It was a nice thing to do. An opportunity. Totally unexpected. What right did Dik-Dash have being ...nice?
"So why don't out come over to my house for Thanksgiving dinner, Harry? We can talk about your script and I can introduce you to some people, like this agent friend of mine."
What could be the downside?
"Sure, thanks, Dik."
Dik. Fucking Dik.
Dik. Fucking Dik.
CUT TO:
A LITTLE LATER - STARBUCKS ON MONTANA AND 26TH, SANTA MONICA
Gomez licked the lid of his frappacino and scrunched up his nose. "Cinnamon! I distinctly asked for chocolate. "
"So go back and change it," Harry said.
"What for? I'd rather sit here bitching about it. Anyhow we have to plan your Thanksgiving dinner strategy."
"I still can't believe he invited me. "
"He probably wants you there so that you can go back and tell everyone in Montreal how wonderful he is. The home in Hollywood Hills, the industry friends...Y'know, the big life."
"Maybe."
"Schmooze your ass off, Harry. It's the only way you get anywhere around here. It's not about the great script, it's about meeting the right people. Why d'ya think these studios churn out so much crap?"
"Like Leftovers?"
"Exactly. A cast of crappy has-beens doing a show about life in the crap-lane. That's my Leftovers, waiting for some snot-nosed studio prick to flush it down the crapper."
CUT TO:
SFX: A TOILET FLUSHING
A WEEK LATER: INT: DIK'S HOUSE - IN FRONT OF THE POWDER ROOM NEAR THE DINING ROOM
Teddy Slutsky peeps his head out from inside the powder room and hollars, "Hey Dikkie, where do keep the plunger? EMERGENCY!"
Dik dashes from the table to the powder room. Teddy emerges from the powder room laughing. "The perfect dinner party ice -breaker! Relax, just took a leak, no number twos."
FADE INTO PROSE:
Trisha Levy contemplated her glass of Merlot and inhaled deeply. She'd have to hold it in a bit longer. The thought of 'next in line to the loo after Teddy' was not amusing. Ever since she married her rich Uncle Asher, the game- show producer, ambitious Trisha Levy had taken on airs.
"Oops, sorry," Teddy excused himself as he intentionally brushed up against her - Trisha had a great ass.
"Oops, sorry," Teddy excused himself as he intentionally brushed up against her - Trisha had a great ass.
"Class act, Teddy," Trisha groaned. Nothing turned her off more than horny men who weren't even family, rubbing up against her wonderful ass.
"It's party-time!" Teddy roared. "Loosen up your sphincter, Trish baby!"
Like she did during that wet 'n wild SeaWorld weekend in San Diego a few years back. What an accommodating gal! Trish scowled in disgust. Teddy was always Teddy, ever the vulgarian, the heavy-hung pig in bed she could never get enough of. Unlike Uncle Asher; he was tender and giving.
"Whoa, the football kid!" Teddy cried after spilling a splash of Stoli on Harry.
"Whoa, the football coach!" Harry mimicked while intentionally unintentionally stepping on Coach's stubby toes.
If only I had my cleats on.
"Fuuuck!" Teddy whimpered while grabbing his foot.
"Sorry, Teddy, sorry. I guess we're all being so clumsy tonight," Harry said.
Teddy hobbled off back to the powder room and shut the door. No doubt a little toot would ease the pain.
"So who do you play for, football kid?" Trisha asked Harry.
"Myself, but I haven't stepped on a football field for years? Teddy used to coach me when I was a kid back in Montreal."
"Oh, another Montrealer..."
Oh, another jerk?
"Did I hear you say, Montreal?" Vikki Bee recited as she tapped Harry on the shoulder. "I once had a special lover there who made wonderful sandwiches..."
Vikki Bee neé Shirley Blumenthal, fuck-doll to the stars. How did she do it? How far could a charming sycophantian smile, built like a chicken carcass with a Shylock schnoz and bug-eyed baby blues? Fucking far if you play your cards right, if you dress in Pravda ain't and do your peroxide mane in a bun, the neo-Kate-Hepburn look. Hair and Prada go a long way. That Vikki neé Shirley, an artistic one, with her ersatz Gauguin portraits adorning the laundry rooms of all her ex-lovers. Like real estate mogul, Cliff Fainer.
"She's a slut, I'm a slut. It was a perfect match."
Cliff Finegold, another schmaying real estate guy. Par for the course among these crowds. Cliff Finegold, CEO, President and God of The Finegold Group. Builder of all that is industrial, commercial, Lord of the strip malls, feudal baron of the residential, increasing his great fortune with each tick of the clock. Tic tock, tic tock. Whining about bad tenants, how he just got screwed for rent by another Chapter 11 schmata whore. But ever manly; slap the bastard with a court injunction, confiscate his chattel. Oh, the cat-and mouse games played out like a ballet with commercial tenants. Dance of the Eviction. The Flight of the Tenant. Need to blow off steam, to stay in shape to rape more Johnnies-on-the-make. Cycling, cycling, cycling. A hundred miles here before breakfast, five hundred mile weekends. Peddling, peddling, peddling. Pedaling his lumpy ass away.
"The Match Game, now that guy made money," piped in Mr. Big, every inch of his sculpted 5'4" frame packed with importance. Every show He created a monster hit. Mr. Big, hustling, hustling, hustling. Creating, reinventing, shmoozing, shmoozing, shmoozing. Scoring jackpots, new ventures, triple sevens with Internet start-ups, getting out before the bubble burst. Scoring, scoring, scoring. Emceeing cancer fundraisers, his mug shot plastered on every society page. Smiling, smiling, smiling. Why not? Just having fun with life. Writing a memoir now. Chock-full of rich and famous BFF's. And he did it all with but a 5'4" frame, bluster, chutzpah, an effervescent smile and a good yiddishe kop for business. Everyone loves Mr. Big.
