I like my office.
20th Century Fox gives executives a contractual $15,000 office allowance to be spent in any way (deemed acceptable by Vice Chairman, Hutch Parker) on decor. Mark Brucer used his allowance to turn his office into a meth lab, which is why he was fired earlier this year; a real shame, considering his Exec Producer title was iced from the upcoming Jim Carrey comedy, "Yes Man".
I've used my office allowance to shroud my office in vintage 70s photographic pornography.
Which means, I am one of very few people (if not the only person) who can truthfully say, "I have masturbated in Shirley Temple's dressing room." Which is what I did after arriving back to the Fox lot after lunch today.
Afterwards I was invited to a pointless (excessively needless) production meeting to discuss Seth Rogan's small shoe size in relation to a plot twist in an upcoming Seth Rogan film, wherein it is revealed that Seth Rogan's character has a rather large penis.
Five Bullet Points From The "Seth Rogan Shoe Size Meeting":
(1) How Small Are Seth Rogan's Feet (exactly)?
(2) Why Are The Diet Cokes Luke Warm?
(3) Can Someone Please Provide The Palm Boardroom With Cold Diet Cokes?
(4) "And Perrier, Please." --Raymond Chow
(5) How Small Are Seth Rogan's Feet (exactly)?
I fell asleep after this. I often do this in meetings. This is how you get ahead. Because when your eyes are closed in Hollywood, everyone assumes you're thinking. But I dreamt of my beginnings in this town 16 years ago, fresh from Harvard Biz, and suddenly it is...
...1992 all over again and I am standing in the breeze way of the Saharan Motel, listening to the screams of a woman pleading for her life. It's 3am, but I can still feel heat roiling around me; waves being pushed into the Saharan's oily motor court by passing cars on Sunset. Taylor and a guy called "Rooney" are up in the motel room, passed out on the only double bed. A coin toss decided that I was the one who would sleep on the floor tonight, and this is primarily why sleep won't come. This, and the screaming woman. I heard her even over the noisy window air conditioning unit. I crept out of the room for a cigarette and an idle investigation.
It is hard to discern how far away she is from the back parking lot of the Saharan. The echo is doubled, maybe tripled, bouncing from the concrete sides of other motels and strip clubs around me, and the hot wind whispers through the fronds of high-standing palm trees; ominous soldiers against the muted purple Hollywood sky. What she's screaming is confused and muddled. I'm almost certain I hear the words "someone" and "help" and maybe "me". I guzzle a warm bottle of Beck's and then light my last crooked cigarette, crushing the empty Marlboro box in my fist. And then the screaming abruptly stops. And at this point I should be double-timing it to the motel office, telling the clerk to dial 911, that someone is hurt, or even possibly dead. But I don't. I stand here and I do nothing. Tonight is my last night in L.A., before we drive nine hours north to visit Taylor's sister in Marysville, where she is stationed at an Air Force base. It's my last chance to absorb the pulse of the city before the long trip from Sacramento back to Boston, where I will have to decide whether or not I want to attend grad school.
I'm closing my eyes and listening to the sway of the palms, and the city traffic, and sirens, and muted bass speakers beating from the coarse macadam beyond, echoing over blacktop, and I open my eyes to see a black man bounding over the back motel wall, jumping into the rear parking lot of Saharan. He's wearing high-top sneakers and faded Levis, and he's bare from the waste up. Under the pink-maroon light from the tall arc-sodium lamps above, I notice that his heaving chest is bathed in sweat. He's holding a knife that is, strangely enough, dripping with something that looks like motor oil. He looks panicked, whipping his head from left to right, uncertain of what he should do next. I am watching a caged urban animal.
And then he looks at me.
And he smiles.
And his teeth are huge, and perfectly straight, and the color of lightening; so white in contrast to his dark skin that I catch my breath, and for a moment I actually wonder whether or not this man is Denzel Washington out for an early morning jog before having to be to the set of another Spike Lee film. And it occurs to me how insanely different our lives are, so I smile back and he points a long, bony finger at me and says two words: "White boy!"
And he runs away.
And I eventually wind up back in Boston.
And then I woke up. And the Palms Boardroom was empty. I had slept through the entire Seth Rogan meeting. When I got back to my office, there were three messages from Catherine Keener and two messages from Vince Vaughn. They were both inviting me to the same party at Chateau Marmont tonight. Which is something I guess I'm looking forward to?
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