On the way to her Esquire photo shoot, Lady Ga-Ga and I decided to stop for lunch. My recommendation was Chinois On Main, but Lady Ga-Ga wanted tacos, so we stopped at a taco truck parked in the back of an Arco station on Olympic. We ate in silence in her idling Land Rover, within site of a homeless man pissing into a large Evian water bottle. Lady Ga-Ga smacks when she eats, which made the idea of trying to coax her for a blow-job later on both disgusting and intoxicating at the same time. Lady Ga-Ga is playing a small roll in a small independent film I'm backing illegally through hidden channels at Fox. You could say I've taken pop music's newest ingenue under my wing.
"So, I thought you were great on American Idol," I said, breaking the silence.
"Did you know that Simon Cowell is a Wiccan?" said Lady Ga-Ga.
"No. I did not know that."
"Kara DioGuardi has B.O. really bad. Filthy Italian whore," said Lady Ga-Ga.
"I did not know that."
"Paula Abdul told me that she once tried to fuck an emu when she was stoned on muscle relaxers," said Lady Ga-Ga.
"I did not know that."
"One of the show producers has an anti-war sculpture he made out of his own feces on display back stage," said Lady Ga-Ga.
"I did not know that."
"Randy Jackson has a giant cock," said Lady Ga-Ga.
"How do you know that?"
Lady Ga-Ga didn't answer the question, and instead looked wistfully at the parade of passing Land Rovers on Olympic. Nobody drives anything but Land Rovers and Priuses in Los Angeles any more. When I said this to Lady Ga-Ga, she missed the irony completely, and then lifted an ass cheek and farted.
When we got to the Esquire photo shoot, we checked in at security. An albino page at a desk signed us in.
"First name?" the page asked Lady Ga-Ga.
"Lady."
"Last name?"
"Ga-Ga."
Lady Ga-Ga entered the studio, and I hung back to call my work voice-mail and check my messages.
MESSAGES:
--Edward Norton called to arrange a meeting with Michael Douglas and Philippe Petit.
--Tyler mistakenly left a message on my voice mail that was meant for Hyacinth, stating exactly what he wants to put in her ass the next time they meet at the Beverly Hills Hotel.
-- Jaxx called to tell me a new shipment of organic weed arrived, and also to tell me that he was diagnosed with Lupus disease this morning.
I hung up and then dialed to retrieve my messages at home. There was only one. From Tyler. Screaming:
"YOUR BRAIN IS PROGRAMMED TO BE BIGOTED AND CONFIRM STEROTYPES! IT'S EASILY FOOLED BY ANECDOTAL EVIDENCE! OR A PRETTY FACE! OR A GUY IN A UNIFORM! IT'S A MASTER OF RATIONALIZATION! IT BELIEVES WHAT IT HEARS! IT OVERREACTS! IT'S HOPELESSLY INCOMPETENT AT DISTINGUISHING FACT FROM FICTION! MOTHERFFFFFFUCKER!"
