who dat? contest
"i know!"
previous results:
actor rene auberjonois
first correct answer:
john bizzell
because i love you
I was writing an entry on coffee and
cigarettes today, only to see Pamie had stolen the shit
right off my computer screen – and made it much much funnier. Technology, damn.
Anyway, so then I had to run around on auditions all day, so today’s entry shall be a
cut and paste of two different things I never quite finished. Two!!! Not one, but two.
Damn I’m nice. Here:
A few days ago I went on ebay to bid on an original copy of the best exploding head movie ever – Scanners, and I came across a few electronic scanners, so I bid on one. And won.
So after receiving this device, I headed over to Beverly Hills and, armed with the scanner and the accompanying John Birch Society of Helena Montana Super Whiteman Disciples Of The Apocalypse Anti-Government Bunker pamphlet on capturing radio and cell phone transmission, and broke into a building across the street from famed restaurant Spagos and set up in a second story window facing the restaurant’s back dining patio and like Oswald just pointed and squeezed the trigger baby. Here’s the very first thing I picked up:
"Where are you sweetie?"
"I told you. I’m at fucking Spagos."
"Why?"
"Because I felt like it. Because I walked across the
street from fucking ICM where once again there was nothing for me and…".
"Was there anything for me?"
"A few fan letters to ‘Snake’ but that’s about it."
"Fuck."
"Wait, Kurt. We’re talking about me- Can I get another Johnny Walker Red please thanks you’re a dear."
"Are you drinking?"
"Oh, there’s Matt Damon. Matt!!!"
"Goldie."
"Matt ignored me."
"I’m sure he didn’t ignore you."
"He ignored me. I looked over and flashed his blindly white teeth and turned back to
whatever slut-bitch he was with and didn’t come over and give-"
"Goldie-"
"-me the fucking respect I deserve can I get another Johnny Walker Red, please!"
"Jesus honey-"
"And yes, I am drinking, Kurt. Why not. Why not drink."
"Because you shouldn’t, at least not out."
"I’ve give you 4 reasons that I should drink. My last lift was a mess, my lips are all puffy and I can’t close my eyes."
"I don’t want to hear this. I have a meeting."
"Come meet me."
"I can’t."
"Come meet me honey because if you don’t I’m going to- will someone get me a fucking Johnny Walker Red!"
"I’ll be there in half an hour."
"Oh good. I’m really- Oh, wait, Matt is coming over."
(faint) "Hey Goldie. I didn’t recognize you. You look wicked young."
"Kurt, don’t bother coming down."
Click.
Here’s a short story I apparently started writing about 3 years ago, but never finished. Barely started because I had no idea where to go with it next. Any ideas?
"Goddamnit. Motherfucker!!"
John held a copy of the Hollywood Reporter in his hand, as he stood slumped by his open mailbox, swearing. Though the narrow canyon street on which he lived was all but completely devoid of traffic, foot or otherwise, at this time of day, John still felt reflexively embarrassed at how he must have appeared at that moment: a short, skinny wisp of a man in a Red Sox t-shirt staring at a magazine screaming. Not exactly successful image control. This was forgivable though. This outburst he had no inclination to control, for this was the eighth new subscription of the daily industry rag he’d received this month; none of which he had ordered. Someone was fucking with him big time.
The question, naturally, was who? Who cares enough to annoy me, he wondered. By the time he had canceled the second subscription, only to find the third "Welcome to the World of the Hollywood Reporter" letter attached to a copy of the slick daily, he knew for sure that it was not a fluke. Not some glitch in the system, continually looping. Not a repeated burp in the already prone-to-mistakes world of magazine publishing; with its minimum-wage twenty-somethings manning the phones, caring very little whether or not John Guller received his free football phone. The girl on the phone had confirmed it, someone indeed had sent in one of those flimsy no postage necessary postcards requesting yet another subscription for Mr. John Guller. And no, it is not their job to regulate how many subscriptions one household receives. In fact, many addresses in Los Angeles held as many as 1000 concurrent subscriptions of the magazine, thank you very much. Entertainment complexes and studio lots. So a measly 2 or 3 signaled no red flag to the company. And furthermore, we don’t… John had hung up in disgust before she finished talking.
The Larry King Happy
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