Through the Black and Seamless Sea

Edward Norton and I took his 34-foot Phantom to Catalina this morning for a meeting with Michael Douglas at the Avalon Hotel. Edward is a silent executive producer of Wall Street 2. The two of us sat down in Michael's suite shortly after 10am. This is how the conversation went:

ME: Ed has informed me that Charlie Sheen is causing tension.

MICHAEL: Is this true, Ed?

ED: No.

ME: Ed told me that Charlie Sheen still has maximum points associated with the original Wall Street, which entitles him to an equal 33.3% procurement of all future properties, including a Wall Street 2 remake. Ed told me that if Charlie is not included in Wall Street 2, he will use his high-powered Beverly Hills attorneys to stand in the way of Wall Street 2, which may or may not include shutting the film project down.

MICHAEL: Is this true, Ed?

ED: No.

ME: Ed told me that Charlie Sheen, and possibly his father--who also, as you know, had legal entitlement and creative affiliation built into his contract with the original film--will use unscrupulous and indirect means to destroy everyone in this room if he is blocked from this project.

MICHAEL: Is this true, Ed?

ED: No.

ME: Ed informed me on the ride over this morning that you have plans of blocking my involvement as well, even though I'm the person who has backed this film from its dismal inception, even after your horrifying turn in The In-Laws.

MICHAEL: Is this true, Ed?

ED: Sort of. You know. The part about The In-Laws. 

Michael stood and crossed to the open french doors of his suite. Even in late November, the Catalina breeze through the palm trees sounded like the apex of a summer dream. The screaming gulls were crying something that sounded like Kill. Kill. Kill. Michael stretched and touched the tan tops of his bare feet. Despite his age he was looking lean and casual in khakis, the cuffs rolled up to his mid-calves, and a white Forzieri button-down, untucked.

At that moment, I received a text from Taylor on my iPhone: "MICHAEL DOUGLAS HAS A 9MM." I glanced quickly over to Michael's matching khaki jacket, draped casually across the end of his bed, and saw a hint of gun metal beneath the right lapel. I looked from Michael's jacket to Michael's face, which was now pointed sternly at me.

MICHAEL: Let me tell you something, Dorren. I don't throw my toys that often, but I will not hesitate to overturn my toy box.

ME: Um. What does that even mean?

MICHAEL (ignoring): Some may contend that I haven't made a decent film since Traffic, but I don't give a fuck. Do I look like I give a fuck? (Here, Michael turns in a complete circle for affect) Do you see me giving a fuck? I spent my entire career getting to Wall Street, and I'll be goddamned if Charlie-Fucking-Two-and-a-Half-Men-Sheen stands in my way of WS2. So, yes, that means fuck you too.

ME: I have a binding contract through 20th Century Fox that says only the studio has control over any impending inclusion or dissolution of my involvement of Wall Street 2. So, you know...

Michael sighed, running a hand through his thick hair, turning his back on me. 

MICHAEL: Is this true, Ed?

ED: Yes.

MICHAEL: Get the fuck out of my room. And get the fuck off the island. Both of you.

Ed and I stood, straightened our suits, and crossed to the foyer of Michael's room. At the door, I turned back and looked at Michael, whose mostly grey-and-silver-flecked hair was looking bright white in the light from the hotel balcony; eerily like his father's.

ME: Hey Michael.

His back still turned, he looked from his feet up to the view from beyond the french doors, not dignifying me with an eye-to-eye.

ME: Michael Keaton deserves your name more than you do.

Michael made a move towards the jacket on his bed and Ed and I ran to the stair well.

On the boat ride back to L.A., I asked Ed Norton why he tried to fuck me over in the meeting today. His reply still has me puzzled...

ED: The colt stood against the horse with its head down and the horse was watching, out there past men's knowing, where the stars are drowning and whales ferry their vast souls through the black and seamless sea.

Across the water, from my shotgun view of Ed Norton's go-fast boat, Los Angeles bounced on the horizon.

