about you burning down an apartment building, about the massacre in Big Bear, about your medical bills and unpaid fines to the California Highway Patrol. I can make all your problems go away if you do me this favor: join my team, and find this mole.”
I thought for a second, then poured a glass of Elijah’s.
“What’s it gonna be Luigi?” Mr. Leather said with his tommy gun.
Luigi paused and slowly lowered me to the ground. Leather pointed his tommy at Michaela.
“You’re not gonna get away with this,” she said.
“Beat it bitch,” he replied.
Luigi quickly reached for his sidearm. Mr. Leather unleashed his machine gun, blasting holes and blood everywhere. Luigi smashed through the window, falling five stories to the ground.
If the bullets didn’t kill him, the fall certainly did.
Michaela pulled a single shot derringer out of the bosom of her dress, hitting Mr. Leather in the stomach. She ran out the room. I ran over to him.
“We gotta get you to the hospital,” I said.
“Can’t. They’ll take me to prison.”
“I was a medic in the Army, I can probably stop the bleeding,” I replied.
“I’d rather go to prison.”
I helped the blood soaked Mr. Leather to the car. As we sped out of there, he took out a cigarette.
“Where you taking me?” he asked.
“The only place we can go.”
We arrived at the Big Bear cabin early in the morning. Isabella helped carry the wounded man inside.
“Who is this guy?” she asked.
“You know,” I thought for a moment. “That’s a good question.”
As Mr. Leather began fading in and out of consciousness, he began speaking to Isabella.
“Am fost îngerul păzitor al tatălui tău. Și sunt și a ta. Dar timpul meu este aproape terminat. Ai încredere în acest om prost,” he said.
“Am știut întotdeauna,” she replied.
“What did he say?” I asked.
“It’s not important,” Isabella said. “He doesn’t have long.”
“Obviously!”
“Just let me die,” Mr. Leather said. “It’s time.”
“Are you ever going to tell me who you are?” I asked.
“Fuck off,” he replied.
I shrugged and did what I could to stop the bleeding. I stayed by his side all morning.
“What’s the deal with Isabella?” I asked him.
“Poor girl,” he said. “Vito had her mother killed when she was just a little girl. Vito never understood his daughter. She grew up lonely, neglected by her own family.”
“Why did Vito kill her mother?” I replied.
“I’ll never tell.”
“Did you kill her?”
There was no reply. The mysterious man was no more.
I buried him that evening.
Isabella joined me outside over his shallow grave. I took out another cigarette.
“I don’t know if this guy was a pervert or your guardian angel. But either way, I think he was your biggest fan,” I told her.
“Michaela will find us,” she replied. “We gotta move.”
I handed her the money out of Mr. Leather’s wallet, then I emptied out my own.
“Take this,” I said. “Go to New York. Go do Broadway. Go do stand up. Go do something with your life. That’s what our mystery man would have wanted.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“My father buried an entire arsenal from his time in Korea under this land. I outta put it to use.”
Being a parent has been the most rewarding experience of my life. My son’s a beautiful soul and it’s my responsibility to see him grow into a respectable adult.
The worst thing about parenting though? Other parents.
Kids are smarter than their parents. It’s true. I’ve become a complete fuckin’ moron since becoming a dad. You’re kids will grow up to be smarter than you.
So just remember that next time you get pissed at them: they’ll remember what you did, because you’re an idiot, and it’ll stay with them the rest of their lives.
Which is why it kinda annoys me to see parents get all giddy when they see an opportunity to beat the shit out of their kids. Actually, it pisses me off.
Of course, it’s done under the guise of “punishment” and “character building.” But in actuality, the parent is performing retribution or justification for what their parents did to them.
“Sometimes kids are little shits though” you might say.
So are you, but no one (usually) knocks you up the side of the head.
The justification I always hear is “that’s what’s wrong with this generation. Their parents don’t beat em anymore.” When I’ve heard this, it’s in reference to the prevalence of school shooters.
But show me a school shooter, and I’ll show you a kid that got their ass kicked by their parents.
But if you genuinely believe that there is something wrong with “this generation,” then it’s your fault. Or it’s your parents fault.
If you want a better generation, then don’t make the same mistakes your parents did, and have the humility to learn from your own.
“Oh, who are you? Mr. Perfect Dad of the Year?” you say.
At the premier, Pablo, Pee-Wee, and Dick Earnhardt were all decked out in their tuxedos. Kathrine was wearing her Louis Vuttoin gown, smiling and waving to the cameras. Even Dillon made an appearance.
I just threw on a clean shirt and cologne and called it a day.
