Sunday, June 27, 2010

Michael Jackson Starts To Develop

The year is 1964. Michael ran into his bedroom, crying quietly, his father yelling from downstairs. Michael shut the door and jumped onto the bed. He placed his face into the white pillow which he hugged with his arms. He was wearing a white undershirt and flannel pajamas. Michael kept his face pushed into the soft pillow until he felt the tears stop. He lifted his head and touched his left cheek where his father had hit him with a fist. It was tender. Michael sat up on the bed and noticed the small wall mirror. He quietly walked to the mirror and examined his face. His cheek was inflamed and had turned dark blue. He looked at his left hand where he touched his cheek and was happy to see no blood. But his hand was dirty from having played in the backyard dirt under the sick palm tree. The mess he made was the cause of his father's anger. It was different everyday. His father's rage came and went like the Santa Ana winds, unpredictable and with always a violent force. Michael reached into a drawer and rummaged around and found his sister's white glove. He put the white glove on his left hand to cover the dirt. He then looked back up at the mirror and stepped back, keeping his eyes on the mirror. He stepped forward. Then back again. Then forward, keeping his eyes on the mirror, looking at his face get smaller than bigger. Michael then thought he saw his face contort, one cheek up, the other down, his nose got bigger, one eye drooped. He was growing ugly. Michael’s heart raced. He walked forward to get a closer look at the mirror, but oddly saw that his face got smaller. He walked forward again and his face continued to get smaller. He did not know what was happening. Michael then looked down at his feet which were in white socks and black slippers and noticed that he was stepping forward with one foot but pulling himself back with his other foot, intending to go forward, giving the impression of going forward but actually walking backwards. Michael got scared. He thought this was spooky, like he was possessed by some demon that was tearing him apart, ripping him in opposite directions. He then felt a warmth in his crotch and realized he was peeing. He grabbed his crotch with his ungloved right hand and pulled it up to stop the peeing. It stopped. He was wet, but he had stopped himself and held it. Michael stood in the middle of the room, his right hand on his crotch, his left white gloved hand open and up near his face. He raised his head and saw himself in the mirror again. Michael looked at himself and would never forget this moment.

The Shebaa Farmers Just Want To Farm

The Syrians claim the Shebaa Farms,
The Lebanese claim the Shebaa Farms,
The Shia claim the Shebaa Farms,
The Sunni claim the Shebaa Farms,
No one can agree,
Except for that Israel occupies the Shebaa Farms,
Everyone agrees,
That Israel occupies the Shebaa Farms.
The French drew the lines,
Back in the 1920s,
The French drew the lines,
Between Lebanon and Syria,
The French drew the lines,
Giving Syria the Shebaa farms,
An area ten miles long and one mile wide,
With fourteen farms,
Farmers who consider themselves Lebanese,
Not Syrian.
The French were sloppy,
Drawing lines with fat pencils,
On inaccurate crinkled maps,
Not caring where the lines went,
Through houses, and back lots, and towns,
The French drew the lines,
Like drunken truckers,
Playing a board game,
On the hoods of hot cars.
The French were told,
That the farmers in Shebaa,
Thought to be on the other side,
Of the line,
On the other side of the line,
On the Lebanon side,
But France was on to,
Other things,
So the lines stayed,
The Syrians attacked Israel,
Israel attacked back,
And took the Golan Heights,
Which included the Shebaa Farms,
Which was populated by people,
Who consider themselves Lebanese,
Who do not feel Syrian,
Though the French drew the lines,
Placing them in Syria,
In the Golan Heights,
Which Israel took,
In the war with Syria.
Hezbollah wants the Shebaa Farms,
Returned to the Lebanese,
Though the United Nations says the Farms,
Are Syrian,
Because the French drew the lines,
That gave the Shebaa to Syria,
Though the farmers in the Shebaa,
Consider themselves Lebanese,
The farmers on the strip of land,
Which is ten miles long and one mile wide,
Hezbollah wants it back,
And claims Israel is an occupier.
The Syrians want the Golan back,
And Syria says,
The Golan includes the Shebaa Farms,
The fourteen Shebaa farms,
The ten mile long and one mile wide,
Strip of fourteen farms,
A strip of agriculture,
With quiet farms and hills,
Everyone is angry about the Shebaa farms,
Except the Shebaa farmers,
Who just need to farm.
So the Syrians deem Israel to be an occupier,
Of the Golan which includes the Shebaa,
Which is populated by farmers who consider themselves,
Lebanese, which Hezbollah wants back,
For the Lebanese,
Which Hezbollah wants back,
To take it away from Israel.
So Hezbollah attacks Israel,
Often, in fits and spurts,
To try to pry the Shebaa from the Golan,
Before the Golan goes back to Syria,
But Syria wants the Shebaa,
Ten miles long and one mile wide,
Syria wants the fourteen farms,
Which are farmed by farmers who,
Consider themselves Lebanese.
The tiny little Shebaa,
With little tiny farms,
With fourteen farmers,
Trying to farm their farms,
Are toy figures in a game,
Being played by bigger players,
Who do not much care,
What the farmers farm.
The Shebaa farmers farm,
As they have for generations,
And they try to keep their heads down,
Looking at the land,
Under their shoes,
As people send rockets,
Over the Shebaa,
The farmers continue to care,
As others continue to fight.

