"This isn't my car if that's what you were thinking." Like I'd ever drive a white Mercury Cougar with a tan vinyl roof.
"I wasn't thinking about that, but now I'm thinking: Why are you driving a car with Quebec plates?"
Good point, didn't think of that. "It's my friend's car. We came here together in his car, but he went home with this hippy chick who lives around here. And I needed a car to get home." Phew!
"Home?"
Uuummm..."Yeah, I have to stay with my parents when I'm in town."
"Why are you here anyways?"
My story, my story. "I'm scouting for locations for my Bill Murray movie. Between the exchange rate and lower local labour costs, we save like forty per cent shooting here."
"Who did you say your friend went home with?"
Yesss, a change of topic! "I don't know her name but she has hair down to her ass."
"Celeste! Her father's this zillionaire pharmaceutical tycoon. As for her, well, she's been with half the guys in the neighborhood and..."
CUT TO:
INTERIOR: CELESTE'S APARTMENT
A brownstone walk-up with creaky oak floors, hot-water radiators and lots of macramé and beaded curtains.
"Just take off your clothes here...What did you say your name was?"
"Ronnie, but my friends call me Finkie."
"Finkie? That's an odd name," Celeste said while slipping out of her dress.
Hot bod, kind of furry though; the armpits, the legs and Lord, the bush, a great big brown grizzly bush. Finkie almost lunged towards the phone on the macramé-covered end-table, but using every neuron of self-restraint, was able to control himself. How he longed to call Harry and report back on the hippy chick's crazy grizzly bush. That's what best friends do.
No, he couldn't make that kind of call...Anymore...Maybe once more...At least if he knew he wouldn't get caught. Oh, but it isn't mature. That kind of behavior isn't acceptable...now, under these circumstances. But someday, when he had his own hit reality show on the Playboy Channel, Getting Lucky: Live!, he could do what he wanted and no one would dare to call him immature. Except Harry; best friends can call each other anything.
"It's just a nickname, short for Finkelstein. I've actually been thinking of changing my last name to something more classy, like Da Vinci, De Carlo, y'know...De something. Let's face it, Finkelstein is a name that works if you're a Three Stooge. Moe, Larry and Curly -- Finkelstein material. But I'm no Stooge," he sighed. "I have to work the phones if I want to get in and see people. He lifted the phone and pressed it against his ear. 'That's Fin-kel-stein, F-I-N...K...E...L...Stein with the E before the I...Can you spell that again?' Fuck, man. What was my great great zayde thinking when he founded the family name? I vant a ridicalous soundink nem det evryvun shood leff."
"Do you want to make love or just talk?"
"Whaddaya think, Celeste?" Finkie contemplated her great big brown grizzly bush. "So what's your last name, Celeste?"
"RA-Elle-Ia. That's capital R, capital A, hyphen, capital E...little L, little L again, little e...dash, not a hyphen, capital I, little A. Fini. I'm the only one in the world with this name, I created it myself," she said while flipping her thick mane to the side. "My last name in this life used to be Schwartz but I was once a Medici. A plebeian name like Schwartz, what a cosmic mistake! I believe that everyone should change their name. A name should be like a river, fluid, flowing and ever-changing."
"..." Finkie was speechless, standing there like a dorky six-year old with his hand in his underwear, unself-consciously fiddling with his balls.
"Ronnie, are you going to take off your underwear already?"
Finkie pointed to the drooling black Great Dane lying on the floor. "I was hoping you might take the dog out of the room first."
"Galaxy? He's been my guardian though many lives. He won't bother anyone. He just likes to watch."
Galaxy barked.
"Now off with the rest!" Celeste seized the the elastic band of Finkie's underwear between her teeth and slid the grey Fruit of the Looms down to his bony knees. She spread the underwear wide open for a quick inspection. Skid-free. Inspection passed. Finkie was thankful that he'd chosen to wear colored briefs that morning.
The hair along Galaxy's back stood on end while he growled.
"Maybe he smells the baby powder on my balls and doesn't like it?"
Celeste looked down at her bush and pondered. "Organic talcum powder or the commercial stuff?"
"Organic, actually my sister Sharon makes it."
"Oh my, it sounds lovely. I must savor the scent." She slipped off Finkie's underwear and buried her head in his 'standing room only' Private Members section.
"Aaa-choooo!" she sneezed, leaving behind a hanging looey dangling precariously from atop Finkie's mighty peak.
"Ooohhh maaannn!" Finkie cried. He shook his thing and flung off the hanging looey. The great elongated gob of goo danced and fluttered in the air, until it was intercepted and slurped up by Galaxy. "That's some gnarly Scoobie snack!"
"Excusez moi, Ronnie...I'm horrified. I didn't know that there was lavender in the talcum powder. Lavender is an allergy I developed in the sixth century whilst on a spice caravan with the Moors in the Gobi. But let's not allow that to spoil our night... my eager young lover."
Finkie turned his head and rolled his eyes. Quelle fruit-cake. Quelle bush. But alas, lust among young men trumps all, so he hung in there with an open mind.
Celeste skipped to the table in the corner of the room, dipped her hand into a candy jar and popped a tiny red pill. "One for me."
She took out another red pill and skipped back to Finkie. "And one for you."
"?" Finkie, slack-jawed.
Celeste popped the pill in his open mouth.
"What did I just swallow?"
"A trust pill," she said while stuffing a nipple into Finkie's open mouth. "Don't worry, it's just a pomegranate vitamin. All natural and chock-full of vitamin C."
Finkie tried to pull her erect nipple out of his mouth, but Celeste stuffed it back in.
"That pill was a test. If the would-be lover won't take it, no questions asked: He goes home. But if the lover takes it on blind trust, he gets to feast on these delightful engorged ruby nipples." She pulled out a nipple from Finkie's mouth. "Feast, dear man-child, feast."
Finkie, "***"
Celeste stuffed the other nipple in his mouth. "I will now recite one of my poems whilst you stir my passions with your lips, your tongue, your teeth...BITE IT! BITE IT!"
Finkie pulled the boob from his mouth and gasped for air,"Hey, I'm not into biting."
"Neither am I, fool! Just feast away! BITE IT! BITE IT! is the title of my poem." Celeste grabbed Finkie by the hair, stuffed the nipple back in his mouth and recited,
"Bite it, bite it!
Eat me, treat me, deplete me, excrete me
Fill me with your syrup of love
Over centuries, over eons
Over clouds, over stars
On Earth, and on Mars
We meld flesh.
Rise like the phoenix, rise
Onto these gossamer wings
Rise
To the sky, to the sky
Ever high, so high...
err fly."
Celeste turned around quickly and slapped her ass.
Finkie, "?"
"No, there really was a fly on my ass," she said, "but I scared the little scamp away."
Celeste opened the drawer of the end-table, pulled out a jeweled compact and opened it. She took out two blotters of acid and said, "And now we shall fly on gossamer wings."
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Monday, February 27, 2012
The High Road to Finkelstein
"This isn't my car if that's what you were thinking." Like I'd ever drive a white Mercury Cougar with a vinyl roof.
"I wasn't thinking about that, but now I'm thinking: Why are you driving a car with Quebec plates?"
Good point, didn't think of that. "It's my friend's car. We came here together in his car, but he went home with this hippy chick who lives around here. And I needed a car to get home." Phew!
"Home?"
Uuummm..."Yeah, I have to stay with my parents when I'm in town."
"Why are you here anyways?"
My story, my story. "I'm scouting for locations for my Bill Murray movie. Between the exchange rate and lower local labour costs, we save like forty per cent shooting here."
"Who did you say your friend went home with?"
Yesss, a change of topic! "I don't know her name but she has hair down to her ass."
"Celeste! Her father's this zillionaire pharmaceutical tycoon. As for Celeste, well, she's been with half the guys in the neighborhood and..."
CUT TO:
INTERIOR: CELESTE'S APARTMENT
A brownstone walk-up with creaky oak floors, hot-water radiators and lots of macramé and beaded curtains.
"Just take off your clothes here...What did you say your name was?"
"Ronnie, but my friends call me Finkie."
"Finkie? That's an odd name," Celeste said while slipping out of her dress.
Hot bod, but lots of hair - the armpits, the legs and Lord, the bush, that great big brown bush. Finkie almost lunged towards the phone on the macramé-covered end-table, but using every iota of self-restraint, was able to control himself. How he longed to call Harry and report back on the hippy chick's crazy brown bush. That's what best friends do. But no, he couldn't make that kind of call...Anymore...Maybe once more...At least without getting caught. Oh, but it isn't mature. It isn't acceptable...now. But someday it would, and on that fine day, on that fine day, when he had his own hit reality show on the Playboy Channel, Getting Lucky: Live!, no one would ever again dare to call Finkie immature. Except Harry; best friends can call each other anything.
"It's just a nickname, short for Finkelstein. I've actually been thinking of changing my last name to something more classy, like Da Vinci, De Carlo, y'know...De something. Let's face it, Finkelstein is a name that works if you're a Three Stooge. Moe, Larry and Curly -- Finkelstein material. But I'm no Stooge," he sighed. "I have to work the phones if I want to get in and see people. He lifted the phone and pressed it against his ear. 'That's Fin-kel-stein, F-I-N...K...E...L...Stein with the E before the I...Can you spell that again?' Fuck, man. What was my great great zayde thinking when he founded the family name? I vant a ridicalous soundink nem det evryvun shood leff."
"Do you want to make love or just talk?"
"Whaddaya think, Celeste?" Finkie contemplated her great big brown bush. "So what's your last name, Celeste?"
"RA-Elle-Ia. That's capital R, capital A, hyphen, capital E...little L, little L again, little e...dash, not a hyphen, capital I, little A. Fini. I'm the only one in the world with this name, I created it myself," she said while flipping her thick mane to the side. "My last name in this life used to be Schwartz but I was once a Medici. A plebian name like Schwartz, what a cosmic mistake! I believe that everyone should change their name. A name should be like a river, fluid, flowing and ever-changing."
"..." Finkie was speechless, standing there like a dorky six-year old with his hand in his underwear, unself-consciously fiddling with his balls.
"Ronnie, are you going to take off your underwear already?"
Finkie pointed to the drooling Rottweiler lying on the floor. "I was hoping you might take the dog out of the room first."
"Galaxy? He's been my guardian though many lives. He's won't bother anyone. He just likes to watch."
Galaxy barked.
"Now off with the rest!" Celeste seized the the elastic band of Finkie's underwear between her teeth and slid the grey Fruit of the Looms down his skinny legs. He thanked the stars that he put on colored underwear that morning
The hair along Galaxy's back stood on end while he growled.
"Maybe he smells the baby powder on my balls and doesn't like it?"
Celeste looked down at her bush and pondered. "Organic talcum powder or the commercial stuff?"
"Organic, actually my sister Sharon makes it."
"Oh my, it sounds lovely. I must savor the scent." She slipped off Finkie's
underwear and buried her head in his 'standing room only' Private Members section.
"Aaa-choooo!" she sneezed, leaving behind a hanging looey dangling precariously from atop Finkie's mighty peak.
"Ooohhh maaannn!" Finkie cried. He shook his thing and flung off the hanging looey. The great gob of elongated goo danced and fluttered like a ballet in the air, gracefully, artfully, until it was intercepted and slurped up by Galaxy. "That's the grossest Scoobie snack I've ever seen."
"Excusez moi, Ronnie...I'm horrified. I didn't know that there was lavender in the talcum powder. Lavender is an allergy I developed in the sixth century whilst on a spice caravan with the Moors in the Gobi. But let's not allow that to spoil our night... my eager young lover."
Finkie turned his head and rolled his eyes. Quelle fruit-cake. Quelle bush. But alas, lust among young men trumps all, so he hung in there with an open mind.
Celeste skipped to the table in the corner of the room, dipped her hand into a candy jar and popped a tiny pill. She took out anther pill and skipped back to Finkie.
Celeste skipped to the table in the corner of the room, dipped her hand into a candy jar and popped a tiny red pill. "One for me.".
She took out another red pill and skipped back to Finkie. "And one for you."
"?" Finkie with his mouth agape.
Celeste popped the pill in Finkie's open mouth.
"What did I just swallow?"
"A trust pill," she said while stuffing a nipple into Finkie's open mouth. "Don't worry, it's just a pomegranate vitamin. Alll natural and chock-full of vitamin C."
Finkie tried to pull her erect nipple out of his mouth, but Celeste stuffed it back in.
"That pill was a test. If the would-be lover won't take it, no questions asked: He goes home. But if the lover takes it on blind trust, he gets to feast on these delightful engorged ruby nipples." She pulled out a nipple from Finkie's mouth. "Feast, dear boy."
"..."
She stuffed the other nipple in his mouth. "I will now recite one of my poems while you stir my passions with your lips, your tongue, your teeth...Bite it! Bite it!"
Finkie pulled the boob from his mouth,"I'm not into pain or biting."
"Of course not, fool! Just suck away! Bite It is the title of my poem." Celeste grabbed Finkie by the hair and stuffed the nipple back in his mouth.
"Bite me, bite me!
Eat me, beat me
Excrete me, deplete me
Fill me with your syrup of love.