At the press junket, I was asked “how would you describe this film?”, I said:
“Well it’s got some tits, dick, goblins, and swords. It’s alright I guess.”
We all sat down in our seats. When the title This Tastes Like Ass appeared on the screen, I fell asleep.
Pee-Wee nudged me when the end credits were rolling. The audience was walking out and wouldn’t make eye contact with me.
I went home and cracked open a beer. “Take that Hollywood!” I said. Then went to bed.
The next morning, critics presented their reviews:
“A cinematic experience that can’t be matched. It’s literally impossible,” read the Fort Worth Telegram.
“The filmmakers were clearly drugged out of their minds, but damn it, it works. It’ll make you horny. It’ll make you laugh. It’ll make you depressed to the point of insanity. But there’s something there that transcends the capabilities of human language,” read the Des Moines Register.
The reviews were unanimous: the gratuitous nudity, the unsimulated sex from A-list stars, the excessive violence, the absurd and almost non-existent plot…it was unique in the history of film. Nothing could compare.
When I accepted my Academy Awards (not THOSE Academy Awards) for Best Actor, Best Director, and Best Screenplay, I said:
“All you mother fuckers doubted me. You said I was too old, too stupid, and too ugly to make it in this town. Well now look at me. I’m up here and you’re down there. You’re all sick and pathetic.”
Kathrine received her accolades as well. As producer, she was awarded the Best Picture Oscar (again, not THOSE Oscars). She later succeeded Dick Earnhardt as CEO after his untimely death from viagra poisoning. She became the toast of the town.
But my point was made.
A reporter later came to me and asked, “Now that you’ve conquered Hollywood, what are you going to do now?”
Kathrine and I screened the raw, unedited cut with Dick Earnhardt, CEO of Trainwreck Productions. After the 14 hour version was finished, silence fell over the room.
“Sir, I can explain,” Kathrine said.
“Kathy, please leave the room,” Mr. Earnhardt said.
She pushed her chair away from the table and left in frustration. I sat there eating my crackers.
“Pretty good shit, huh?” I said.
Mr. Earnhardt stood up and paced across the room. He took one shot of whisky. Then another. He sat back down at the table facing me.
“I’ve spent $900 million on this production,” he said. “I’ve given you every possible resource, every possible opportunity to see your vision realized.”
Mr. Earnhardt paused.
“Bob Oglesby was a great man. He’s a legend in this town. He believed in you and your talents. He thought that you were going to save this industry,” he continued.
“Damn,” I said as I munched.
“And Kathy has done everything she can to fuck that up,” Dick concluded.
I dropped my crackers.
“Really?” I asked.
“Son, this is my last hoorah. I’ve made so much money that I could bankrupt this county, and have. I’ve banged every prostitute, male and female, from here to Denver. I’ve done every drug that can be taken. I was popping viagra before it was cool to do so. I haven’t done an honest day’s work in 20 years and hope to never do so again. In short: I do not give a shit.”
“So, what are you telling me?” I asked.
“The board wants me out, they say Kathy is the future. This is her production, but I’m in control of the money. So I am giving you a blank check to complete this film in the way you see fit,” Dick stated.
“Bob’s dead,” Pablo told me over the phone. “He was garroted in his garage. Cut his head clean off. Yakuza is suspected.”
“Holy shit!”
“Horrible ordeal. Anyways, a new producer has been assigned, Kathleen Kennedy. Not THAT Kathleen Kennedy. She wants to meet with you ASAP.”
So Pablo and me returned to Burbank to meet with this new hotshot producer. When we arrived, the guard stared blankly at us and said, “Elevator’s broken. You’ll have to climb up the old fireman’s pole.”
So we climbed up to the fourth floor where Mrs. Kennedy was waiting on us.
“Call me Kat,” she said. “Can I offer you a water or soda?”
“No thanks,” I replied. “I’ll take a scotch. Just started drinking again.”
She handed me the drink and sat down behind her desk.
“Let’s get down to business gentlemen,” Kat said. “Bob was a visionary. He knew what he wanted and went after it. I intend on carrying on that vision.”
Pablo and I nodded.
“The studio supports this project and will give us the resources necessary to see it through,” she continued. “That being said, we have some notes about your second draft.”
“What kind of notes?” I asked.
“The studio feels that we need to establish a plot, characters with motivation, sensible dialogue, and cut back on the violent gay sex,” she replied.
“So just make it regular gay sex then?”
“We’ll revisit that question when we see the third draft,” Kat said. “In the meantime, I want to meet one on one with you.”