The Jew Is Very Useful

The Shia hate the Sunni,
The Sunni hate the Shia,
The Kurds hate the Sunni,
The Sunni hate the Kurds,
The Arabs hate the Iranians,
The Iranians hate the Arabs,
Osama bin Laden hates Mahmoud Ahmadinejad,
Mahmoud Ahmadinejad hates Osama bin Laden.
But things are not so bad,
Because people will come together,
And agree to disagree,
Because there is one thing they,
Can all agree to hate together,
And that is the little Jew.
The Jew is very useful,
As he has always been,
Because the Jew brings people together,
And makes them forget the hate,
They have,
For each other.
The Jew is very useful,
As he will always be,
Because the Jew brings people together,
And makes them have their hate,
The hate they have for each other,
And take it and make it useful,
At the useful little Jew.
And when the little Jew fights back,
And tries to live his life,
This is seen as an over-reaction,
Against the innocent and the oppressed,
And so the little Jew is attacked,
And the little Jew is attacked,
And attacked, and attacked,
And attacked, and attacked,
And the little Jew fights back,
Until the fight is over.
Until the fight is over…
The Jew is very useful,
Because even though he survives,
The people who all hate each other,
Declare a big victory and cheer,
Because they have fought the little Jew,
And even though the Jew survives,
The people who hate each other,
Still have the Jew to hate,
So the Jew is very useful,
As he has always been,
And always…

The Great Rubber Band Ball We Live On

White lines. Black lines. Metal lines. Stone lines. Concrete lines. Cinderblock lines.
Earth lines.
Lines crisscrossing the blue brown ball like stitched plaid.
Running between mountains and houses, between cities and woodlands.
Running through barren desert, where nothing moves but wind and sand.
Lines separating emptiness from hollowness.
The bald eagle flew from branch to peak to ledge.
Flying high, soaring effortlessly over the thick lines, over the broken lines.
Over the lines etched and stitched by man.
Lines on the surface of the earth.
The lines spoke of art from up at eagle high.
Something to look at, something to examine, a huge canvas.
From up high where the bald eagle glided over the lines.
Which seemed like pencil brush strokes.
Or scratched with a box-cutter.
Barely affecting anything but the gravity bound.
There must be a point, thought the bald eagle.
These endless lines, running like strings thrown randomly on the surface.
There must be a point, thought the bald eagle.
It is art for the passing celestial body.
It is art to communicate something about Earth.
The lines are everywhere, these lines that are straight.
These lines that curve, in squares, circles and triangles, broken at odd angles.
The Earth is filled with them, and new ones.
New ones going up with every break of day.
New lines being drawn, erected, between things, separating things from things.
Or are they connecting things?
Old lines being dismantled.
New lines being created.
Someday, maybe…
The Earth will look like…
A rubber-band ball…
Thought the bald eagle.
Twisted into a tight suffocating ball.
The rubber bands will break.
The lines replaced with new ones.
A work in progress, thought the bald eagle.
A great Earth art project,
A great Earth art experiment, the artist finding balance.
Fighting for balance.
This right. No, that right.
The right esthetic, making it right.
Never satisfied with these lines, though.
New lines seem to cause other lines to appear.
New lines bust through old lines.
The eagle flew high, soaring in the wind.
Soaring in the sky, the line-free sky.
The eagle thought about lines in the sky.
Could lines be drawn in the sky?
Someone will figure out a way, thought the bald eagle.
The lines will not remain Earth-bound.
They were alive and moved and grew, like unstoppable roots.
And they will grow upwards someday.
The lines will come up to where the bald eagle soared.
And extend out into the heavens.
This great Earth art experiment will go on and on.
And will never end.
The never-ending art experiment on the third planet.
Thought the bald eagle, as it flew higher and higher.
Never losing site of an Earth line, somewhere, everywhere.
Earth lines. Everywhere.