Over centuries, over eons
Over clouds, over stars
On Earth and on Mars
We melded flesh.
Rise the phoenix, my lover
Rise
into the sky
So high, so high...
Fly."
Celeste turned around quickly and slapped her ass.
Finkie, "?"
"No, there really was a fly on my ass, but I scared the little scamp away."
"I wasn't thinking about that, but now I'm thinking: Why are you driving a car with Quebec plates?"
Good point, didn't think of that. "It's my friend's car. We came here together in his car, but he went home with this hippy chick who lives around here. And I needed a car to get home." Phew!
"Home?"
Uuummm..."Yeah, I have to stay with my parents when I'm in town."
"Why are you here anyways?"
My story, my story. "I'm scouting for locations for my Bill Murray movie. Between the exchange rate and lower local labour costs, we save like forty per cent shooting here."
"Who did you say your friend went home with?"
Yesss, a change of topic! "I don't know her name but she has hair down to her ass."
"Celeste! Her father's this zillionaire pharmaceutical tycoon. As for Celeste, well, she's been with half the guys in the neighborhood and..."
CUT TO:
INTERIOR: CELESTE'S APARTMENT
A brownstone walk-up with creaky oak floors, hot-water radiators and lots of macramé and beaded curtains.
"Just take off your clothes here...What did you say your name was?"
"Ronnie, but my friends call me Finkie."
"Finkie? That's an odd name," Celeste said while slipping out of her dress.
Hot bod, but lots of hair - the armpits, the legs and Lord, the bush, that great big brown bush. Finkie almost lunged towards the phone on the macramé-covered end-table, but using every iota of self-restraint, was able to control himself. How he longed to call Harry and report back on the hippy chick's crazy brown bush. That's what best friends do. But no, he couldn't make that kind of call...Anymore...Maybe once more...At least without getting caught. Oh, but it isn't mature. It isn't acceptable...now. But someday it would, and on that fine day, on that fine day, when he had his own hit reality show on the Playboy Channel, Getting Lucky: Live!, no one would ever again dare to call Finkie immature. Except Harry; best friends can call each other anything.
"It's just a nickname, short for Finkelstein. I've actually been thinking of changing my last name to something more classy, like Da Vinci, De Carlo, y'know...De something. Let's face it, Finkelstein is a name that works if you're a Three Stooge. Moe, Larry and Curly -- Finkelstein material. But I'm no Stooge," he sighed. "I have to work the phones if I want to get in and see people. He lifted the phone and pressed it against his ear. 'That's Fin-kel-stein, F-I-N...K...E...L...Stein with the E before the I...Can you spell that again?' Fuck, man. What was my great great zayde thinking when he founded the family name? I vant a ridicalous soundink nem det evryvun shood leff."
"Do you want to make love or just talk?"
"Whaddaya think, Celeste?" Finkie contemplated her great big brown bush. "So what's your last name, Celeste?"
"RA-Elle-Ia. That's capital R, capital A, hyphen, capital E...little L, little L again, little e...dash, not a hyphen, capital I, little A. Fini. I'm the only one in the world with this name, I created it myself," she said while flipping her thick mane to the side. "My last name in this life used to be Schwartz but I was once a Medici. A plebian name like Schwartz, what a cosmic mistake! I believe that everyone should change their name. A name should be like a river, fluid, flowing and ever-changing."
"..." Finkie was speechless, standing there like a dorky six-year old with his hand in his underwear, unself-consciously fiddling with his balls.
"Ronnie, are you going to take off your underwear already?"
Finkie pointed to the drooling Rottweiler lying on the floor. "I was hoping you might take the dog out of the room first."
"Galaxy? He's been my guardian though many lives. He's won't bother anyone. He just likes to watch."
Galaxy barked.
"Now off with the rest!" Celeste seized the the elastic band of Finkie's underwear between her teeth and slid the grey Fruit of the Looms down his skinny legs. He thanked the stars that he put on colored underwear that morning
The hair along Galaxy's back stood on end while he growled.
"Maybe he smells the baby powder on my balls and doesn't like it?"
Celeste looked down at her bush and pondered. "Organic talcum powder or the commercial stuff?"
"Organic, actually my sister Sharon makes it."
"Oh my, it sounds lovely. I must savor the scent." She slipped off Finkie's
underwear and buried her head in his 'standing room only' Private Members section.
"Aaa-choooo!" she sneezed, leaving behind a hanging looey dangling precariously from atop Finkie's mighty peak.
"Ooohhh maaannn!" Finkie cried. He shook his thing and flung off the hanging looey. The great gob of elongated goo danced and fluttered like a ballet in the air, gracefully, artfully, until it was intercepted and slurped up by Galaxy. "That's the grossest Scoobie snack I've ever seen."
"Excusez moi, Ronnie...I'm horrified. I didn't know that there was lavender in the talcum powder. Lavender is an allergy I developed in the sixth century whilst on a spice caravan with the Moors in the Gobi. But let's not allow that to spoil our night... my eager young lover."
Finkie turned his head and rolled his eyes. Quelle fruit-cake. Quelle bush. But alas, lust among young men trumps all, so he hung in there with an open mind.
Celeste skipped to the table in the corner of the room, dipped her hand into a candy jar and popped a tiny pill. She took out anther pill and skipped back to Finkie.
Celeste skipped to the table in the corner of the room, dipped her hand into a candy jar and popped a tiny red pill. "One for me.".
She took out another red pill and skipped back to Finkie. "And one for you."
"?" Finkie with his mouth agape.
Celeste popped the pill in Finkie's open mouth.
"What did I just swallow?"
"A trust pill," she said while stuffing a nipple into Finkie's open mouth. "Don't worry, it's just a pomegranate vitamin. Alll natural and chock-full of vitamin C."
Finkie tried to pull her erect nipple out of his mouth, but Celeste stuffed it back in.
"That pill was a test. If the would-be lover won't take it, no questions asked: He goes home. But if the lover takes it on blind trust, he gets to feast on these delightful engorged ruby nipples." She pulled out a nipple from Finkie's mouth. "Feast, dear boy."
"..."
She stuffed the other nipple in his mouth. "I will now recite one of my poems while you stir my passions with your lips, your tongue, your teeth...Bite it! Bite it!"
Finkie pulled the boob from his mouth,"I'm not into pain or biting."
"Of course not, fool! Just suck away! Bite It is the title of my poem." Celeste grabbed Finkie by the hair and stuffed the nipple back in his mouth.
"Bite me, bite me!
Eat me, beat me
Excrete me, deplete me
Fill me with your syrup of love.
Over centuries, over eons
Over clouds, over stars
On Earth and on Mars
We melded flesh.
Rise the phoenix, my lover
Rise
into the sky
So high, so high...
Fly."
Celeste turned around quickly and slapped her ass.
Finkie, "?"
"No, there really was a fly on my ass, but I scared the little scamp away."
Saturday, February 25, 2012
"This isn't my car if that's what you were thinking."
"I wasn't thinking about that, but now I'm thinking, why are you driving a car with Quebec plates?"
"It's my friend's car. We came here together in his car, but he went home with this hippy chick who lives around here. And I needed a car to get home."
"Home?"
"Yeah, I have to stay with my parents when I'm in town."
"Why are you here anyways?"
"I'm scouting for locations for my Bill Murray movie. Between the exchange rate and lower local labour costs, we save like forty per cent shooting here."
"Who did you say your friend went home with?"
"I don't know her name but she has hair down to her ass."
"Celeste! She been with half the guys in the neighborhood and..."
CUT TO:
"Just take off your clothes, here...What did you say your name was?"
"Ronnie, but my friends call me Finkie."
"Finkie? That's not a very nice name," Celeste said while slipping out of her dress.
Finkie instinctively lunged-then-pulled-back towards the phone on the end-table. He had to call up Harry and tell him that the hippy chick really had this crazy bush happening. No, he couldn't make that kind of call...anymore...maybe once more...at least without getting caught. It wasn't mature. It wasn't acceptable, now, but someday it would, when he had his own hit reality show on the Playboy Channel, Getting Lucky: Live!
"It's just a nickname, short for Finkelstein. I've actually been thinking of changing my last name to something classy sounding like Da Vinci. Let's face it, Finkelstein is a name that works if you're a Three Stooge. Moe, Larry and Curly Finkelstein, sounds perfect. But what if I sold insurance and made cold calls all day?" Finkie lifted the phone and pressed it against his ear. 'That's Fin-kel-stein, F-I-N...K...E...L...No not K...L...E...and Stein with the E before the I...Can you spell that again?' Fuck, man. What was my great great granddaddy thinking when he founded the family name? I vant a ridiculous nem, det evryvun shood leff."
"Do you want to make love or just talk?"
"Whaddaya think, Celeste? So what's your last name?"
"RA-Elle-Ia. That's capital R, capital A, hyphen, capital E...little L, little L again, little e...dash, not a hyphen, capital I, little A. Fini. I'm the only one in the world with this name, I created it myself. My last name used to be Leduc. How I hated it! Everyone should change their names."
"..." Finkie was speechless, his hand in his underwear, unself-consciously fiddling with his balls like a six year old.
"Are you going to take off your underwear?"
Finkie pointed to the drooling Rottweiler lying on the floor. "I was hoping you might take the dog out of the room first."
"Galaxy? He's been my guardian though many lives. He's won't bother anyone. He just likes to watch."
Galaxy barked.
"Now off with the rest!" Celeste seized the the elastic band of Finkie's underwear with her teeth and slid them off.
The hair along Galaxy's back stood on end while he growled.
"Maybe he smells the baby powder on my balls and doesn't like it?"
Celeste looked down at her bush and contemplated. "Organic talcum powder or the commercial stuff?"
"Organic, actually Sharon makes it."
"Oh my, it sounds lovely. I must have a sniff." She slipped off Finkie's underwear and buried her head into his aroused Members Only section.
"Aaa-choooo!" she sneezed, leaving behind a hanging looey dangling precariously from atop Finkie's pointer.
"Ooohhh maaannn!" Finkie cried. He flinged the hanging looey off his thing. The gob off goo fluttered and danced in the air until it was intercepted and gobbled up by Galaxy. "That's the grossest Scoobie snack I've ever seen."
"Excuse me, Ronnie, I'm horrific. I'm allergic to the lavender in the talcum. But let's not allow that to spoil our night."
Celeste skipped to the table in the corner of the room, dipped her hand into a candy jar and popped a tiny pill. She took out anther pill and skipped back to Finkie.
"Try this," she said.
"I wasn't thinking about that, but now I'm thinking, why are you driving a car with Quebec plates?"
"It's my friend's car. We came here together in his car, but he went home with this hippy chick who lives around here. And I needed a car to get home."
"Home?"
"Yeah, I have to stay with my parents when I'm in town."
"Why are you here anyways?"
"I'm scouting for locations for my Bill Murray movie. Between the exchange rate and lower local labour costs, we save like forty per cent shooting here."
"Who did you say your friend went home with?"
"I don't know her name but she has hair down to her ass."
"Celeste! She been with half the guys in the neighborhood and..."
CUT TO:
"Just take off your clothes, here...What did you say your name was?"
"Ronnie, but my friends call me Finkie."
"Finkie? That's not a very nice name," Celeste said while slipping out of her dress.
Finkie instinctively lunged-then-pulled-back towards the phone on the end-table. He had to call up Harry and tell him that the hippy chick really had this crazy bush happening. No, he couldn't make that kind of call...anymore...maybe once more...at least without getting caught. It wasn't mature. It wasn't acceptable, now, but someday it would, when he had his own hit reality show on the Playboy Channel, Getting Lucky: Live!
"It's just a nickname, short for Finkelstein. I've actually been thinking of changing my last name to something classy sounding like Da Vinci. Let's face it, Finkelstein is a name that works if you're a Three Stooge. Moe, Larry and Curly Finkelstein, sounds perfect. But what if I sold insurance and made cold calls all day?" Finkie lifted the phone and pressed it against his ear. 'That's Fin-kel-stein, F-I-N...K...E...L...No not K...L...E...and Stein with the E before the I...Can you spell that again?' Fuck, man. What was my great great granddaddy thinking when he founded the family name? I vant a ridiculous nem, det evryvun shood leff."
"Do you want to make love or just talk?"
"Whaddaya think, Celeste? So what's your last name?"
"RA-Elle-Ia. That's capital R, capital A, hyphen, capital E...little L, little L again, little e...dash, not a hyphen, capital I, little A. Fini. I'm the only one in the world with this name, I created it myself. My last name used to be Leduc. How I hated it! Everyone should change their names."
"..." Finkie was speechless, his hand in his underwear, unself-consciously fiddling with his balls like a six year old.
"Are you going to take off your underwear?"
Finkie pointed to the drooling Rottweiler lying on the floor. "I was hoping you might take the dog out of the room first."
"Galaxy? He's been my guardian though many lives. He's won't bother anyone. He just likes to watch."
Galaxy barked.
"Now off with the rest!" Celeste seized the the elastic band of Finkie's underwear with her teeth and slid them off.
The hair along Galaxy's back stood on end while he growled.
"Maybe he smells the baby powder on my balls and doesn't like it?"
Celeste looked down at her bush and contemplated. "Organic talcum powder or the commercial stuff?"