Montreal, L.A., what was the difference? Just another room full of Jews. Like he never left home. Everywhere Harry turned nothing but Jews, Jews, Jews. Just like back home, blabbing, blabbing, blabbing. To be noticed, to adored, to be validated by the In. To show your pipik to the world. To shout from the top of Sinai, I'm here, I'm here, I'm here. I'm in the money, I'm in the business, I'm beautiful.
Like their forefathers millennium ago, still worshiping the golden calf.
"Whoa, the football kid!" Teddy cried after spilling a splash of Stoli on Harry.
"Whoa, the football coach!" Harry mimicked while intentionally unintentionally stepping on Coach's stubby toes.
If only I had my cleats on.
"Fuuuck!" Teddy whimpered while grabbing his foot.
"Sorry, Teddy, sorry. I guess we're all being so clumsy tonight," Harry said.
Teddy hobbled off back to the powder room and shut the door. No doubt a little toot would ease the pain.
"So who do you play for, football kid?" Trisha asked Harry.
"Myself, but I haven't stepped on a football field for years? Teddy used to coach me when I was a kid back in Montreal."
"Oh, another Montrealer..."
Oh, another jerk?
"Did I hear you say, Montreal?" Vikki Bee recited as she tapped Harry on the shoulder. "I once had a special lover there who made wonderful sandwiches..."
Vikki Bee neé Shirley Blumenthal, fuck-doll to the stars. How did she do it? How far could a charming sycophantian smile, built like a chicken carcass with a Shylock schnoz and bug-eyed baby blues? Fucking far if you play your cards right, if you dress in Pravda ain't and do your peroxide mane in a bun, the neo-Kate-Hepburn look. Hair and Prada go a long way. That Vikki neé Shirley, an artistic one, with her ersatz Gauguin portraits adorning the laundry rooms of all her ex-lovers. Like real estate mogul, Cliff Fainer.
"She's a slut, I'm a slut. It was a perfect match."
Cliff Finegold, another schmaying real estate guy. Par for the course among these crowds. Cliff Finegold, CEO, President and God of The Finegold Group. Builder of all that is industrial, commercial, Lord of the strip malls, feudal baron of the residential, increasing his great fortune with each tick of the clock. Tic tock, tic tock. Whining about bad tenants, how he just got screwed for rent by another Chapter 11 schmata whore. But ever manly; slap the bastard with a court injunction, confiscate his chattel. Oh, the cat-and mouse games played out like a ballet with commercial tenants. Dance of the Eviction. The Flight of the Tenant. Need to blow off steam, to stay in shape to rape more Johnnies-on-the-make. Cycling, cycling, cycling. A hundred miles here before breakfast, five hundred mile weekends. Peddling, peddling, peddling. Pedaling his lumpy ass away.
"The Match Game, now that guy made money," piped in Mr. Big, every inch of his sculpted 5'4" frame packed with importance. Every show He created a monster hit. Mr. Big, hustling, hustling, hustling. Creating, reinventing, shmoozing, shmoozing, shmoozing. Scoring jackpots, new ventures, triple sevens with Internet start-ups, getting out before the bubble burst. Scoring, scoring, scoring. Emceeing cancer fundraisers, his mug shot plastered on every society page. Smiling, smiling, smiling. Why not? Just having fun with life. Writing a memoir now. Chock-full of rich and famous BFF's. And he did it all with but a 5'4" frame, bluster, chutzpah, an effervescent smile and a good yiddishe kop for business. Everyone loves Mr. Big.
Montreal, L.A., what was the difference? Just another room full of Jews. Like he never left home. Everywhere Harry turned nothing but Jews, Jews, Jews. Just like back home, blabbing, blabbing, blabbing. To be noticed, to adored, to be validated by the In. To show your pipik to the world. To shout from the top of Sinai, I'm here, I'm here, I'm here. I'm in the money, I'm in the business, I'm beautiful.
Like their forefathers millennium ago, still worshiping the golden calf.
Isaiah Redux:
In that day the Lord will take away the finery of the anklets, the headbands, and the crescents; the pendants, the bracelets, and the scarves; the headdresses, the armlets, the sashes, the perfume boxes, and the amulets;
Potential , career-making connections, rain-makers, sipping cosmos, dipping dips, shmaying shmaying shmaying. Ingratiate yourself Harry boy, burrow your nose deep into needy asses in search of noses. Brown-nose it to the top, Harry. Go for it, go for it, go for it, boy. This is how you do it, Harry. This is how it works. They'll love you 'cause you're beautiful. Work this room of success Harry boy, grab some stardust. Grab it now, Harry. Feast on it, stuff it in your pockets, eat it, excrete it. It's there for the taking, Harry boy. Don't be a schmuck. Connect, connect, connect. Cause humans are social animals, because success is the currency in this room.
Mr. Big to the left, Fainer to the right, here you are suck in the middle with---
But he bailed, he bailed. Harry slipped out of the room and ran wee wee wee all the way home. And he knew it was a mistake, that he was choking on yet another stage, and didn't have a clue why he fled success. Just to have the goods is not enough though. Harry knew nothing, Harry knew everything. But nothing to be done.
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