The World Helps Americans Celebrate Independence Day

Edgar Hernandez grabbed the two-foot by two-foot cardboard box that came from the huge container ship that was docked in Long Beach, California. Edgar had been working at the shipyard for two years. He was not a documented immigrant, but the shipyard paid Edgar's brother-in-law who had a working social security number. The cardboard box said 'Fireworks' in large block letters and 'Made in China' in small thin letters. The cardboard box itself came from wood in Brazil, but was milled and assembled in Tibet, though China did not advertize that fact. Edgar placed the cardboard box along with all the other fireworks boxes on the back of a Toyota pickup truck.
The Toyota pickup truck was driven by Irina Bromo, real name Irina Bromokovich, who had been hauling goods from the Long Beach harbor to the Los Angeles Airport for five years. Irina had a working social security card, but it was stolen from someone she was told was no longer alive. For whatever reason, no employer had questioned it, ever, and Irina had continued to get paid.
Irina pulled into the freight hanger at the Los Angeles airport about forty minutes after she left Long Beach, and the boxes of fireworks were unloaded by Fred Fuentes, a Philippine-American whose wife, Maribel, had been sponsored to be in the United States. After three babies, though, Maribel had too much on her hands to work at a job or to pursue her immigration sponsorship. So Fred was doing so, though on paper it was Maribel that was working. Fred had no working papers. So Fred just used Maribel's social security number and Maribel was paid directly by the airport hauling company that was fifty percent owned by a Norwegian shipping concern. Fred took the boxes to a motorized cart made by Hitachi, that drove the boxes to an Airbus jumbo jet that was being loaded by four Mexican day-laborers getting pain in cash.
The Airbus landed at Newark Airport seven hours later, and the boxes of fireworks were placed in a large Mitsubishi truck that drove the boxes to Liberty State Park on the Jersey side of the New York harbor where the boxes were unloaded by the Dupre Fireworks Company, a French company that handled Macy's department store annual fireworks celebration that can be seen all over the New York metropolitan area.
Kathy and Jimmy Smith with their two daughters, Jennifer and Sofie, sat in their Malaysian-made folding chairs in Liberty State Park drinking Italian red wine and eating English breakfast crackers topped with Persian caviar. Jennifer, eleven years old, was listening to U2 on her iPod that was designed by a Chinese-American who worked for Apple Computer which had it’s iPods assembled in South Korea. Sofie, fourteen yeas old, was talking on her Nokia cell phone to her Hispanic boyfriend, a relationship Sofie kept from her parents.
The fireworks started around 9:30 in the evening, and the blasting lights in the sky highlighted the Statute of Liberty in the harbor. From where the Smith family was stationed, they could only see the back of Lady Liberty. Sofie got bored with the fireworks real fast, so she walked back to the Honda Odyssey minivan that the Smiths drove from their home in Indiana where Jimmy Smith worked for the HSBC Bank, a British bank that also loaned the Smiths their mortgage money which HSBC immediately resold to a consortium of Japanese and Chinese financial institutions which were investing in American real estate. Kathy Smith was laid off from her job at Motorola due to cutbacks, so she decided to become a full-time mother, which she enjoyed. In fact, Kathy had become a soccer mom, because both her daughters loved the sport and were following the World Cup everyday. It was a great Fourth of July to be an American.

Hillary Picks A Running Mate


A MAN talks to the CAMERA, which is the point of view of HILLARY CLINTON, who sits in a chair. Hillary can’t talk. The Man talks to Hillary.

OK. OK. OK. I’m OK. I’m OK. I’ve got it together. I do. I do. It will be OK. Yes. Yes. So far so good. Jeez. This is so different from what it must have been like. You know. Back in Little Rock. My Dad told me what it was like. Working for Bill. But this ain’t so different. It’s just scale. Right. Little Rock was Little Rock. Now it’s just…well, bigger. My Daddy said when he was dying that you would both come to his funeral. But nope. Just Bill came. You were off somewhere. Bill spoke. It made the local paper. I mean he was President and he found the time to come back to Little Rock to say a few words about my Daddy. Not you. I remembered that . I remembered that. Don’t look at me that way. Now you see, you’re drooling. It’s the drug I gave you. Well, actually, two drugs. One to knock you out so I could bring you here. The other to deaden your mouth and tongue. That’s why you can’t talk. Funny. Hillary can’t talk. Usually Hillary can’t stop talking. Not now at least with you running for President. Well, no more. That’s over. Bill was explaining how it works. Bill’s so smart, but he never makes you think he’s smarter than you, you know. It’s like he listens and cares and then says his thing, and it’s smart, and you know it’s smarter than anything you said, but he never makes you feel stupid. He’s got that gift, you know. It’s not something you have, Hill. You can always tell you think you’re smarter. It’s like you listen but it hurts, doesn’t it. Well listen to this, because it’s really going to hurt. Bill told me that the Constitution, that’s the US Constitution, the Twenty-Second Amendment to be particular, says a President can’t be elected President more than twice. The operative word there is elected. So you see Bill Clinton can become President again, just not by an election. So here’s the thing. You have to pick him, your loving husband, to be your running mate. According to Bill, well, you see, according to him, he just cannot deal with the fact that you would have another man running as your, well, running mate. So this little thing we are doing right now…this little thing is a reminder that you have to take the political risk of making him your running mate. Hey, JFK made his brother the Attorney General, right? I know what you are thinking. The Twenty-Second Amendment has a little loophole. Bill, if he were your Vice President, could become President again if you were to, well, I don’t know, like….go kaput. But that’s not likely. So it will just be a Clinton-Clinton ticket. Get it. There is nothing the Republicans can come up with that can beat that. That’s what Bill figures. And that is what you are going to figure. When I give you this (MAN HOLDS UP HYPERDERMIC NEEDLE), you will fall into a deep deep sleep and you will wake up where you thought you went to bed, and you will slog your way to the kitchen and come up with a brilliant idea. Yep. And you will tell Bill about your idea and he will tell you he loves you and that it is brilliant. Clinton-Clinton. All the bumper stickers on all the cars. I love it. Bill loves it. And you will love it. Okie dokie. Now go beddy bye and remember, this is your idea. Your idea. Nighty night.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Lindsay Lohan Brought To Emergency Room Unconscious