"Organic, actually Sharon makes it."
"Oh my, it sounds lovely. I must have a sniff." She slipped off Finkie's underwear and buried her head into his aroused Members Only section.
"Aaa-choooo!" she sneezed, leaving behind a hanging looey dangling precariously from atop Finkie's pointer.
"Ooohhh maaannn!" Finkie cried. He flinged the hanging looey off his thing. The gob off goo fluttered and danced in the air until it was intercepted and gobbled up by Galaxy. "That's the grossest Scoobie snack I've ever seen."
"Excuse me, Ronnie, I'm horrific. I'm allergic to the lavender in the talcum. But let's not allow that to spoil our night."
Celeste skipped to the table in the corner of the room, dipped her hand into a candy jar and popped a tiny pill. She took out anther pill and skipped back to Finkie.
"Try this," she said.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
From the Coat Room
"So we're Hollywood movie producers making a Bill Murray picture. Anything we do or say is cool."
"Right, Harry. But first we have to leave the coat room, we've certainly been here long enough."
"You call ten minutes long?"
"Yeah, when you're in a coat room and all the action is happening in the club."
"Yeah, well, I like it here. It's comforting to be around coats. I like the way a room full of coats muffles the sounds. I feel warm and secure among coats...By the way, did you notice that the coat-check chick is wicked hot?"
"All right, Harry, the jig is up. Who are you dodging?"
"No one. I just gotta psyche myself up first."
Finkie scouted the club and nodded. "Of course...Stevie Dash! He must be in town for the holidays.You don't want to go in 'cause Stevie Dash is there."
"He is?"
"Like you don't know, Harry. You're afraid of Stevie Dash, you're afraid of Stevie Dash!"
"Fuck off. Like I give a shit about Stevie Dash."
"You do, Harry. His success is eating you up."
"Yeah, right."
"Relax, Harry. Have fun tonight. Dash won't even notice you're here. From what I can make out, he's too busy working that blonde in the corner...Correction: blondes."
"Good for him, it's the noise of this place is killing me. Everything is thumping. My head's about to explode."
"Follow me. We'll go to the other end of the club, away from the speakers, away from Dash."
"I'm panicking, dude. There's too many people here now."
"Because this club is hot."
"If there was a fire, we're finished. Where's the closest exit?"
"Get your shit together, Harry."
"The smoke in here is killing me. Everyone's smoking. A careless mistake and this place goes up in flames."
"Wrong. The sprinklers go off and you get wet."
"Yeah, well...I just got this shirt dry cleaned...You know what they charge for dry cleaning?"
"?"
"And you know how claustrophobic I get..."
"?"
"Say something, Finkie. Who are you staring at, Finkie?"
Finkie drew close to Harry and discreetly pointed at a long-haired hippy chick dancing alone.
"Don't point, don't point, Finkie! You'll blow our cover."
"What cover?"
"You always work a club under cover. If any girl finds out who you really really are, you're finished. Through."
"Why's that, Harry?"
"Because we are who we are."
"I thought we're movie producers from L.A.?"
"But we're not really, so don't blow our cover. So don't point, okay?"
"Harry, do you see the hippy-chick-with-the-hair-down-to-her-ass-dancing-like-a-fruit-loop?"
"No."
"Near the bald-guy-wearing-the-Ray Bans-dancing-like-a-dufus-with-the-chick-with-the-floppy-tits?"
"Man, you could make animal balloons out of those tits! She should be fined for not wearing a bra."
Finkie laughed. "Yeah, look behind him."
"Fucken Rapunzel, man! How'd you like a bush shot of her?"
"Fucken bush gardens under that skirt, man...But I think I know her."
"Fucken how?"
"I'm pretty sure she was in my sister's macrobiotic cooking class. And if I remember correctly, Rapunzel's Raelian."
"Sounds hot!...What's a Raelian?"
"It's this Star Trek kind of cult that believes that space aliens founded this world. Yeah, whatever, but they believe in free love. If I can get her into a conversation...sweet mama...we'll be doing horizontal calisthenics before I can snap my fingers. I'm going to tell her I saw a UFO last night."
"But what about our plan, Finkie, the producer story?"
"You think she gives a shit about that, Harry? She probably never even heard of Bill Murray."
"Then let's say we're doing a Speilberg movie. Close Encounters of the Bush Kind."
Finkie laughed. "I'd like to, man, but like I told you, I think Rapunzel knows my sister. You'll have to be the producer, Harry. She knows me."
"But I --"
"It's cool. She already knows I make movies. But you can still play the L.A. movie producer part."
"But--"
"I'm going to talk to her, Harry. Try to have some fun tonight. Start by leaving this coat room." Harry stood motionless in the coat room while Finkie weaved his way through the gyrating dancers and approached the Raelian Rapunzel. He tapped her on her shoulder.
"Hi, I think I know you."
"Yes, you look familiar. Do I know you from another life? Mesopotamia, Babylon, Rome?"
"I think I used to wander in the desert with the Jews. That's why I'm so bad with directions. But in this life I know you from my sister Sharon's macrobiotic cooking class."
"Oh yes, Sharon! Sharon. She's remarkable with zucchini!"
"Mind if I dance with you...?"
"Celeste..."
"As in celestial...That's where we met before...somewhere in the heavens, although I couldn't tell you where. Big place this universe and poor signage. "
While Harry watched them dance from the coat room. He still couldn't bring himself to leave, not as long as Stevie Dash was there.
"I wonder what's the capacity for the fire code here?" Harry said to the coat-check chick. He wondered if she liked bowling. Probably not, he thought. She was way too hot. And how she controlled the coats, like she was born into it.
The coat-check chick pointed to a sign on the wall. "Three hundred and fifty-six. If twenty people leave, we'll be about right."
Harry gasped.
"Why? Are you a fire marshall or something?"
"Close, I'm a movie producer, I put out fires all day." Why not? If he wasn't leaving the coat-room, might as well play the L.A. movie producer.
"A movie producer, eh? What kind of movies do you make?"
"Comedies. Funny comedies."
"Like what?"
"Ummm...Independent edgy comedies, like, like... Have you heard of the movie, Myrna & Gord? A romantic comedy set in a bowling alley. He reconditions old bowling shoes, she mends socks. Together they find love."
"You should make a movie about this room. Every coat has a story."
"Like bowling shoes."
"?"
"So what's your name?"
"Gina."
"Gina...Nice name...Can I call you, baby?"
"Baby? And I don't even know your name?"
"Harry. Harry Starr, baby."
"No one says baby anymore."
"They do in the movie business. It's, baby this, baby that."
"Well I don't like it, it's degrading."
"I agree, it's one of those Hollywood things that I hate."
"Then why do you use it?"
"It just works...Gina."
"I see, I see."
"Aren't you going to ask me something about the movie business? Everyone does."
"No, I never watch movies. Who has the time?"
"I live in L.A. and I'm producing a comedy starring Bill Murray."
"My plumber's name is Murray."
"Murray Goldfarb?! From Goldfarb Brothers Plumbing?"
"...Yeah, he unblocked my kitchen sink yesterday."
"And he probably told you never to use Drano. He hates that product."
"Small world. How do you know Murray?"
"He sits next my father at synagogue during the high holidays. Made a fortune in plumbing fixtures."
"I thought you were from L.A.?"
"I am now, but I grew up in Montreal."
"Oookaaay..."
"And I moved to L.A. to get in the movie business and I bowl Wednesday night because it's the thing to do in L.A. and Bill Murray's on my team and he's doing my movie."
"Who's Bill Murray?"
"How could you not know who Bill Murray is? Saturday Night Live? Meatballs? Ghostbusters?"
"I don't even have a TV."
"My movie has a budget of forty million."
"If you're trying to impress me you could start by giving me your coat and a tip would be nice."
"I thought you don't have to tip until you get your coat back?"
"Some guys tip before. Usually the hot ones, like him," Gina said while pointing to Stevie Dash on the dance floor.
"Yeah, I know him."
"You seem to know a lot of people around here for a guy who lives in L.A."
"He's actually a film-maker. He won something at Cannes."
"He's so good looking!"
"Trust me, baby, he's a dick."
"At least he doesn't go around calling women he doesn't know, baby."
"No, he does. he's like Mr. Baby."
"Like you."
Harry took off his coat and handed it to her. He grudgingly stuffed a twenty in the tip jar. "But I tip better." If I'm trying to get laid.
"I'm starting to like you...Harry."
"So what are you doing later, when everybody gets their coats back?"
"Getting a ride home from you, baby."
"Right, Harry. But first we have to leave the coat room, we've certainly been here long enough."
"You call ten minutes long?"
"Yeah, when you're in a coat room and all the action is happening in the club."
"Yeah, well, I like it here. It's comforting to be around coats. I like the way a room full of coats muffles the sounds. I feel warm and secure among coats...By the way, did you notice that the coat-check chick is wicked hot?"
"All right, Harry, the jig is up. Who are you dodging?"
"No one. I just gotta psyche myself up first."
Finkie scouted the club and nodded. "Of course...Stevie Dash! He must be in town for the holidays.You don't want to go in 'cause Stevie Dash is there."
"He is?"
"Like you don't know, Harry. You're afraid of Stevie Dash, you're afraid of Stevie Dash!"
"Fuck off. Like I give a shit about Stevie Dash."
"You do, Harry. His success is eating you up."
"Yeah, right."
"Relax, Harry. Have fun tonight. Dash won't even notice you're here. From what I can make out, he's too busy working that blonde in the corner...Correction: blondes."
"Good for him, it's the noise of this place is killing me. Everything is thumping. My head's about to explode."
"Follow me. We'll go to the other end of the club, away from the speakers, away from Dash."
"I'm panicking, dude. There's too many people here now."
"Because this club is hot."
"If there was a fire, we're finished. Where's the closest exit?"
"Get your shit together, Harry."
"The smoke in here is killing me. Everyone's smoking. A careless mistake and this place goes up in flames."
"Wrong. The sprinklers go off and you get wet."
"Yeah, well...I just got this shirt dry cleaned...You know what they charge for dry cleaning?"
"?"
"And you know how claustrophobic I get..."
"?"
"Say something, Finkie. Who are you staring at, Finkie?"
Finkie drew close to Harry and discreetly pointed at a long-haired hippy chick dancing alone.
"Don't point, don't point, Finkie! You'll blow our cover."
"What cover?"
"You always work a club under cover. If any girl finds out who you really really are, you're finished. Through."
"Why's that, Harry?"
"Because we are who we are."
"I thought we're movie producers from L.A.?"
"But we're not really, so don't blow our cover. So don't point, okay?"
"Harry, do you see the hippy-chick-with-the-hair-down-to-her-ass-dancing-like-a-fruit-loop?"
"No."
"Near the bald-guy-wearing-the-Ray Bans-dancing-like-a-dufus-with-the-chick-with-the-floppy-tits?"
"Man, you could make animal balloons out of those tits! She should be fined for not wearing a bra."
Finkie laughed. "Yeah, look behind him."
"Fucken Rapunzel, man! How'd you like a bush shot of her?"
"Fucken bush gardens under that skirt, man...But I think I know her."
"Fucken how?"
"I'm pretty sure she was in my sister's macrobiotic cooking class. And if I remember correctly, Rapunzel's Raelian."
"Sounds hot!...What's a Raelian?"
"It's this Star Trek kind of cult that believes that space aliens founded this world. Yeah, whatever, but they believe in free love. If I can get her into a conversation...sweet mama...we'll be doing horizontal calisthenics before I can snap my fingers. I'm going to tell her I saw a UFO last night."
"But what about our plan, Finkie, the producer story?"
"You think she gives a shit about that, Harry? She probably never even heard of Bill Murray."
"Then let's say we're doing a Speilberg movie. Close Encounters of the Bush Kind."
Finkie laughed. "I'd like to, man, but like I told you, I think Rapunzel knows my sister. You'll have to be the producer, Harry. She knows me."
"But I --"
"It's cool. She already knows I make movies. But you can still play the L.A. movie producer part."
"But--"
"I'm going to talk to her, Harry. Try to have some fun tonight. Start by leaving this coat room." Harry stood motionless in the coat room while Finkie weaved his way through the gyrating dancers and approached the Raelian Rapunzel. He tapped her on her shoulder.
"Hi, I think I know you."
"Yes, you look familiar. Do I know you from another life? Mesopotamia, Babylon, Rome?"
"I think I used to wander in the desert with the Jews. That's why I'm so bad with directions. But in this life I know you from my sister Sharon's macrobiotic cooking class."
"Oh yes, Sharon! Sharon. She's remarkable with zucchini!"
"Mind if I dance with you...?"
"Celeste..."
"As in celestial...That's where we met before...somewhere in the heavens, although I couldn't tell you where. Big place this universe and poor signage. "
While Harry watched them dance from the coat room. He still couldn't bring himself to leave, not as long as Stevie Dash was there.
"I wonder what's the capacity for the fire code here?" Harry said to the coat-check chick. He wondered if she liked bowling. Probably not, he thought. She was way too hot. And how she controlled the coats, like she was born into it.
The coat-check chick pointed to a sign on the wall. "Three hundred and fifty-six. If twenty people leave, we'll be about right."