Pablo looked over at me then exited the room. Kat poured a scotch for herself.
“So what took you so long?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re a middle aged man. Divorcée. Never held a job for longer than 2 years. You’re balding, overweight, and heavy drinker. You’re probably a diabetic and won’t live to see 70. Now you’re in Hollywood. So why now?”
“I just put one foot in front of the other ma’am. Better late than never.”
“This is a tough business,” she said. “Everything’s changing and we need fresh minds to keep us one step ahead. And to me, you’re a dinosaur. So listen to me and listen good: stick with me and I’ll take you to heights you never thought possible. And if you stray one bit, you’ll be just another washout that litters this town.”
So I was crying in a corner, just minding my own business when the FedEx guy delivered a letter.
“Have a good day sir,” he said.
“Fuck off”
I opened the letter. It was from Bob Oglesby, Head of Productions at Trainwreck Studios. It read:
“Dear Mr. Less
We read your screenplay ‘The Virtues of Drinking Bleach’ and have a few notes. Please reach out to your agent Pablo Dunbar to set up a meeting. We are having trouble reaching him.
Best Regards,
Bill”
So I finished crying and called Pablo. When he answered the phone, I heard some screaming followed by gunshots. Then silence.
“This is Pablo,” he said.
“Hey! Bob Oglesby has been trying to reach you. Where the hell have you been?”
“Sorry I’ve been in Thailand on the set of the new Paul Schrader film. I’ll reach out to Bob soon.”
That week, Pablo and me drove out to Burbank. When we arrived at the studio, the doors were locked. Out of the third story window, Bob yelled: “Sorry, I’m the only one here. Everyone has COVID.”
Bob threw down a rope and we climbed up. Then he offered us a Bloody Mary.
“No thanks,” I said. “I just got my one month chip.”
Bob shrugged and downed the drink himself.
“Now boys,” Bob said as he sat down behind his desk. “Let’s get down to brass tacks. We all want to make money. A fuck ton of money. And the only way to do that is to give the audience what they want. And they want sex. They want violence. They want full on sexual penetration. They want erect penises. They want sopping wet vaginas. They want tits. They want ass. They want to see EVERYTHING.
Unfortunately we can’t give that to them. We have to abide by what they call ‘rules’. Plus we have to consider the Chinese market. So we looked at your screenplay and said that this is the next best thing. Therefore, after all the sexual harassment lawsuits are settled, we are fully prepared to give this thing the green light. What do you boys think about that?”
Pablo and me looked at each other.
“Sounds good?”
“Good,” Bob said. “But we have a few notes for you. First, gay sex. There’s a lot of it.”
“I assure you that it’s all in service to the plot,” I replied.
“Oh yes, I noticed,” Bob said. “What I mean is that I want more of it.”
“For the film?”
“Yes”
“So you want more gay sex in a martial arts film set in outer space?”
“Yes”
“Anything else?” I asked.
Bob stood up from his desk and looked out the window. “Boys,” he said, “Hollywood is dying. Too many kids on YouTube drinking cat piss for a laugh. Too much internet pornography. Too much competition from the streaming services. The days of good storytelling, of compelling performances, of sweeping scores, of looking at the silver screen in awe and wonder…they are coming to a close.”
Bob paused and looked me in the eye.
“I’m counting on you to save my job,” he said.
I looked over to Pablo, then back at Bob.
“In that case,” I said. “I’ll have that Bloody Mary.”
They say that rewriting is the actual art of writing.
Thank god I’m not a real writer.
Writing is homework. I’ve never liked homework. I enjoy the immediacy of art, the spontaneity. Unfortunately writing is the only medium I can do.
Let me be real for a sec: I’m suffering from burnout. Not just from this blog, but from things in general.
Life’s too short. We can’t spend our entire lives looking at a screen. But we’re headed in that direction.
Rarely do we stop and think how amazing it is that we can experience anything. Consciousness is an extraordinary phenomenon.
I watch my son experience the world for the first time. I’m envious. It’s beautiful to watch. He appreciates life far more than I do.
Children understand something that we don’t. They aren’t burdened with the baggage of cynicism and jadedness that life hands us. They see the world for the miracle that it is.
It sounds naive, but we need to see the world as a child does: it’s beautiful, it’s sublime. Words are merely an approximation of what can be described.
Why waste this brief time being a cog?
Why waste it on hate and loathing?
This is just pointless meandering on my part. I’m just a day dreamer. Not a writer. Not anybody important.
I just need a break.
Maybe I’ll be back tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe I’ll never come back here. 🤷♂️
The Internet Ruined Everything 