The clock on the emergency room wall read 2:32. That was 2:32 on Sunday morning, September 17th, 2006. This was one of two emergency rooms of Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles. One emergency room was for the publicity shy emergencies, which were celebrities, the other was for everyone else. But when Harry Morton made a turn onto George Burns Road off Beverly Boulevard, he mistakenly followed the directions to the wrong emergency room, the one for the common folk like you and me. In the back seat of Harry's black Mercedes Benz SUV was Lindsay Morgan Lohan. Lindsay was unconscious and breathing heavily. The heavy breathing was comforting to Harry. At least Lindsay was breathing. She was alive. And here he was at one of the best medical facilities on the planet earth, so this was all going to be OK. But when Harry pulled up to the front of the emergency room, and ran inside to announce what he had in the back seat, he immediately realized it was the wrong emergency room, the one that was crowded and open and without any security barriers protecting late night celebrity visits.
What the two male nurses found in the back seat of Harry's car was a white girl with long black hair in a white bra, the strap hanging off her right shoulder. The girl was wearing fayed blue jeans, the zipper half-way pulled up exposing pink underpants. The girl was lying on her side and the long disheveled black hair was splayed all over her face and back seat. The girl's right arm was hanging off the seat, her left arm pinned under her motionless body.
One of the nurses. Mario, took a pulse and then started to drag the body out of the car. The male nurses on employ were large and could pretty much handle any unconscious body, no matter how large and heavy. But this one was maybe 100 pounds, at best, much of the weight located in the large breasts. The girl's feet were bare and appeared to have dried vomit on them. As they dragged the girl out of the back seat by pulling on her legs, the hair fell back off the girl's face. Mario saw an open mouth with dried vomit on the cheeks and eyes that were oddly half open, though the girl was clearly unconscious.
"Is she OK?" asked Harry.
"I do not know," said Mario.
Mario picked up the girl who was top heavy and with the assistance of the other male nurse, they placed the unconscious girl on a gurney. Mario was a tad rough with the maneuver, purposely, seeing if the girl could be jostled awake. But it did not happen. She was as limp and cooked cappelini, and when the girl settled on her back on the gurney, her bra partially fell off exposing her right breast, which bounced like Jello as Mario pushed the gurney quickly through the emergency room sliding glass doors. Harry Morton followed from behind.

Harry Morton was not happy that Lindsay Lohan's unconscious body, not to mention her exposed breast, was being publicly wheeled through a common area of the emergency room. He expected onlookers and photographers and a crowd to gather around his famous girlfriend. But oddly, no one noticed. Everyone seemed to be in their own world of pain and misery, doubled over, holding their arms, blood on shirts, head bandages. Lindsay Lohan with her long black matted hair with one arm dangling off the side of the gurney as it was pushed attracted on one�s attention.
Mario wheeled the gurney into a side room and pulled the white curtain that was suspended on an aluminum track hanging from the ceiling. Harry walked through the curtain.
"The doctor will be here in a minute. What happened?" asked Mario.
"Well, she slipped and hurt her arm and then—" said Harry.
Mario glanced at the girl's arms. The left one dangling off the side looked bruised and slighted bent.
"This arm?" asked Mario.
"Yes," said Harry.
"She does not have any bruise to her head. Any idea why she is unconscious?" asked Mario.
"Well. Well, you see, she was, well, she was drinking and got a little sloppy. And then in the bathroom she fell. She was unsteady. And that�s when she hurt her arm. She said her arm hurt and she wanted something to get rid of the pain," said Harry.
"And you are? A relation?" asked Mario knowing full well he was not any relation. By this point, Mario had recognized the girl on the gurney. It was Lindsay Lohan. It was an easy ID once you spent a moment with her. But quite frankly, the girl looked so filthy and trashy that one would miss that a famous and glamorous movie star was lying unconscious on this gurney. Also, Harry, the idiot, brought Lindsay into the wrong emergency room.
"Just a friend. I'm just a friend," said Harry.
"OK. I will get the doctor," said Mario as he left through the curtain leaving Harry Morton and Lindsay Lohan alone.
Harry glanced around and saw he had a few minutes. He quickly searched Lindsay's jean pockets. Her left pocket is where he found it. Lindsay had taken to carrying around the small solid gold vile Harry had given her for the purpose of storing an "on the road" stash of cocaine. In the mad rush to get Lindsay to the car and then to the hospital, he had forgotten all about it. Carrying the unconscious Lindsay Lohan was not as easy as one would think. Though slight, her sizeable breasts and the huge head of hair made the whole move quite awkward. And he was afraid he further damaged the arm when Harry through her into the back seat of his Mercedes.
Harry removed the gold vile filled with cocaine from Lindsay's left jean pocket and tucked it into his own pocket. Anything else he forget? Think fast, thought Harry.
Dr. Sarah Sheehan walked through the curtain. She was wearing a white gown which was open exposing black slacks and a navy blue blouse, as well as black Nike tennis shoes.
"Hello. I am Doctor Sheehan. So I got some of the story. What did she take for her pain?" asked Dr. Sheehan as she took Lindsay Lohan's pulse from Lindsay's left arm that dangled off the side. As Dr. Sheehan took the pulse she visually examined the bruises.
"Well, doc, I told her that they were strong, you know," said Harry. Should he tell the doctor? And how would he explain how the pills were there. Should he tell her? Damn. Harry had to think fast. But he was good at this. He was good at this.