Harry gasped.
"Why? Are you a fire marshall or something?"
"Close, I'm a movie producer, I put out fires all day." Why not? If he wasn't leaving the coat-room, might as well play the L.A. movie producer.
"A movie producer, eh? What kind of movies do you make?"
"Comedies. Funny comedies."
"Like what?"
"Ummm...Independent edgy comedies, like, like... Have you heard of the movie, Myrna & Gord? A romantic comedy set in a bowling alley. He reconditions old bowling shoes, she mends socks. Together they find love."
"You should make a movie about this room. Every coat has a story."
"Like bowling shoes."
"?"
"So what's your name?"
"Gina."
"Gina...Nice name...Can I call you, baby?"
"Baby? And I don't even know your name?"
"Harry. Harry Starr, baby."
"No one says baby anymore."
"They do in the movie business. It's, baby this, baby that."
"Well I don't like it, it's degrading."
"I agree, it's one of those Hollywood things that I hate."
"Then why do you use it?"
"It just works...Gina."
"I see, I see."
"Aren't you going to ask me something about the movie business? Everyone does."
"No, I never watch movies. Who has the time?"
"I live in L.A. and I'm producing a comedy starring Bill Murray."
"My plumber's name is Murray."
"Murray Goldfarb?! From Goldfarb Brothers Plumbing?"
"...Yeah, he unblocked my kitchen sink yesterday."
"And he probably told you never to use Drano. He hates that product."
"Small world. How do you know Murray?"
"He sits next my father at synagogue during the high holidays. Made a fortune in plumbing fixtures."
"I thought you were from L.A.?"
"I am now, but I grew up in Montreal."
"Oookaaay..."
"And I moved to L.A. to get in the movie business and I bowl Wednesday night because it's the thing to do in L.A. and Bill Murray's on my team and he's doing my movie."
"Who's Bill Murray?"
"How could you not know who Bill Murray is? Saturday Night Live? Meatballs? Ghostbusters?"
"I don't even have a TV."
"My movie has a budget of forty million."
"If you're trying to impress me you could start by giving me your coat and a tip would be nice."
"I thought you don't have to tip until you get your coat back?"
"Some guys tip before. Usually the hot ones, like him," Gina said while pointing to Stevie Dash on the dance floor.
"Yeah, I know him."
"You seem to know a lot of people around here for a guy who lives in L.A."
"He's actually a film-maker. He won something at Cannes."
"He's so good looking!"
"Trust me, baby, he's a dick."
"At least he doesn't go around calling women he doesn't know, baby."
"No, he does. he's like Mr. Baby."
"Like you."
Harry took off his coat and handed it to her. He grudgingly stuffed a twenty in the tip jar. "But I tip better." If I'm trying to get laid.
"I'm starting to like you...Harry."
"So what are you doing later, when everybody gets their coats back?"
"Getting a ride home from you, baby."
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
"So we're Hollywood movie producers making a Bill Murray picture. Anything we do or say is cool."
"Right, Harry. But first we have to leave the coat-check room, we've certainly been here long enough."
"You call ten minutes long?"
"..."
"Yeah, it's long...Another five won't kill us?"
"Harry, don't cave on me now. I like the producer idea."
"Me too. Try it out and we'll see how it works."
"You're chicken-shitting out on me again, Harry."
"It has nothing to do with that. It's a stupid idea, that's all."
"Not as stupid as hanging out in the coat-check room all night."
"The noise of this place is killing me, Finkie. Everything is thumping. My head's about to explode."
"Follow me. We'll go to the other end of the room, away from the speakers."
"I'm panicking, dude. There's too many people here now."
"Because this club is hot."
"If there was a fire, we're finished. Where's the closest exit?"
"Just relax, Harry."
"The smoke in here is killing me. Everyone's smoking. A careless mistake and this place goes up in flames."
"Who're you staring at, Finkie?"
Finkie drew close to Harry and discreetly pointed at the dancing girls.
"Don't point, don't point! You'll blow our cover."
"What cover?"
"You always work a club under cover. If any girl finds out who you really really are, you're finished. Through."
"Why's that, Harry?"
"Because we are who we are."
"I thought we're movie producers from L.A.?"
"But we're not really, so don't blow our over. So don't point, okay?"
"You see the one with the feather in hair? Dancing with the tall brunette?"
"No."
"Near the dancing guy with the sunglasses?"
"That's dancing? He's just rubbing his thighs."
"Behind him. She's got long hair, way down past her shoulders."
"Oh that Rapunzel chick,"
"Yeah, that one. think I know her."
"How's that?"
"I'm pretty sure she was in my sister's macrobiotic cooking class. See that big medallion she's wearing? It looks like a Magen David fused wi!th a swastika. That means she's a Raelian."
"What's a Raelian?"
"It's this Star Trek kind of cult that believes that space aliens founded this world. Yeah, whatever, but they believe in free love. If I can get this girl into a conversation...sweet mama...we'll be doing horizontal calisthenics before I can snap my fingers. I'm going to tell her I saw a UFO last night."
"But what about our plan, Finkie, the producer story?"
"You think she gives a shit about that, Harry? She probably never even heard of Bill Murray."
"Then let's say we're doing a Speilberg movie. Close Encounters in Montreal."
"I'd like to, Harry, but like I told you, the chick knows my sister."
"You'll have to be the producer, Harry. She knows me."
"But I --"
"It's cool. She already knows I make movies. But you still can play the L.A. - Bill Murray project."
"But--"
"Follow me," Finkie instructed as he led Harry towards the Raellian Rapunzel and her dance partner.
"Hi, I think I know you." Finkie said.
"Yes, you look familiar. Do I know you from another life? Ancient Rome?"
"Maybe, but more recently from my sister, Sharon's macrobiotic cooking class."
"Oh yes, Sharon! She does beautiful things with zucchini."
Finkie whispered in Rapunzel's ear and nudged towards the center of the dance floor, leaving Harry alone with the gorgeous willowy brunette.
"I wonder what's the capacity for the fire code here?" Harry whispered in her ear.
She giggled. "Great opening line."
"Don't laugh, it usually works."
"Are you a fire marshall or something?"
"Close, I'm a movie producer, I put out fires all day." There I did it. I'm a movie producer.
"A movie producer, eh? What kind of movies do you make? And what's your name?"
" You ask a lot of questions for...for a..."
"Girl."
"As I thought..."
"Gina..."
"Gina...Can I call you baby?"
"Baby? And I don't even know your name?"
"Harry. Harry Starr, baby."
"No one says baby anymore."
"They do in the movie business. It's baby this, baby that."
"Well I don't like it, it's degrading."
"I agree, it's one of those Hollywood things that I hate."
"Then why do you use it?"
"Out of habit...Gina."
"I see, I see."
"Aren't you going to ask me about my movie producing."
"No, I never watch movies. Who has the time?"
"I'm producing a comedy starring Bill Murray and I live in L.A."
"My plumber's name is Murray."
"Murray Kagan?! From Kagan Brothers Plumbing?"
"...Yes, they're also my landlords."
"Sure, the Kagan brothers. They sit near my father at synagogue dung the high holidays. Made their money in plumbing fixtures."
I thought you were from L.A.?"
"I am now, but I grew up in Montreal."
"Oookaaay..."
"And I moved to L.A. To get in the movie business and I bowl Wednesday night because it's the thing to do in L.A. and Bill Murray's on my team and is doing my movie."
"Who's Bill Murray?"
"How could you not know who Bill Murray is? Saturday Night Live? Meatballs? Ghostbusters?"
"I don't even have a TV."
"My movie has a budget of forty million."
"You're making me dizzy, Harry. I liked it better when you were just calling me baby."
"Baby and remember, I'm also a bad boy."
"And probably full of shit, but I like you."
"Me too!"
"Right, Harry. But first we have to leave the coat-check room, we've certainly been here long enough."
"You call ten minutes long?"
"..."
"Yeah, it's long...Another five won't kill us?"
"Harry, don't cave on me now. I like the producer idea."
"Me too. Try it out and we'll see how it works."
"You're chicken-shitting out on me again, Harry."
"It has nothing to do with that. It's a stupid idea, that's all."
"Not as stupid as hanging out in the coat-check room all night."
"The noise of this place is killing me, Finkie. Everything is thumping. My head's about to explode."
"Follow me. We'll go to the other end of the room, away from the speakers."
"I'm panicking, dude. There's too many people here now."
"Because this club is hot."
"If there was a fire, we're finished. Where's the closest exit?"
"Just relax, Harry."
"The smoke in here is killing me. Everyone's smoking. A careless mistake and this place goes up in flames."
"Who're you staring at, Finkie?"
Finkie drew close to Harry and discreetly pointed at the dancing girls.
"Don't point, don't point! You'll blow our cover."
"What cover?"
"You always work a club under cover. If any girl finds out who you really really are, you're finished. Through."
"Why's that, Harry?"
"Because we are who we are."
"I thought we're movie producers from L.A.?"
"But we're not really, so don't blow our over. So don't point, okay?"
"You see the one with the feather in hair? Dancing with the tall brunette?"
"No."
"Near the dancing guy with the sunglasses?"
"That's dancing? He's just rubbing his thighs."
"Behind him. She's got long hair, way down past her shoulders."
"Oh that Rapunzel chick,"
"Yeah, that one. think I know her."
"How's that?"
"I'm pretty sure she was in my sister's macrobiotic cooking class. See that big medallion she's wearing? It looks like a Magen David fused wi!th a swastika. That means she's a Raelian."
"What's a Raelian?"
"It's this Star Trek kind of cult that believes that space aliens founded this world. Yeah, whatever, but they believe in free love. If I can get this girl into a conversation...sweet mama...we'll be doing horizontal calisthenics before I can snap my fingers. I'm going to tell her I saw a UFO last night."
"But what about our plan, Finkie, the producer story?"
"You think she gives a shit about that, Harry? She probably never even heard of Bill Murray."
"Then let's say we're doing a Speilberg movie. Close Encounters in Montreal."
"I'd like to, Harry, but like I told you, the chick knows my sister."
"You'll have to be the producer, Harry. She knows me."
"But I --"
"It's cool. She already knows I make movies. But you still can play the L.A. - Bill Murray project."
"But--"
"Follow me," Finkie instructed as he led Harry towards the Raellian Rapunzel and her dance partner.
"Hi, I think I know you." Finkie said.
"Yes, you look familiar. Do I know you from another life? Ancient Rome?"
"Maybe, but more recently from my sister, Sharon's macrobiotic cooking class."
"Oh yes, Sharon! She does beautiful things with zucchini."
Finkie whispered in Rapunzel's ear and nudged towards the center of the dance floor, leaving Harry alone with the gorgeous willowy brunette.
"I wonder what's the capacity for the fire code here?" Harry whispered in her ear.
She giggled. "Great opening line."
"Don't laugh, it usually works."
"Are you a fire marshall or something?"
"Close, I'm a movie producer, I put out fires all day." There I did it. I'm a movie producer.
"A movie producer, eh? What kind of movies do you make? And what's your name?"
" You ask a lot of questions for...for a..."
"Girl."
"As I thought..."
"Gina..."
"Gina...Can I call you baby?"
"Baby? And I don't even know your name?"
"Harry. Harry Starr, baby."
"No one says baby anymore."
"They do in the movie business. It's baby this, baby that."
"Well I don't like it, it's degrading."
"I agree, it's one of those Hollywood things that I hate."
"Then why do you use it?"
"Out of habit...Gina."
"I see, I see."
"Aren't you going to ask me about my movie producing."
"No, I never watch movies. Who has the time?"
"I'm producing a comedy starring Bill Murray and I live in L.A."
"My plumber's name is Murray."
"Murray Kagan?! From Kagan Brothers Plumbing?"
"...Yes, they're also my landlords."
"Sure, the Kagan brothers. They sit near my father at synagogue dung the high holidays. Made their money in plumbing fixtures."
I thought you were from L.A.?"
"I am now, but I grew up in Montreal."
"Oookaaay..."
"And I moved to L.A. To get in the movie business and I bowl Wednesday night because it's the thing to do in L.A. and Bill Murray's on my team and is doing my movie."
"Who's Bill Murray?"
"How could you not know who Bill Murray is? Saturday Night Live? Meatballs? Ghostbusters?"
"I don't even have a TV."
"My movie has a budget of forty million."
"You're making me dizzy, Harry. I liked it better when you were just calling me baby."
"Baby and remember, I'm also a bad boy."
"And probably full of shit, but I like you."
"Me too!"
Friday, February 17, 2012
Another Opening
It was apropos that Harry Starr blew it in the basement. He was after all, a subterranean kind of guy. He liked it dark. He liked it dank. He liked it down below.
Unlike Stevie Dash who clip-clopped down the basement stairs in his spiffy new clogs; he never blew a thing. Time for his smoldering look : Stevie dipped an eyebrow and squinted. He huffed away at the deliberately misplaced shock of dippity-dooed hair that graced his noble brow.
"Pffffft..." The peaked tuft of hair danced in the humid basement air from his blustery puff.
Stevie Dash - cool, hard and gorgeous. Sculpted like a block of marble. Built with pride. Destined to win.
