Taylor

Taylor has put prep for his new film on hold for a variety of reasons now being alleged in The Hollywood Reporter:

(1) Exhaustion

(2) Paranoia

(3) Bulimia Nervosa

(4) Acute Stress Disorder

(5) Sexual Addiction

(6) Narcolepsy

(7) Stuttering

(8) Insomnia

(9) Dissociative Fugue

(10) Chicken Pox

Taylor came by the Fox lot this morning, nervous, sweating, wearing a tuxedo jacket over a Teletubbies tee-shirt, and smoking a clove cigarette he found under the passenger seat of his Porsche. He still believes that he's being followed by either (a) vampires, (b) zombies, (c) clowns, or (d) Marilyn Manson, circa 1998.

"It's a fucking conspiracy, bro." Taylor ran a hand through his sun-bleached blonde mane. With his Malibu tan, he was beginning to resemble a stoned-looking Matthew McConaughey, or basically just Matthew McConaughey.

"Having delusional disorder is not a conspiracy," I said, shuffling through a stack of talent head shots.

"It's not a delusion, goddamnit!" he shouted. I walked over and shut my office door. My personal assistant Hyacinth is addicted to talking to the press about ANYTHING.

"So you think you're being stalked by Ziggy Stardust?" I asked, feigning concern.

"Marilyn Fucking Manson!"

"Alright, calm down. You're sure about this?"

"I'm not sure," said Taylor, chewing on his thumbnail. "It may be the Olson twins. Which scares me even more."

"Well, apparently you're costing Paramount Pictures a shit load of money because of this. Two days ago you said it was vampires."

"It still may be, bro. It still may be." After he said this he pulled a string of garlic cloves out of his jacket pocket, as if to prove a point he so far hadn't been able to make.

"Well, what can I do for you, Taylor? I'm very busy. I don't understand what I have to do with your...'predicament'."

"Maybe cocaine would help?" he said, a bit of tentative pleading in his raspy voice.

"Sure. That'll do it," I said sarcastically. I went to the floor safe next to my designer credenza, dialed up the combination, and scooped a baggie from the small vault. "This is the last time I give you charity coke, Taylor. Got it?"

"Charity coke is better than no coke."

"Good. Off you go. I've got a manicure in the Bochco Building in 10 minutes."

Taylor left and I went for my manicure.

PHONE MESSAGE FROM AN UNKNOWN CALLER ON MY ANSWERING SERVICE AFTER RETURNING FROM MY MANICURE:

"Flies on the shit."