Dr. Sarah Sheehan filled a hyperdermic by stabbing a small glass bottle with the needle.
"I am going to wake her. So tell me, what did she take for her pain? I need to know right now because I am giving her this medication and I do not want it to ract poorly with what she took," said Dr. Sheehan.
Yikes. Now Harry Morton had to be honest. If he told the doctor a lie, and things went poorly, then he would be responsible. Dammit. Maybe she won't give a shit where he had gotten the pills. Hell. Just be honest. There are times when you have to be honest.
"Oxycontin," said Harry. There he said it. But he was not going ot tell the doc about the cocaine. That would be a mistake. She would have to report that one. But they won’t pick it up. The Oxycontin wold cover any sign of cocaine.
"Strong stuff. But this will wake her," said Dr. Sheehan.
Harry did not know that Dr. Sheehan already suspected it was some kind of narcotic and that what she was giving Lindsay Lohan would not create a problem.
Dr. Sheehan jabbed the needle in Lindsay's arm and pushed the plunger of the stimulant into her. A huge lungful of rancid air came out of Lindsay's open mouth with a gurgling sound, as if the air pushed through mucus.
"Where, what, owwww, my arm," said Lindsay Lohan as she stirred on the gurney.
"I think the arm is broken. We'll have to take an x-ray. Hi. I am Dr. Sheehan. Your name?"
"What? My name? Is Harry here?" asked Lindsay, her eyes barely open because the lights were bright.
"Yes. I'm here," said Harry.
"Your name?" asked Dr. Sheehan, who already knew who it was.
"Lohan. Lindsay Morgan Lohan," said Lindsay.
"Well Lindsay, it appears you may have broken your arm. And it also appears that you have been combining a narcotic with alcohol. You shouldn't do that. You came in here to the emergency room unconscious but with a strong heartbeat. And you are OK. But you should consider yourself lucky," said Dr. Sheehan.
"Narcotic? I don't take narcotics," said Lindsay.
"Your friend here, Harry is it, said you took Oxycontin. That is a very strong and addictive narcotic," said Dr. Sheehan.
Dammit doc, thought Harry Morton. Did she have to get into this right now. He had introduced Lindsay to Oxycontin a few months ago, and he never fully explained to her that it was sort of a narcotic. But then, Lindsay was not stupid. She read the label. She could read. Harry was sure she had Googled "oxycontin." It's not like he was trying to pull the wool over her eyes. Although, he did tell her it that it was no big deal. Of course, he did not really take it. Oh, he told Lindsay he took it when she popped a pill or two. But he didn't. Harry did not want to get addicted. He knew the stuff was strong. And the whole purpose was really to addict Lindsay. Well, not rally to addict her. Just to control her. To make her want Harry around. And so far it was working. In fact, he could not believe how well it was working. The sex games, the drugs , it all was keeping Lindsay Morgan Lohan close to him.
"Can I get this x-ray like now and get out of here. I want to go home and sleep," said Lindsay. She was starting to wake up.
Good. Harry saw that the word "narcotic" had not fully landed in Lindsay's brain, and she was already on to the next topic, which was to move on, get out of where she was, and find some new place to rest and make believe she was healthy.
"I want to take a shower. I have to wash my hair," said Lindsay.
Great. Great. Now Lindsay was thinking purely of how she looked. The whole talk of drugs is history. At least for now.
"OK. I'll have the nurse come in to prepare you for an x-ray. But I am gong to have to admit you for one night. You can have a private room. It is very private. And you can take a shower there," said Dr. Sheehan.
"Thanks. Thank you so much, Doctor," said Lindsay.
"You're welcome," said Dr. Sheehan, who then turned and walked out through the curtain, leaving Lindsay and Harry alone.
"You OK, sweetheart," said Harry.
"No, asshole. I am not OK. I feel like shit. My arm is killing me. And I am here, back in the fucking hospital," said Lindsay.
"I love you, Lindsay. And I will take care of you. I will make certain that you get out of here looking great, and you will have like a little cast or bandage on your arm and it will look like a fashion statement. It will be cool, with your long black flowing hair and great clothes with a little wrist cast. The media will love it and think you are strong," said Harry.
"You think?" asked Lindsay.
"Leave it to me, baby. You will come out of this looking better than before. You are strong. And you are beautiful," said Harry.
"And talented," said Lindsay with a smile.
"Of course. And talented," said Harry.

Saturday, February 27, 2010

Hillary and The Red Phone


               The CAMERA is above the level of a large king size bed.  BILL
               CLINTON is asleep in the bed.  In the background is the door
               to the bedroom.  HILLARY CLINTON appears wearing a nightgown.
               She leans against the door jam dangling pink panties from her
               index finger.

                                   HILLARY CLINTON
                         Bill...Bill...Bill wake up.

                                   BILL CLINTON
                         What...hey...what time is it?

                                   HILLARY CLINTON
                         What is this?

                                   BILL CLINTON

                                   HILLARY CLINTON
                             (referring to the pink
                         This.  I found them in your pants.

               We start to HEAR a telephone ring.  The ringing continues
               throughout the scene.

                                   BILL CLINTON
                         What were you doing in my pants?