Harry gritted his teeth and smiled. He yearned for a mallet and a pick, a pile-driver would be even better. Reduce the block of vanity to a mound of rubble and plant a flag on top of it. A flag with a star.
There he stood tall, in full glory, a sun king, a demi-god, Stevie Dash. Always new and improved, always evolving. Shedding skins with the seasons, waging war on imperfection. A hooked nose? Carved and whittled away into the centerpiece of a glorious equine profile. Nostrils petulantly aflare, exhaling steam, breathing fire. A warrior. So cool, so hard, so gorgeous. Say it again: Stevie Dash.
Enough of him, too much of him before saying hello.
"Haaaarry! How long has it been, guy?"
"Steeeevie! Too long, dude!"
Harry hated Stevie Dash. Not really, but he did. Even when Stevie cracked Harry's Top 10 friends list back in eighth grade. Harry liked going over to the Little Emperor's palace where everything sparkled, where the fridge was always full, where there was peace.
So Stevie was crazy in love with himself? So was Harry. Not really, but it always seemed like a good idea.
"That long, Harry? I've been so busy, it's like I lost track of time."
Not Harry. Time ticks away slowly in the basement in Subterranea.
It was an effort, but Harry rose from his couch-nest, slapped Stevie on the back and gave him a bear-hug. He hated himself for doing it, but it was a good act.
"So how's film school, Stevie?"
"Amazing, I don't know what's better, making movies or the fringe benefits. Heh heh heh."
He wanted Harry to ask, "Fringe benefits?
Unlike Stevie Dash who clip-clopped down the basement stairs in his spiffy new clogs; he never blew a thing. Time for his smoldering look : Stevie dipped an eyebrow and squinted. He huffed away at the deliberately misplaced shock of dippity-dooed hair that graced his noble brow.
"Pffffft..." The peaked tuft of hair danced in the humid basement air from his blustery puff.
Stevie Dash - cool, hard and gorgeous. Sculpted like a block of marble. Built with pride. Destined to win.
Harry gritted his teeth and smiled. He yearned for a mallet and a pick, a pile-driver would be even better. Reduce the block of vanity to a mound of rubble and plant a flag on top of it. A flag with a star.
There he stood tall, in full glory, a sun king, a demi-god, Stevie Dash. Always new and improved, always evolving. Shedding skins with the seasons, waging war on imperfection. A hooked nose? Carved and whittled away into the centerpiece of a glorious equine profile. Nostrils petulantly aflare, exhaling steam, breathing fire. A warrior. So cool, so hard, so gorgeous. Say it again: Stevie Dash.
Enough of him, too much of him before saying hello.
"Haaaarry! How long has it been, guy?"
"Steeeevie! Too long, dude!"
Harry hated Stevie Dash. Not really, but he did. Even when Stevie cracked Harry's Top 10 friends list back in eighth grade. Harry liked going over to the Little Emperor's palace where everything sparkled, where the fridge was always full, where there was peace.
So Stevie was crazy in love with himself? So was Harry. Not really, but it always seemed like a good idea.
"That long, Harry? I've been so busy, it's like I lost track of time."
Not Harry. Time ticks away slowly in the basement in Subterranea.
It was an effort, but Harry rose from his couch-nest, slapped Stevie on the back and gave him a bear-hug. He hated himself for doing it, but it was a good act.
"So how's film school, Stevie?"
"Amazing, I don't know what's better, making movies or the fringe benefits. Heh heh heh."
He wanted Harry to ask, "Fringe benefits?
Monday, February 13, 2012
The Secret Lives of Bowling Shoes
"I can't go out feeling like this, Finkie. I gotta go home, gotta..." Harry broke out into song.
"Shit, shower, shave and shampoo..."
"No...Stop it, Harry."
"I'm gonna shit, shower, shave and shampoo..."
"Stop it..."
"I'm gonna shit, shower, shave and shampoo."
"Stop it now or I'll--"
Sing. Finkie couldn't hold out any longer; the inane ditty went duet.
I'm gonna shit, shower, shave and shampoo
And when I'm through,
I'll shoot some goo
Gonna shit, shower, shaaave aaand shampooooo...
"I hate myself for doing that," Finkie said.
"Don't, it's a classic."
"Enough classic. Let's just go already."
Harry untied his bowling-shoes and winced. "Nasty...Not with my feet drenched in this rancid, rented bowling-shoes sweat. I feel like I'm being smothered in a communal pair of used underwear," he gagged. Spontaneously.
Finkie slipped off his bowling-shoes without untying them and took a quick sniff of the insides. "Nothing wrong." He faked gagging before giving his shoes to Gord at the bowling-shoes-rental counter.
"We disinfect the shoes after they're worn," a proud Gord said. And it was true...at least most of the time.
Harry rubbed his feet in disgust. "Then why can I feel the germs building colonies in my toe-jam as we speak?"
Snotty young folk, Gord thought. If the retired size-niners were good enough for him to wear as regular shoes, then occasional bowlers like Harry had no right to complain. All feet are equal in the eyes of the Lord, although some smell worse than others. At the end of the day it was all about the socks. If you wore thick ones, you could walk the world over.
Gord pointed to Harry's thread-bare socks. "Y'need new socks, that's why. There's a lady down the street who mends socks for thirty-nine cents a pair, doesn't charge tax. I think I still have her business card." He pulled out a cigar box from the Size-12 shelf and searched among the pile of curios.
"Hold on, I think I know who you're talking about! Myrna! She used to have a counter inside my cousin Ira's handbag repair shop! Yeah, Myrna...big...big...Myrna. She must've weighed five, six hundred pounds..."
"More like a solid two-forty...in her prime. I know that for a fact, we used to be...friendly...real friendly." Gord sighed. "And those gorgeous feet, toes like little wienies...And just as tasty! O Lord, sweet Myrna," Gord growled with a mischievous grin. O, how her eyes lit up when he'd bring her home a size-twelve he reconditioned with tender loving care!
He grabbed for the Aqua Velva from the Size 8 shelf and went through the motions of slapping on some cologne. Only thing; it was empty.
"But that's her alrighty. Myrna ran a nice cash business at your cousin's store. Has a heart of gold. If a regular was a little low on cash, she'd give them credit, no matter how big their sock-holes were." Gord sighed. "I know, that's how we first met."
"It's okay, Gord. I'm due for new socks," Harry said.
Finkie laced up his construction boots and said, "It's toe-jam or home jam, Harry. If you go home, you'll get cornered by your mother and the mahjong yentahs."
"Shit, I forgot about that. And your mother will be there too."
...Which peaked Gord's interest. Anything peaked Gord's interest. He pretended that he was busy as he arranged and rearranged the bowling-shoes homed in his real estate of humid shelves, while eavesdropping on the conversation. Business as usual.
Yes, some day Gord Smithy would write the great Canadian novel about the racy lives of these bowlers, at least that's what he promised Ian, his plump and ponderous Persian kitty. Over the years Gord had strung together close to a thousand words of his novel and even had a title, The Secret Lives of Bowling Shoes."Oh Lord," he'd confide to Ian, "if them shoes could talk. If them shoes could talk..."
"Last week they kicked out mom for cheating," Finkie said. "Apparently she's been raking it in for years."
Gord pricked up his ears. Yum, yum, yum, another juicy tale.
"What could she be raking in?" Harry asked. "They play for plastic chips."
"And mom's got drawers full of them. Ever since they locked up dad, she's gone klepto. She'll swipe anything, even plastic betting chips!"
"Aha," Gord blurted.
Finkie shot him a stern look. Gord yanked a pair of bowling-shoes from the Size 12 shelf and exclaimed,"Look what we have here - a size-eleven!" He deftly placed the size twelve he was holding, back on the Size 11 shelf.
"...Come to think of it, I thought I lost a pair of hockey tickets at your house last year," Harry told Finkie . "I was sure that I left them in the breast pocket of my leather jacket."
"A pair of reds in section 212?"
"Yeah!"
"Okay...My mother gave them as a gift to my epileptic cousin, Arnold for his bar mitzvah. Huge hockey fan that kid, but he'd never been to a Canadiens game in his life."
"Arnold? You mean "Ziffel," the red-headed kid in the Guy Lafleur hockey sweater? In fact, I remember him having a seizure at your house two years ago, the night that the Canadiens were eliminated from the playoffs...I hope that at least the poor kid enjoyed the game."
"Not really. My mother re-stole the tickets during our Passover seder when they hid the afikoman...I later overheard her telling my father when she visited him in jail, that she scalped the tickets for two hundred bucks."
"Two hundred bucks?!"
"Yeah, he was totally pissed! He thought that for a playoff game, she could've gotten double that."
"Forgive me for saying this, Finkie. But right now I hate your mother."
"You asshole! She loves you, Harry. She's always saying how cute you are."
"Really?"
"She says it all the time."
"Well, she is a fine looking woman, with a nice rack, I must say."
"Fucking cool it, you perv! This is my mother we're talking about. A little respect, please."
"Sorry, forget it, Finkie. Let's just go straight to the club, okay?"
"Okay, okay. But I'm keeping out an eye on you next time you come over."
Harry patted on the interior breast pocket of his jacket just to make sure that his wallet was still there.
"Shit, shower, shave and shampoo..."
"No...Stop it, Harry."
"I'm gonna shit, shower, shave and shampoo..."
"Stop it..."
"I'm gonna shit, shower, shave and shampoo."
"Stop it now or I'll--"
Sing. Finkie couldn't hold out any longer; the inane ditty went duet.
I'm gonna shit, shower, shave and shampoo
And when I'm through,
I'll shoot some goo
Gonna shit, shower, shaaave aaand shampooooo...
"I hate myself for doing that," Finkie said.
"Don't, it's a classic."
"Enough classic. Let's just go already."
Harry untied his bowling-shoes and winced. "Nasty...Not with my feet drenched in this rancid, rented bowling-shoes sweat. I feel like I'm being smothered in a communal pair of used underwear," he gagged. Spontaneously.
Finkie slipped off his bowling-shoes without untying them and took a quick sniff of the insides. "Nothing wrong." He faked gagging before giving his shoes to Gord at the bowling-shoes-rental counter.
"We disinfect the shoes after they're worn," a proud Gord said. And it was true...at least most of the time.
Harry rubbed his feet in disgust. "Then why can I feel the germs building colonies in my toe-jam as we speak?"
Snotty young folk, Gord thought. If the retired size-niners were good enough for him to wear as regular shoes, then occasional bowlers like Harry had no right to complain. All feet are equal in the eyes of the Lord, although some smell worse than others. At the end of the day it was all about the socks. If you wore thick ones, you could walk the world over.
Gord pointed to Harry's thread-bare socks. "Y'need new socks, that's why. There's a lady down the street who mends socks for thirty-nine cents a pair, doesn't charge tax. I think I still have her business card." He pulled out a cigar box from the Size-12 shelf and searched among the pile of curios.
"Hold on, I think I know who you're talking about! Myrna! She used to have a counter inside my cousin Ira's handbag repair shop! Yeah, Myrna...big...big...Myrna. She must've weighed five, six hundred pounds..."
"More like a solid two-forty...in her prime. I know that for a fact, we used to be...friendly...real friendly." Gord sighed. "And those gorgeous feet, toes like little wienies...And just as tasty! O Lord, sweet Myrna," Gord growled with a mischievous grin. O, how her eyes lit up when he'd bring her home a size-twelve he reconditioned with tender loving care!
He grabbed for the Aqua Velva from the Size 8 shelf and went through the motions of slapping on some cologne. Only thing; it was empty.
"But that's her alrighty. Myrna ran a nice cash business at your cousin's store. Has a heart of gold. If a regular was a little low on cash, she'd give them credit, no matter how big their sock-holes were." Gord sighed. "I know, that's how we first met."
"It's okay, Gord. I'm due for new socks," Harry said.
Finkie laced up his construction boots and said, "It's toe-jam or home jam, Harry. If you go home, you'll get cornered by your mother and the mahjong yentahs."
"Shit, I forgot about that. And your mother will be there too."
...Which peaked Gord's interest. Anything peaked Gord's interest. He pretended that he was busy as he arranged and rearranged the bowling-shoes homed in his real estate of humid shelves, while eavesdropping on the conversation. Business as usual.
Yes, some day Gord Smithy would write the great Canadian novel about the racy lives of these bowlers, at least that's what he promised Ian, his plump and ponderous Persian kitty. Over the years Gord had strung together close to a thousand words of his novel and even had a title, The Secret Lives of Bowling Shoes."Oh Lord," he'd confide to Ian, "if them shoes could talk. If them shoes could talk..."
"Last week they kicked out mom for cheating," Finkie said. "Apparently she's been raking it in for years."
Gord pricked up his ears. Yum, yum, yum, another juicy tale.
"What could she be raking in?" Harry asked. "They play for plastic chips."
"And mom's got drawers full of them. Ever since they locked up dad, she's gone klepto. She'll swipe anything, even plastic betting chips!"
"Aha," Gord blurted.
Finkie shot him a stern look. Gord yanked a pair of bowling-shoes from the Size 12 shelf and exclaimed,"Look what we have here - a size-eleven!" He deftly placed the size twelve he was holding, back on the Size 11 shelf.