Thanksgiving

I had to hop the hill early this morning to refill my prescription with Jaxx: Three bags of weed and five grams of something called Lilothreporablapalthorin. They give this to old people in their apple sauce at a Santa Barbara sanitarium. I have no idea what this does to them, and I'm not sure why I wanted this, but I really did. And I have money. So I bought it. I buy everything I want.

Beverly Glen was a ghost town. The Jews stayed home today.  

Claustrophobia. This is how I felt as I drove to Encino towards Jaxx's place. I felt locked in. All around me, from the Simi Hills to the Verdugo Mountains, there was nothing but meaningless, jagged horizon, and flat, oil-stained macadam of the streets stretching pointlessly northwest towards a place that no one is even remotely interested in. I once asked a Tonight Show with Jay Leno producer, "What is beyond the Santa Susana Mountains?"  

"Nothing?", he replied, and then he began crying.

Jaxx and I got high this morning and watched the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade on CBS. Later, as I was leaving his ranch-style home, Jaxx handed me a DVD-R and said, "Watch this by yourself. Don't tell Taylor I gave this to you."

Later, I drove up and down Ventura, smoking weed before going home. As I drove towards Laurel Canyon, I saw a woman--breasts exposed--pitching a newspaper tent over her shopping cart next to Jerry's Famous Deli. Her boyfriend was nearby, waving a cardboard sign to passing traffic: "DON'T BE A TURKY. GIVE US SOME FUCKING MONY!"

I honked my horn.

Nothing changes in the Valley. Ever.

Lunch In Hollywood

Max Finnaman is a high-profile producer with low-profile office suites in the Valley. He called me this afternoon to see if I wanted meet him for lunch at Hollywood Billiards. I accepted and called Hyacinth to have my Porsche pulled around to the front of the building.

Max moved to the west coast in 1990. By 1993, Max was suffering from chronic panic and delusional disorder and wound up holding a dozen people hostage at gunpoint in one of the main elevator cars at the Nancy Steuer Agency. The people at Nancy Steuer didn't want a scandal, so they dropped charges, gave Max a fat severance package and sent him on his way. Max used that money to start his own company, Gaping Wound Productions, which has been doing fairly well, considering that several of his agents on staff are large Alaskan Huskies.

I was the first to arrive at Hollywood Billiards. Max strolled in later with his Armani cue case, looking nervously around the room. I waved him over and ordered him his signature drink: Vodka and Juicy Juice.

"So, how have you been, Max?" I asked, not wanting to mention the Nancy Steuer incident.

"I'm hanging," he said. "I'm on a fine cocktail of anti-depressants. Yesterday I mistook a Fox News update for a Tom & Jerry cartoon. So, you know, the dope is working. I go to therapy when things get weird." Max's right hand began to spasm and he bit his knuckle until it bled.

"So, what are you working on now?" I asked.

"I'm thinking about putting together a documentary."

"Oh? On what?" I inquired.

"The child pornography industry," Max said, his blank eyes once again searching the room.

"That's...um...compelling."

"It's not like I have to do much research," Max said, staring at a couple of fags playing pool nearby. I decided not to ask him what he meant. "Is that Jake Gyllanhal and Heath Ledger?" Max asked, cocking his head toward the fags.

"I really don't think so," I said. And I suddenly didn't want to be there with Max anymore.

"I'm almost positive that's Jake and Heath," Max said. He drained his glass with one hard swallow and motioned the bartender for another. I noticed a small trail of blood seeping from Max's right nostril. "You wouldn't happen to know where I could score a gram of coke, would you?" Max asked, grinning at me. A drop of scarlet blood rolled over his chapped lips, which he licked clean. I thought I saw a flash of fangs.

"I really have to go," I said.

"Well. Okay. Think about my kiddy-porn documentary idea. Hell, shoot the idea over to Michael Douglas' people. I could have the writers write a role for Michael."

"Will do, Max."

As I was walking toward the doors, Max walked over to get the autographs of the strangers playing pool. I realized I never wanted to see Max Finnaman again.