                                   HILLARY CLINTON
                         I want to know where this came

                                   BILL CLINTON
                         Maybe they're yours?

                                   HILLARY CLINTON
                         Cut the crap Bill.  I don't need a
                         scandal during my administration,

                                   BILL CLINTON
                         Hey...isn't that the hotline

                                   HILLARY CLINTON
                         So who is it?  Is she on my staff?
                         One of my interns?

                                   BILL CLINTON
                         Sweetheart, you really should get

                                   HILLARY CLINTON
                             (screaming over her
                         Would somebody get that? (back to
                         Bill)  So who is the little bitch?

                                   BILL CLINTON
                         Really, I don't know...maybe it was
                         left over from, you know...

                                   HILLARY CLINTON
                         It's a new pair of pants.  It's not
                         left over from anything.

                                   BILL CLINTON
                         You really have to get that phone,

                                   HILLARY CLINTON
                         Would somebody get the goddamn
                         phone for chrissake.  (back to Bill
                         and screaming)  Now I am not
                         dicking around, you hear me.  Where
                         the hell did these panties come?
                         Give me a straight answer.  And I
                         want to know her name.

                                                       CUT TO:

               INT.  RED PHONE ROOM

               A CLOSE SHOT of the red phone.  A hand enters the frame.  The
               receiver is raised to the back of a male head.  It is BARACK

                                   BARACK OBAMA
                         I'm here.

               FREEZE FRAME.  And then...

                                   BARACK OBAMA (CONT'D)
                             (voice over)
                         This ad has been approved by me,
                         Barack Obama.

                                                       THE END.

Friday, February 26, 2010

Sean Hannity Gets Lecture From Roger Ailes

Sean Hannity sat in one of two matching dark wood chair with green leather seats in the office at the end of the hall on the third floor of 1211 Avenue of the Americas in New York City.  The office formed the southeast corner of the building facing the traffic driving north on Sixth Avenue.  The digital clock on the desk that faced Sean Hannity read 5:32.  It was January, and there was a light snow falling outside the floor to ceiling windows of the corner office.  The sun was setting and the car headlights danced on the snowflakes.

Sean Hannity had his right leg crossed over his left leg.  His right foot was air tapping, and his back hurt.  Hannity rubbed his hands on the armrests and could feel the sweat in his palms.  He had been sitting for ten minutes, waiting for a meeting that was called by Roger Ailes.  He looked to his right and out the open door of Mr. Ailes’s office; the well-lit office corridor was trafficked with earnest young interns and other administrative staff.  No sign of Mr. Ailes.

The door to the left of the Mr. Ailes’s desk opened.  Roger Ailes emerged.  Sean Hannity did not know that Mr Ailes’s had his own private bathroom installed.  Sean stood.

“Been here long?” asked Ailes.

“No.  Just arrived,” said Sean.  Sean was not certain why he lied.  It was a sign of weakness.  He knew that.  But he felt compelled.

Roger Ailes sat in his large chair.  Sean was waiting for Ailes to give him a sign to sit.  But Ailes did not do so.  So after an awkward moment watching Ailes shuffle some papers around, Sean took his seat.

“You wanted to see me?” asked Sean.

“That is why you are here,” said Ailes without looking up from his papers.

“Is everything OK?” asked Sean.

“We have some interesting information,” said Ailes.  “Did you ever hear of the amygdala?” asked Ailes.

“The what?” said Sean.

“They are two almond-size parts of the brain.  Deep inside,” said Ailes.

“Ah hah.  OK.  No, I never heard of them,” said Sean.

“They are interesting little suckers.  They respond emotionally to stimuli.  When the amygdala is not responding, the brain is not really interested,” said Ailes.

Sean had no idea where this was going.  “OK.  Cool,” said Sean.

“And the amygdala of people watching you on TV are not responding, Sean.  That is a problem, ” said Ailes.

“I don’t get what you are saying,” said Sean.

“We commissioned a study to monitor the amygdala of people viewing our programs.  It is very interesting,” said Ailes.

“How do they do that?” said Sean.

“Never mind how they do it.  But the results have made us take a second look at our programming,” said Ailes.

“So you are saying that these things did not respond to my show?” asked Sean.

“I am saying that they did not light up to you, Sean.  You are not making any emotional connection to our viewers,” said Ailes.

“I have to disagree, Mr. Ailes.  I get emails everyday…”

“Fuck the emails,” said Ailes, cutting off Sean.  “Emails mean nothing.  This study goes much deeper than emails and anecdotal evidence.  And it tells us that you are a dud, Sean,” said Ailes.

Sean knew that he had recently re-negotiated his contract, so this could not be some kind of tactic to pay him less money.  “But sir, the Nielson ratings show that I am very popular in my time slot,” said Sean.

“We do not rely just on the unreliable Nielsons, anymore, Sean.  We are going for the core of what touches our viewers.  Let’s take your show with Sarah Palin, for example,” said Ailes.

Sean felt good about talking about his interview with Palin.   It won that time slot hands down, one of the most watched shows of the week.  Sean smiled.

“Yeah, that was a hit,” said Sean.