"...Come to think of it, I thought I lost a pair of hockey tickets at your house last year," Harry told Finkie . "I was sure that I left them in the breast pocket of my leather jacket."
"A pair of reds in section 212?"
"Yeah!"
"Okay...My mother gave them as a gift to my epileptic cousin, Arnold for his bar mitzvah. Huge hockey fan that kid, but he'd never been to a Canadiens game in his life."
"Arnold? You mean "Ziffel," the red-headed kid in the Guy Lafleur hockey sweater? In fact, I remember him having a seizure at your house two years ago, the night that the Canadiens were eliminated from the playoffs...I hope that at least the poor kid enjoyed the game."
"Not really. My mother re-stole the tickets during our Passover seder when they hid the afikoman...I later overheard her telling my father when she visited him in jail, that she scalped the tickets for two hundred bucks."
"Two hundred bucks?!"
"Yeah, he was totally pissed! He thought that for a playoff game, she could've gotten double that."
"Forgive me for saying this, Finkie. But right now I hate your mother."
"You asshole! She loves you, Harry. She's always saying how cute you are."
"Really?"
"She says it all the time."
"Well, she is a fine looking woman, with a nice rack, I must say."
"Fucking cool it, you perv! This is my mother we're talking about. A little respect, please."
"Sorry, forget it, Finkie. Let's just go straight to the club, okay?"
"Okay, okay. But I'm keeping out an eye on you next time you come over."
Harry patted on the interior breast pocket of his jacket just to make sure that his wallet was still there.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Bowling with the Stars
X! X! X!
"Another strike! Nice shot, Harry."
Harry picked up a bowling ball from the ball return and polished it. "It's time for Act Two, Finkie."
"What do you mean, Act Two?"
"In Act One I play this confused guy who sells belts and you play the schmuck who grovels to his Uncle Hershie for his shitty old job back."
"And what's Act Two? L.A.?"
"Why wait till L.A.? Carpe the day."
Harry plucked a twelve pounder from the ball return and bowled...
II I
"Shit, a split."
His next ball spun and curved down the alley between the pins as if it had a mind of its own. Harry groaned.
"Fucking right, Harry. Let's make it happen now." Finkie approached the ball return and grabbed a fourteen pounder. He fired it down the lane, knocking down nine pins. He nailed the last pin with his second shot.
\ ! \ ! \ !
"A spare! Baby!"
"We're sizzling, baby! Act Two begins now, here in this bowling alley where we open as Hollywood movie producers," Harry said while studying the scoreboard. He was up by twenty points and merrily on his way towards decimating Finkie again.
"So what's the name of our production company?"
"I dunno, it doesn't matter yet."
"It does to me. Let's call it Finkenstar Productions, a name to remember!"
"Finkenstar? Fucken Finkenstar? Sounds like a retarded horror movie - Finkenstar...I'm thinking a name that begins with Star, like...Starbud Entertainment...Stars plus buddies."
"With your name first? Who makes you the boss?"
"Of what, Finkie? This is a bullshit story. We're not really movie producers, at least not yet, we just play them."
"So basically we're impostors, fakes."
"Theoretically. But everyone's fake in Hollywood in one way or another. Look at this from this angle; we're in training for the real thing."
"So this will be our story from now on?"
"Just for people who don't already know us, because...we're from L.A."
Finkie scoped out the bowling alley: The tattooed grease-monkeys bowling in the alley to the right, the doughy big-assed lesbians to the left, hollering and high-fiving in their XXL plaid flannel shirts. Gord, the emaciated cross-eyed attendant at the bowling-shoes counter picking his nicotine-stained teeth with a Mr. Midas business card; an appointment next Monday at 2:30 pm is scrawled and smudged on the back. Gord's shit-box burps, farts and coughs even more than he does. A scene befitting a weepy country & western song playing on an AM car radio, on a desolate rain-slicked road in an industrial park, two in the morning...And the band's playin" somethin' by Tammy Wynette...Finkie shrugged his shoulders and whined, "One thing though. Why the fuck are we hanging out in a loser bowling alley?"
"Because we like to bowl and we like to slum it. It's the hip thing to do now in L.A." Harry's next shot spun and curved its way down the alley. Another strike!
X! X! X!
"Nice shot, Harry...But if we're Hollywood movie producers, why the fuck are we in Montreal?"
Harry slowly waved his outstretched arm around the alley as if he was atop a mountain peak showing the promised land to his people. "We are...scouting for locations...because...because it's cheaper to film here."
"What's the budget?"
"Thirty-five...no, forty million."
"And what's the movie about in case someone asks?"
Harry furrowed his brow in deep thought and rubbed his chin. "It's a story about...about a small-time coke smuggler...who, who fronts as a boot manufacturer."
"Uncle Hershie? He'll fucken kill us if he finds out. That will be our last story. We're dead."
"Don't worry, we won't mention his name...We can call his character...Horny Lorney. I like the idea of a creepy porn-obsessed drug dealer with thick glasses, greasy hair and a Fu Manchu mustache called Horny Lorney."
"Yeah, but we gotta change the boot factory part. I don't want to fuck around with Hershie, he's fucken psycho. Legend has it that he killed a dude in Morocco."
"Okay, screw that idea. Anyhow we're comedy writers. We're making a comedy."
"How about an Eddie Murphy project! I love Eddie Murphy."
"I once did too, but now he sucks. I'd rather work with Bill Murray. I can identify with him."
"Yeah, Bill Murray's cool, but how do we know him?"
"From our bowling league, duh."
"And?"
"And we bowl with him Wednesday nights, so Bill's like a friend."
"Bill Murray could do that. He says no to most projects, but he has this thing about popping into real lives out of nowhere. He's just crashed parties with regular people all over the place. Or he'll see some people hanging out late at night in a bar or restaurant and join them. We could even say that happened to us, say one night while we were eating pizza at a bowling lane. He read the first page of my script and bought it on site."
"Why do you get to be the writer? I thought we were a team."
"We are, I'm the writer, you're the director and we both produce. We're multi-talented."
"So how much did we get paid for the script?"
"We? I wrote the script, I get the money. You direct the movie for scale. I mean you have no credits if someone checks. But let's not get bogged down with too many details. Remember this is all bullshit anyways. According to my cousin, Joey Prager, the undisputed king of bullshitters, "You gotta keep it simple, keep it vague. And if anyone asks any questions, just tell them it's confidential." And Joey knows what he's talking about. He bullshitted his way into a million-dollar-a-year job on Wall Street with a degree in Industrial Agriculture from MacDonald College. The guy's never told the truth in his whole life. He used to go around telling everyone his mother gave him necking lessons."
"Wasn't that true?"
"Yeah, but his story about starring in a porno flick in Amsterdam was bullshit."
"I always thought you made up that story to get back at him for stealing your girlfriend."
"I did, but the story was bullshit. That's my point."
"Why are you now modeling your life-strategy on a pathological liar like your cousin Joey...although you're not far behind."
"Because bullshit is the only thing that's real anymore! It's the glue that binds the world together. What's Hollywood but one big illusion? The truth is relative, Finkie. Just go ask anyone who's made it. To quote my late Uncle Saul, a wonderful man who made a fortune selling salt that you could eat or use to melt the ice on your driveway during winter, "The more you're full of shit, the more people believe you.""
"You're so full of shit, Harry."
"That's why you believe in me."
"No I don't, but I think this strategy will work...Remember the story I told you about nailing Marvin's big sister, Tracey?"
"Yeah..."
"It was total bullshit."
"No shit! How'd you get her panties, the pair you used to pass around for us to sniff?"
Finkie hung his head in shame. "My sister's."
"And the...uh...authentic scent?"
"Dipped it in a can of tuna."
"Siiick, man! I love it.Together we make an unbeatable team!"
"I think so too, Harry...So what's this movie about? We should at least know something about it."
"Just say it's a comedy about bowling. Don't say anything else other than, 'It's confidential.'"
"Confidential. I like that."
"And when we talk, we say baby a lot. The show biz guys are always, baby this, baby that. Trust me, it's the magic word."
Finkie pointed to an orange ball in the ball return. "I've been eyeing that ten pound baby all night." He plunged his fingers into the holes of the ball but frantically yanked them out in disgust and panic. Finkie dropped the ball on the floor; it almost crushed his right foot. Pungent glops of a mucky brown gloop were smeared all over his dripping fingers. "Ahhhhhhhhh!!!" Finkie howled while sprinting towards the bathroom.
Harry thought it was the perfect opening for Act Two.
"Another strike! Nice shot, Harry."
Harry picked up a bowling ball from the ball return and polished it. "It's time for Act Two, Finkie."
"What do you mean, Act Two?"
"In Act One I play this confused guy who sells belts and you play the schmuck who grovels to his Uncle Hershie for his shitty old job back."
"And what's Act Two? L.A.?"
"Why wait till L.A.? Carpe the day."
Harry plucked a twelve pounder from the ball return and bowled...
II I
"Shit, a split."
His next ball spun and curved down the alley between the pins as if it had a mind of its own. Harry groaned.
"Fucking right, Harry. Let's make it happen now." Finkie approached the ball return and grabbed a fourteen pounder. He fired it down the lane, knocking down nine pins. He nailed the last pin with his second shot.
\ ! \ ! \ !
"A spare! Baby!"
"We're sizzling, baby! Act Two begins now, here in this bowling alley where we open as Hollywood movie producers," Harry said while studying the scoreboard. He was up by twenty points and merrily on his way towards decimating Finkie again.
"So what's the name of our production company?"
"I dunno, it doesn't matter yet."
"It does to me. Let's call it Finkenstar Productions, a name to remember!"
"Finkenstar? Fucken Finkenstar? Sounds like a retarded horror movie - Finkenstar...I'm thinking a name that begins with Star, like...Starbud Entertainment...Stars plus buddies."
"With your name first? Who makes you the boss?"
"Of what, Finkie? This is a bullshit story. We're not really movie producers, at least not yet, we just play them."
"So basically we're impostors, fakes."
"Theoretically. But everyone's fake in Hollywood in one way or another. Look at this from this angle; we're in training for the real thing."
"So this will be our story from now on?"
"Just for people who don't already know us, because...we're from L.A."
Finkie scoped out the bowling alley: The tattooed grease-monkeys bowling in the alley to the right, the doughy big-assed lesbians to the left, hollering and high-fiving in their XXL plaid flannel shirts. Gord, the emaciated cross-eyed attendant at the bowling-shoes counter picking his nicotine-stained teeth with a Mr. Midas business card; an appointment next Monday at 2:30 pm is scrawled and smudged on the back. Gord's shit-box burps, farts and coughs even more than he does. A scene befitting a weepy country & western song playing on an AM car radio, on a desolate rain-slicked road in an industrial park, two in the morning...And the band's playin" somethin' by Tammy Wynette...Finkie shrugged his shoulders and whined, "One thing though. Why the fuck are we hanging out in a loser bowling alley?"
"Because we like to bowl and we like to slum it. It's the hip thing to do now in L.A." Harry's next shot spun and curved its way down the alley. Another strike!
X! X! X!
"Nice shot, Harry...But if we're Hollywood movie producers, why the fuck are we in Montreal?"
Harry slowly waved his outstretched arm around the alley as if he was atop a mountain peak showing the promised land to his people. "We are...scouting for locations...because...because it's cheaper to film here."
"What's the budget?"
"Thirty-five...no, forty million."
"And what's the movie about in case someone asks?"
Harry furrowed his brow in deep thought and rubbed his chin. "It's a story about...about a small-time coke smuggler...who, who fronts as a boot manufacturer."
"Uncle Hershie? He'll fucken kill us if he finds out. That will be our last story. We're dead."
"Don't worry, we won't mention his name...We can call his character...Horny Lorney. I like the idea of a creepy porn-obsessed drug dealer with thick glasses, greasy hair and a Fu Manchu mustache called Horny Lorney."
"Yeah, but we gotta change the boot factory part. I don't want to fuck around with Hershie, he's fucken psycho. Legend has it that he killed a dude in Morocco."
"Okay, screw that idea. Anyhow we're comedy writers. We're making a comedy."
"How about an Eddie Murphy project! I love Eddie Murphy."
"I once did too, but now he sucks. I'd rather work with Bill Murray. I can identify with him."
"Yeah, Bill Murray's cool, but how do we know him?"
"From our bowling league, duh."
"And?"
"And we bowl with him Wednesday nights, so Bill's like a friend."
"Bill Murray could do that. He says no to most projects, but he has this thing about popping into real lives out of nowhere. He's just crashed parties with regular people all over the place. Or he'll see some people hanging out late at night in a bar or restaurant and join them. We could even say that happened to us, say one night while we were eating pizza at a bowling lane. He read the first page of my script and bought it on site."
"Why do you get to be the writer? I thought we were a team."
"We are, I'm the writer, you're the director and we both produce. We're multi-talented."
"So how much did we get paid for the script?"