“Sarah Palin was a hit.  The amygdala lit up like halogen bulbs when Palin was on screen and talking.  They went dark when you were o screen talking.  I could have had a dog sitting in your chair and we would have had a hit show with Sarah Palin,” said Ailes.

Sean tried not to take offense.  “You are overstating it.  A bit, don’t you think,” said Sean.  “How did O’Reilly do on these tests?” asked Sean.

“O’Reilly lights up the amygdala just fine.  Here’s the problem, we think.  You are an ass-kisser.  You ass kiss everyone you agree with.  The viewers know this.  There is no drama when it comes to you, Sean.  They know what you are going to say.  And you say it.  You are predictable.  In fact, you are ass kissing me right now.  You are fundamentally, a bore.  And we never would have known this without those little amygdala telling us the truth,” said Ailes.

Sean re-adjusted himself in the chair.  “You want me to challenge people more, is that it,” said Sean.
“This is a warning.  You better do something.  Because I ain’t going to keep paying what I am paying to have you just sit there and be predictable,” said Ailes as he picked up the telephone in response to a ring.

“Yes.  OK, I will take it,” said Ailes into the receiver.  Ailes covered the mouthpiece of the receiver.  “I have to take this, so…”

Sean stood, Ailes returned to his phone call.  Sean walked out of the corner office into the brightly lit corridor.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hannity,” said a young intern with long blond hair as she passed Sean heading for the corner office.  Sean nodded, put his hands in his pockets and walked back to his office.

Lady Gaga in Her Dressing Room After Grammy Awards

Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta walked into Dressing Room #34 at the Staples Center in Los Angeles after the conclusion of the 2010 Grammy Awards.  She was in seven-inch soled shoes with ten-inch heels, and her shoulders were burdened with what could best be described as silvery balloons that rose above the top of her bleached hair.  Stefani, otherwise known as “Lady Gaga.” slammed the door shut, making a sound that penetrated her temples and made her flinch.  Stefani turned to face her reflection in the makeshift mirror bolted to the wall of a room that Stefani knew was not designed as a dressing room.  The Staples Center is set up to house many different kinds of events, mostly sports, and has only a handful of what entertainment professionals consider “full-service” dressing rooms, with bathrooms, hot tubs, a kitchen, a fully stocked refrigerator, and a lounge area.  The walls of Room #34 were cinder blocks, painted in what Stefani considered a dull yellow, and there was definitely not a kitchen or lounge area.  There was a sink.  And the card table set in front of the mirror is where she plopped her two Grammy Awards.  She went to the sink against the wall to her right and washed off all her makeup.  Her eyes were think with black, and as she splashed her face, the black ran down her cheeks, giving her a gothic appearance.  Stefani pulled out the hardware hidden in her hair which released the long strands which fell to her shoulders.  She then ripped off her wardrobe, tearing it in places, and as each piece came off, she threw it to the floor.  By time she was down to her white underwear and bra, she sat in the chair facing the table and looking at her two Grammys.

There was knock at the door.  ”What” yelled Stefani.

“Security,” announced a man’s voice through the closed door.  Stefani rose and opened the door.

“Yeah?” asked Stefani, standing in her underwear as she was scratching her right armpit with her left hand.

The security guard was taken aback by the bare appearance of Lady Gaga.

“You are going to have to vacate in thirty minutes,” said the security guard.

“What the fuck are you talking about?  This is my shit-hole dressing room.  I’m going decompress,” said Stefani.

“You can’t.  This is Derek Fisher’s room,” said the security guard, a tall African-American man.

“Who the fuck is Derek Fisker?” said Stefani.

“He’s a guard for the Lakers,” said Stefani.

“The Lakers.  Jesus Christ, is there like a fucking basketball game on tonight, huh?  No.  I doubt it.  So tell Derek Fisher to come back tomorrow,” said Stefani.

“No can do, ma’am,” said the security guard.  ”Basketball takes precedence over everything here,” said the guard.

“Well then tell him to come in with me here like this in my underwear, OK.  He won’t mind if I hang out while he does whatever he wants to do in this cinderblock prison cell,” said Stefani.

“He just wants to get into his closet and pull something out,” said the guard.

“Yeah, well, OK,” said Stefani.

“I’ll go tell him he can come,” said the guard.

The guard turned to go, and then stopped to address Lady Gaga.

“If you ask me, I think you should have gotten Record of the Year for Poker Face,” said the guard.

Stefani stood and looked at the guard.

“Oh yeah?” said Stefani.

“Yeah,” said the guard.

“You want to come in.  Join me for…for whatever,” said Stefani.

“Come in?”
“Yeah, like come into my dressing room.  I’m sure Derek whatever his name is can give us time to….you know,” said Stefani.

The security guard looked down the hallway.  He then looked at his watch.  Stefani walked into Room #34 and stood at the table next to her Grammy Awards.  She unsnapped her bra and it fell to the floor, exposing her breasts.  She then fingered her Grammy Awards.

“You want to touch them,” asked Lady Gaga.

The guard came into the room and shut the door.