"We? I wrote the script, I get the money. You direct the movie for scale. I mean you have no credits if someone checks. But let's not get bogged down with too many details. Remember this is all bullshit anyways. According to my cousin, Joey Prager, the undisputed king of bullshitters, "You gotta keep it simple, keep it vague. And if anyone asks any questions, just tell them it's confidential." And Joey knows what he's talking about. He bullshitted his way into a million-dollar-a-year job on Wall Street with a degree in Industrial Agriculture from MacDonald College. The guy's never told the truth in his whole life. He used to go around telling everyone his mother gave him necking lessons."
"Wasn't that true?"
"Yeah, but his story about starring in a porno flick in Amsterdam was bullshit."
"I always thought you made up that story to get back at him for stealing your girlfriend."
"I did, but the story was bullshit. That's my point."
"Why are you now modeling your life-strategy on a pathological liar like your cousin Joey...although you're not far behind."
"Because bullshit is the only thing that's real anymore! It's the glue that binds the world together. What's Hollywood but one big illusion? The truth is relative, Finkie. Just go ask anyone who's made it. To quote my late Uncle Saul, a wonderful man who made a fortune selling salt that you could eat or use to melt the ice on your driveway during winter, "The more you're full of shit, the more people believe you.""
"You're so full of shit, Harry."
"That's why you believe in me."
"No I don't, but I think this strategy will work...Remember the story I told you about nailing Marvin's big sister, Tracey?"
"Yeah..."
"It was total bullshit."
"No shit! How'd you get her panties, the pair you used to pass around for us to sniff?"
Finkie hung his head in shame. "My sister's."
"And the...uh...authentic scent?"
"Dipped it in a can of tuna."
"Siiick, man! I love it.Together we make an unbeatable team!"
"I think so too, Harry...So what's this movie about? We should at least know something about it."
"Just say it's a comedy about bowling. Don't say anything else other than, 'It's confidential.'"
"Confidential. I like that."
"And when we talk, we say baby a lot. The show biz guys are always, baby this, baby that. Trust me, it's the magic word."
Finkie pointed to an orange ball in the ball return. "I've been eyeing that ten pound baby all night." He plunged his fingers into the holes of the ball but frantically yanked them out in disgust and panic. Finkie dropped the ball on the floor; it almost crushed his right foot. Pungent glops of a mucky brown gloop were smeared all over his dripping fingers. "Ahhhhhhhhh!!!" Finkie howled while sprinting towards the bathroom.
Harry thought it was the perfect opening for Act Two.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
You Never Know
Nice house, nice street, nice neighborhood, not a crazy belt king palace.
"What for? So I should get the evil eye?" Alvy would say.
Especially when the home was in the wife's name. You never know.
"Am I looking to make the cover of People magazine?" he'd say.
No, Alvy Shugar never craved the limelight, unlike his second wife, Candy, who once graced the covers of less prestigious periodicals like Jugs and Moto Vixens.
"A fancy house? Who needs the attention?" Alvy would say.
Especially when you declare an annual income of $27,500. Who needs any of it?
Harry rang the door bell and Candy answered.
"Hello," Harry said to her cleavage.
"What took you so long?"
Just say the magic word.
"Baby."
"Oh, Harry."
"Oh, baby."
And that's all it took to get it going in the vestibule.
"Candace are you okay?" a nasal voice said from the living room.
"Stop," Candy whispered to Harry. "Help me get rid of this rabbi."
Candy straightened out her itsy-bitsy black lycra dress. There wasn't much to straighten
out though. Harry adjusted his hard-on. (What were Joey Prager's pecker-a-porter rules?
"Puerto Ricans pack it to the left, polacks to the right and schvartzes strapped to the thigh.") Where did that leave Harry? Better to just untuck the shirt and walk bow-legged.
Candy led Harry and his hard-on into the living room where Rabbi Shimmy was gnawing on a piece on a biscotti.
"Mmmm," Rabbi Shimmy cooed. "A kosher biscuit at it's finest." He coughed. "A little dry however..." The rabbi looked Harry up and down and quickly assessed that the young man had the donation potential of $250 a year. But that was just to start. Reel him and work the lines. "And who do I have the pleasure of meeting here?" the rabbi continued while rising to greet Harry. He cleared his throat; an avalanche of crumbs cascaded down from his scraggly beard and rumpled black coat onto the floor.
"This is Alvy's cousin, Harry Starr," Candy said while grabbing for the Dirt Devil. She learned long ago that where there were rabbis and refreshments, there were crumbs.
"Very nice, very nice. Is there anything better than a family visit? Harry, did you put on your tefillin today?" Rabbi Shimmy shouted over the drone of the Dirt Devil. He coughed up a piece of biscotti lodged in his throat. "A cold glass of seltzer would be nice. Lemon-lime if you have."
"Let me see what I have in the fridge, Rabbi Shimmy. Talk to Harry while I look for the bottle."
"Of course, what a pleasure it would be to share some quality time with my new chaver, Harry Starr. By the way, are you related to Ira Starr? He owns an impressive luggage and handbag repair shop."
Actually, yes. Ira was Harry's grandmother's first cousin, but why create an ice-breaker? It was bad enough that he made eye contact with the rabbi. Harry shrugged his shoulders and answered, "No." No big deal, he thought. Everyone bullshits God's soldiers:
"A donation? It's been a tough year."
" I can't make it that night.".
" Nice seeing you."
When all they really want to say is, "Leave me alone!" Still, Harry felt shitty about lying to a holy man.
"Interesting," Rabbi Shimmy said. "I thought I detected a family resemblance. It must be the height. I don't encounter that many tall Jews."
"It's the new generation. We drink a lot of milk."
The rabbi chuckled and a dry booger flew out of his left nostril and fluttered onto what was left of his biscotti. "You are quite the comedian, Harry Starr!"
Harry forced himself not to gag when the rabbi ate the rest of the biscotti. Between the beard and the booger, the holy man was grossing out Harry and it filled him with rage. He thought of decking Rabbi Shimmy with an uppercut to the jaw, but recoiled at the thought of touching the scraggly beard. Maybe there were more boogers hiding out in them thar hairs? Inevitably the shame of entertaining such puerile thoughts set in, so Harry prayed to God for forgiveness. Maybe this was a set up, a test, a trial? Like Isaac bound up on Mount Moriah as a sacrifice. That was Abraham's test. Harry was confronted with a kosher booger. That was his test.
"Good, otherwise I would have had to be the bearer of sad tidings. My dear friend, Ira, just had a triple bypass." Rabbi Shimmy lifted the plate of biscotti and offered one to Harry. "Biscotti? To coin a name used by the trendy set. I, however, am perfectly content to call these delightful goodies, mandel bread. Do you know how important a name is, Harry?"
"Not really," Harry sighed.
"Of paramount importance! And Harry, what is your Hebrew name, if I may ask?"
"Chaim."
"Ah, Chaim. A wonderful name, the name of life. Perchance you have heard of Chaim Plotnick?"
Harry imagined himself giving the rabbi a headlock and a noogie, grinding his knuckles into Shimmy's pallid temple while yelling, "Shut up!" Of course, he felt awful about it. Better to think about doing Candy on the kitchen counter. Sweet sweet Candy.
"No, never heard of him."
"And why should you? The man lives in Australia. Made a fortune in the scrap metal business and then built a magnificent synagogue with a Jewish day school in Melbourne..."
Insufferable. Harry bit hard on the inside of his lip. What if this was the moment he long dreaded where he lost control? Where his animal impulses took over? It happens all the time. Someone flips the finger and gets beaten to death. Fodder for the crime column in next day's paper. Or a stupid rush of road rage leads to murder. "Be careful," his father told him ad nauseam. "You never know."
You just never know.
A life-saver. Candy finally returned with a tall glass of lemon-lime seltzer. "One last bottle in the laundry room," she said while winking at Harry. Candy handed the rabbi his tangy thirst-quencher.
Rabbi Shimmy took a long gulp and sighed. "A little slice of heaven. Let the others have their Rolls Royces and silk foulards. Give me a cool sparkling beverage to sooth my parched throat and I am a rich man." He yawned and sunk back into the couch. Candy smiled at him.
"Suddenly I seem to be overcome by fatigue although my day is far from finished." Shimmy peeked at his Timex, raised his eyebrows in surprise and yawned again. "Oh my, I'm running late. Evening prayers in forty-six minutes and then my Talmud class. Where did the time fly by?" He yawned once more, then keeled over in a deep sleep.
"?" Harry sat there stunned, mouth agape.
"I knew the tranquilizers would do the trick," Candy said while putting her arms around Harry and shimmied into his lap. "Let's fuck now."
"Baby," Harry whispered as he plunged into her cleavage. Oh shit! The the plane ticket!, he remembered and bobbed back out of her magnificent breasts. He sucked in a lung full of oxygen, hyperventilated and said, "Don't forget your plane ticket, or Alvy will never forgive me."
"You're a bad boy, baby. A very bad boy," she said while flinging off her itsy-bitsy black lycra dress.
And for the first time in Harry Starr's young adult life, he felt complete, fully realized. He just felt shitty about it.
"What for? So I should get the evil eye?" Alvy would say.
Especially when the home was in the wife's name. You never know.
"Am I looking to make the cover of People magazine?" he'd say.
No, Alvy Shugar never craved the limelight, unlike his second wife, Candy, who once graced the covers of less prestigious periodicals like Jugs and Moto Vixens.
"A fancy house? Who needs the attention?" Alvy would say.
Especially when you declare an annual income of $27,500. Who needs any of it?
Harry rang the door bell and Candy answered.
"Hello," Harry said to her cleavage.
"What took you so long?"
Just say the magic word.
"Baby."
"Oh, Harry."
"Oh, baby."
And that's all it took to get it going in the vestibule.
"Candace are you okay?" a nasal voice said from the living room.
"Stop," Candy whispered to Harry. "Help me get rid of this rabbi."
Candy straightened out her itsy-bitsy black lycra dress. There wasn't much to straighten
out though. Harry adjusted his hard-on. (What were Joey Prager's pecker-a-porter rules?
"Puerto Ricans pack it to the left, polacks to the right and schvartzes strapped to the thigh.") Where did that leave Harry? Better to just untuck the shirt and walk bow-legged.
Candy led Harry and his hard-on into the living room where Rabbi Shimmy was gnawing on a piece on a biscotti.
"Mmmm," Rabbi Shimmy cooed. "A kosher biscuit at it's finest." He coughed. "A little dry however..." The rabbi looked Harry up and down and quickly assessed that the young man had the donation potential of $250 a year. But that was just to start. Reel him and work the lines. "And who do I have the pleasure of meeting here?" the rabbi continued while rising to greet Harry. He cleared his throat; an avalanche of crumbs cascaded down from his scraggly beard and rumpled black coat onto the floor.
"This is Alvy's cousin, Harry Starr," Candy said while grabbing for the Dirt Devil. She learned long ago that where there were rabbis and refreshments, there were crumbs.
"Very nice, very nice. Is there anything better than a family visit? Harry, did you put on your tefillin today?" Rabbi Shimmy shouted over the drone of the Dirt Devil. He coughed up a piece of biscotti lodged in his throat. "A cold glass of seltzer would be nice. Lemon-lime if you have."
"Let me see what I have in the fridge, Rabbi Shimmy. Talk to Harry while I look for the bottle."
"Of course, what a pleasure it would be to share some quality time with my new chaver, Harry Starr. By the way, are you related to Ira Starr? He owns an impressive luggage and handbag repair shop."
Actually, yes. Ira was Harry's grandmother's first cousin, but why create an ice-breaker? It was bad enough that he made eye contact with the rabbi. Harry shrugged his shoulders and answered, "No." No big deal, he thought. Everyone bullshits God's soldiers:
"A donation? It's been a tough year."
" I can't make it that night.".
" Nice seeing you."
When all they really want to say is, "Leave me alone!" Still, Harry felt shitty about lying to a holy man.
"Interesting," Rabbi Shimmy said. "I thought I detected a family resemblance. It must be the height. I don't encounter that many tall Jews."
"It's the new generation. We drink a lot of milk."
The rabbi chuckled and a dry booger flew out of his left nostril and fluttered onto what was left of his biscotti. "You are quite the comedian, Harry Starr!"
Harry forced himself not to gag when the rabbi ate the rest of the biscotti. Between the beard and the booger, the holy man was grossing out Harry and it filled him with rage. He thought of decking Rabbi Shimmy with an uppercut to the jaw, but recoiled at the thought of touching the scraggly beard. Maybe there were more boogers hiding out in them thar hairs? Inevitably the shame of entertaining such puerile thoughts set in, so Harry prayed to God for forgiveness. Maybe this was a set up, a test, a trial? Like Isaac bound up on Mount Moriah as a sacrifice. That was Abraham's test. Harry was confronted with a kosher booger. That was his test.
"Good, otherwise I would have had to be the bearer of sad tidings. My dear friend, Ira, just had a triple bypass." Rabbi Shimmy lifted the plate of biscotti and offered one to Harry. "Biscotti? To coin a name used by the trendy set. I, however, am perfectly content to call these delightful goodies, mandel bread. Do you know how important a name is, Harry?"
"Not really," Harry sighed.
"Of paramount importance! And Harry, what is your Hebrew name, if I may ask?"
"Chaim."
"Ah, Chaim. A wonderful name, the name of life. Perchance you have heard of Chaim Plotnick?"
Harry imagined himself giving the rabbi a headlock and a noogie, grinding his knuckles into Shimmy's pallid temple while yelling, "Shut up!" Of course, he felt awful about it. Better to think about doing Candy on the kitchen counter. Sweet sweet Candy.
"No, never heard of him."
"And why should you? The man lives in Australia. Made a fortune in the scrap metal business and then built a magnificent synagogue with a Jewish day school in Melbourne..."
Insufferable. Harry bit hard on the inside of his lip. What if this was the moment he long dreaded where he lost control? Where his animal impulses took over? It happens all the time. Someone flips the finger and gets beaten to death. Fodder for the crime column in next day's paper. Or a stupid rush of road rage leads to murder. "Be careful," his father told him ad nauseam. "You never know."
You just never know.
A life-saver. Candy finally returned with a tall glass of lemon-lime seltzer. "One last bottle in the laundry room," she said while winking at Harry. Candy handed the rabbi his tangy thirst-quencher.
Rabbi Shimmy took a long gulp and sighed. "A little slice of heaven. Let the others have their Rolls Royces and silk foulards. Give me a cool sparkling beverage to sooth my parched throat and I am a rich man." He yawned and sunk back into the couch. Candy smiled at him.
"Suddenly I seem to be overcome by fatigue although my day is far from finished." Shimmy peeked at his Timex, raised his eyebrows in surprise and yawned again. "Oh my, I'm running late. Evening prayers in forty-six minutes and then my Talmud class. Where did the time fly by?" He yawned once more, then keeled over in a deep sleep.
"?" Harry sat there stunned, mouth agape.
"I knew the tranquilizers would do the trick," Candy said while putting her arms around Harry and shimmied into his lap. "Let's fuck now."
"Baby," Harry whispered as he plunged into her cleavage. Oh shit! The the plane ticket!, he remembered and bobbed back out of her magnificent breasts. He sucked in a lung full of oxygen, hyperventilated and said, "Don't forget your plane ticket, or Alvy will never forgive me."
"You're a bad boy, baby. A very bad boy," she said while flinging off her itsy-bitsy black lycra dress.
And for the first time in Harry Starr's young adult life, he felt complete, fully realized. He just felt shitty about it.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
The House Call
Nice house, nice street, nice neighborhood, not a crazy belt king palace.
"What for? So I should get the evil eye?" Alvy would say.
Especially when the home was in the wife's name. You never know.
"Am I looking to make the cover of People magazine?" he'd say.
No, Alvy Shugar never craved the limelight, unlike his second wife, Candy, who had graced the covers of a couple of lesser known magazines like Jugs and Moto Vixens.
"Who needs the attention?" he'd say.
Especially when you declare an annual income of $27,500. Who needs any of it?
Harry rang the door bell and Candy answered.
"Hello," Harry said to her cleavage.
"What took you so long?"
Just say the magic word.
"Baby."
"Oh, Harry."
"Oh baby."
And that's all it took to get it going in the vestibule.
"Candace are you okay?" a nasal voice said from another room.
"Stop," Candy whispered to Harry. "Help me get rid of this Rabbi Shimmy."
Candy straightened out her itsy-bitsy black lycra dress. There wasn't much to straighten out though. Harry adjusted his hard-on. (What were Joey Prager's pecker-a-porter rules? "Puerto Ricans pack it to the left, polacks to the right and schvartzes strapped to the thigh.") Where did that leave Harry? Better to just untuck the shirt and walk bow-legged. Candy led Harry and the pup tent in his pants into the living room where the scraggly-bearded Rabbi Shimmy was gnawing on a piece on a biscotti.
"Mmmm," he cooed. "A kosher biscuit at it's finest," and coughed. "A little dry however...And who do I have the pleasure of meeting here?" Rabbi Shimmy stood up to greet Harry and coughed. An avalanche of crumbs cascaded from his beard and black coat onto the floor.
"This is Alvy's cousin, Harry Starr," she said while grabbing for the Dirt Devil. Candy learned long ago that when there were rabbis and refreshments, there were crumbs.
"Very nice, very nice. Is there anything better than a family visit? Did you put on your tefillin today? Rabbi Shimmy shouted over the drone of the Dirt Devil. He coughed up a piece of biscotti lodged in his throat. "A cold glass of seltzer water would be nice. Lemon lime if you have."
"Let me see what I have in the fridge, Rabbi Shimmy. you can talk to Harry while I look for the bottle."
"Of course, what a pleasure it would be to share some quality time with my new friend Harry Starr. By the way, are you related to Irwin Starr? He has a luggage and handbag repair shop."
Harry forced himself not to roll his eyes and bit the inside of his lip. He thought of decking the rabbi with an uppercut to the jaw, but recoiled with the notion of coming into contact with the scraggly beard. Then he begged The Almighty for forgiveness. "No."
"Good, otherwise I would have had to be the bearer of sad tidings. Irwin just had a double bypass." Rabbi Shimmy lifted the plate of biscotti and offered one to Harry. "Biscotti? To coin a name used by the hipster set. I however, am perfectly content to call these delightful goodies, mandel bread, just as HaShem intended them to be called. Do you know how important a name is, Harry?"
"Not really," Harry sighed.
"Very important. And what is your Hebrew name, Harry, if I may ask?"
"Chaim."
"Ah, Chaim. A wonderful name, the name of life. Perchance you have heard of Chaim Plotnick?"
"Did he pitch for the Yankees?"
"I donn't believe so, at least not the Chaim Plotnick I'm talking about who made fortunes in the scrap metal business in Australia--"
A life-saver. Candy finally returned with the bottle of lemon-lime seltzer. "One last bottle in the laundry room," she said while winking at Harry. Candy handed the rabbi a tall glass of the bubbling beverage.
"What for? So I should get the evil eye?" Alvy would say.
Especially when the home was in the wife's name. You never know.
"Am I looking to make the cover of People magazine?" he'd say.
No, Alvy Shugar never craved the limelight, unlike his second wife, Candy, who had graced the covers of a couple of lesser known magazines like Jugs and Moto Vixens.
"Who needs the attention?" he'd say.
Especially when you declare an annual income of $27,500. Who needs any of it?
Harry rang the door bell and Candy answered.
"Hello," Harry said to her cleavage.
"What took you so long?"
Just say the magic word.
"Baby."
"Oh, Harry."
"Oh baby."
And that's all it took to get it going in the vestibule.
"Candace are you okay?" a nasal voice said from another room.
"Stop," Candy whispered to Harry. "Help me get rid of this Rabbi Shimmy."
Candy straightened out her itsy-bitsy black lycra dress. There wasn't much to straighten out though. Harry adjusted his hard-on. (What were Joey Prager's pecker-a-porter rules? "Puerto Ricans pack it to the left, polacks to the right and schvartzes strapped to the thigh.") Where did that leave Harry? Better to just untuck the shirt and walk bow-legged. Candy led Harry and the pup tent in his pants into the living room where the scraggly-bearded Rabbi Shimmy was gnawing on a piece on a biscotti.
"Mmmm," he cooed. "A kosher biscuit at it's finest," and coughed. "A little dry however...And who do I have the pleasure of meeting here?" Rabbi Shimmy stood up to greet Harry and coughed. An avalanche of crumbs cascaded from his beard and black coat onto the floor.
"This is Alvy's cousin, Harry Starr," she said while grabbing for the Dirt Devil. Candy learned long ago that when there were rabbis and refreshments, there were crumbs.
"Very nice, very nice. Is there anything better than a family visit? Did you put on your tefillin today? Rabbi Shimmy shouted over the drone of the Dirt Devil. He coughed up a piece of biscotti lodged in his throat. "A cold glass of seltzer water would be nice. Lemon lime if you have."
"Let me see what I have in the fridge, Rabbi Shimmy. you can talk to Harry while I look for the bottle."
"Of course, what a pleasure it would be to share some quality time with my new friend Harry Starr. By the way, are you related to Irwin Starr? He has a luggage and handbag repair shop."
Harry forced himself not to roll his eyes and bit the inside of his lip. He thought of decking the rabbi with an uppercut to the jaw, but recoiled with the notion of coming into contact with the scraggly beard. Then he begged The Almighty for forgiveness. "No."
"Good, otherwise I would have had to be the bearer of sad tidings. Irwin just had a double bypass." Rabbi Shimmy lifted the plate of biscotti and offered one to Harry. "Biscotti? To coin a name used by the hipster set. I however, am perfectly content to call these delightful goodies, mandel bread, just as HaShem intended them to be called. Do you know how important a name is, Harry?"
"Not really," Harry sighed.
"Very important. And what is your Hebrew name, Harry, if I may ask?"
"Chaim."
"Ah, Chaim. A wonderful name, the name of life. Perchance you have heard of Chaim Plotnick?"
"Did he pitch for the Yankees?"
"I donn't believe so, at least not the Chaim Plotnick I'm talking about who made fortunes in the scrap metal business in Australia--"
A life-saver. Candy finally returned with the bottle of lemon-lime seltzer. "One last bottle in the laundry room," she said while winking at Harry. Candy handed the rabbi a tall glass of the bubbling beverage.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
The World of Baby
"Harry, line one, please. Harry, line one."
Harry dropped the curled copy of the Feldman script on his desk. He liked the sound of weight of the paper hitting his desk. Substance. That last line killed, nothing less than a gift from God. Life as it should be falling into place.
"It's okay," Harry said to Pena slurping away under the desk. "Don't stop, baby."
Baby. It was the first time he called a woman 'baby'. And what a surprise; she didn't object. A rush of power coursed through his veins. Baby. He pulled it off, she bought it without batting an eyelash, without missing a lick. Baby. And best of all, with Alvy's. Even better, with Alvy on the phone.
"Harry!" Alvy barked over the crackling line.
"Ahhh..." If my friends could see me now.
"Harry, are you there?"
"Yeah..." I'm king of the world. Harry covered the mouth-piece of the phone with his hand. "Oh baby, that's good..."
"Harry, are you listening to me? That putana, Pauline, forgot to drop off my wife's plane ticket at our house. Meanwhile Candy's supposed to fly out tomorrow to meet me here in New York. Can you do me a favor, Harry?"
"Ahh," Harry groaned. That Pauline had a wicked tongue.
"I take that as a yes. Can you get the ticket from Pena and bring it to Candy after work?'
"Baby," Harry groaned, careful to cover up the mouth-piece of the phone. He took his hand off the mouth-piece. "Yeah, no problem, Alvy."
"Great, Harry. I knew I could count on you. We're gonna have to talk when I get back. Hear you're doing a great job. Really taking charge."
You bet. Harry slapped his hand back over the mouth-piece. "Baby...I'm gonna..." he moaned.
"Come on, baby. Let it go," Pauline whispered while Harry climaxed.
"Yeah..."
"Get the ticket from Pauline. Anything thing else, Harry?"
"No, everything is just fine, Alvy. Just fine."
"Bye, Harry."
"Bye, Alvy."
"Feel better now, baby," Pauline said.
"Yeah, everything's fine. Now I gotta get back to work. Can you go get me the plane ticket for Alvy's wife?"
Harry zipped up his pants and went to wash up in the bathroom. Everything was just perfect in the world of baby.
Harry dropped the curled copy of the Feldman script on his desk. He liked the sound of weight of the paper hitting his desk. Substance. That last line killed, nothing less than a gift from God. Life as it should be falling into place.
"It's okay," Harry said to Pena slurping away under the desk. "Don't stop, baby."
Baby. It was the first time he called a woman 'baby'. And what a surprise; she didn't object. A rush of power coursed through his veins. Baby. He pulled it off, she bought it without batting an eyelash, without missing a lick. Baby. And best of all, with Alvy's. Even better, with Alvy on the phone.
"Harry!" Alvy barked over the crackling line.
"Ahhh..." If my friends could see me now.
"Harry, are you there?"
"Yeah..." I'm king of the world. Harry covered the mouth-piece of the phone with his hand. "Oh baby, that's good..."
"Harry, are you listening to me? That putana, Pauline, forgot to drop off my wife's plane ticket at our house. Meanwhile Candy's supposed to fly out tomorrow to meet me here in New York. Can you do me a favor, Harry?"
"Ahh," Harry groaned. That Pauline had a wicked tongue.
"I take that as a yes. Can you get the ticket from Pena and bring it to Candy after work?'
"Baby," Harry groaned, careful to cover up the mouth-piece of the phone. He took his hand off the mouth-piece. "Yeah, no problem, Alvy."
"Great, Harry. I knew I could count on you. We're gonna have to talk when I get back. Hear you're doing a great job. Really taking charge."
You bet. Harry slapped his hand back over the mouth-piece. "Baby...I'm gonna..." he moaned.
"Come on, baby. Let it go," Pauline whispered while Harry climaxed.
"Yeah..."
"Get the ticket from Pauline. Anything thing else, Harry?"
"No, everything is just fine, Alvy. Just fine."
"Bye, Harry."
"Bye, Alvy."
"Feel better now, baby," Pauline said.
"Yeah, everything's fine. Now I gotta get back to work. Can you go get me the plane ticket for Alvy's wife?"
Harry zipped up his pants and went to wash up in the bathroom. Everything was just perfect in the world of baby.
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