Elin Nordegren Meets With Tiger Woods at Sex Clinic

Elin Nordergen had flown on a Gulfstream G5 into New Orleans on a flight from Stockholm.  She brought one suitcase, a small one, with certain traveling and identity essentials.  Elin had gotten into the habit over the years to travel light and merely purchase what she needed on arrival.  She took a taxi to the nearest Volvo dealer in New Orleans and bought a white 2010 Volco c70 with leather seats.  Using her iPhone’s mapping, she had made her way to Interstate 10 going north, crossing over Lake Pontchartrain, eventually hopping onto Route 11 which took Volvo into Mississippi.  Then she veered onto Interstate 59, going north to Hattiesburg, Mississippi.  Elin was searching for the Pine Grove Gentle Path Facility where her husband, Tiger Woods, was being treated for his “problem.”  Though the Pine Grove center treats its patients in groups, Tiger was given a private “cottage” residence.  This did not conform to Pine Grove procedure, but the risk of media encroachment justified the special treatment.  Tiger’s offer to make a generous contribution also persuaded the Pine Grove management to satisfy Tiger’s request.

Elin was leaning again a dark green wall in the cottage where Tiger was housed.  Tiger was sitting on a couch, his buttocks perched on the edge of the couch, his hands on his knees, his legs to together.  It was not a relaxed position, nothing casual about it.  This was there first meeting since Elin had left for Sweden and purchased a house on Faglaro Island about an hour’s drive from Stockholm.  Elin was wearing black sweatpants, Reebok running shoes (no more Nike for her), and a black running shirt covered in a black leather jacket.  The blond hair was long as it draped over all the black.  Her legs were crossed, her back leaning on the wall, her arms crossed.

“So what is this place?” asked Elin.

“You know what it is,” said Tiger.

“Well, actually, I don’t.  It says clinic.  (Elin made quote signs with her fingers.) Like a golf clinic, yes,” said Elin, trying not to be sarcastic.

“It’s a clinic for sexual addiction,” said Tiger.

“Oh yeah.  What is that?  Is that like an illness?  Do you have an illness, Eldrick,” said Elin.

“Could you not call me that,” said Tiger.

“It’s your fucking name, Eldrick.  Maybe you should start using your birth name.  Isn’t it more honest,” said Elin.

There was a moment of awkward silence.

“So tell me about what they do here for your problem,” said Elin.

“They have group therapy, and they do shame reduction work and trauma work,” said Tiger.

“Shame reduction work?  You mean they are trying to make you feel less shame,” said Elin.

“It’s part of the therapy,” said Tiger.

“You’re joking,” said Elin.

“It’s part of the process.  I cannot overcome my addiction to sex without first dispensing with the shame,” said Tiger.

“They should fucking make you feel more shame.  It is shame that got you to come here,” said Elin.
“But it will be the eradication of that shame that will permit me to leave,” said Tiger.

“And trauma work?  what trauma did you go through, Eldrick?  Tell me that?  Like I didn’t have any trauma.  Like the kids,” said Elin.

“Maybe you can check in with me.  We can go through this together,” said Tiger.

“That is not happening,” said Elin.

“I have to talk about you and our relationship here.  With the doctors, with the other patients when we are in group,” said Tiger.

“You talk about me?  You better not talk about me.  This is your problem, not mine,” said Elin.

“No, listen.  After I described things to them, it might be the case that you are suffering from sexual anorexia,” said Tiger.

“What the fuck did you say?”

“Sexual anorexia is a pathological fear of intimacy, a fear of sexual interaction,” said Tiger.

“We have two children, Eldrick.  What kind of goddamn fears do I have?  None.  And you don’t talk about me to them.  It is none of their business,” said Elin with rising anger.

“Sexual anorexia is a serious problem,” said Tiger.

“Oh, and they are trying to blame this on me, is that it.  What a load of crap,” said Elin.

“And you have paranoid tendencies, Elin.  That little bit you pulled with my cell phone and texting Rachel, that was deceitful,” said Tiger.

“It’s Rachel, now?  You can just say her name in front of me,” said Elin.

“It’s part of the shame reduction therapy.  It is working,” said Tiger.

“They call this place “Gentle Path,” said Elin.  ”Like this thing you are going through is supposed to be ‘gentle.’  They are making this easy for you.  Making you think that what you have is a disease, and to come to terms with it, and then just recover, gently, easily,” said Elin.

“Yes,” said Tiger.

“Let me sum up my diagnosis, Eldrick.  You are a prick.  An asshole.  A liar.  And the last fucking thing this recovery should be for you is gentle,” said Elin.

Elin moved to the front door of the cottage.  Tioger watched her as she walked.  He noticed how she walked, the sway of her hips, her long shimmering blond hair.

“Do you want to make love?” asked Tiger.

Elin turned to face Tiger.  She looked at him.  And then she opened the door and left.  Eldrick Tont Woods placed his forehead into both his hands and his body’s posture bent forward.  He did not cry.  Crying was forbidden at the Pine Grove Clinic.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

John Edwards Has A Conversation with Rielle Hunter

John Edwards was pacing back and forth in his study.  He was in boxer shorts and a white dress shirt.  He was wearing white sports socks with a navy blue strip around the top.  Think of Tom Cruise sliding into frame in his underwear in Risky Business.  Edwards was on his Blackberry Bold.

Edwards:  So tell me, how did this tape get out, Rielle?…I saw you throw it in the garbage.  I saw you do it after we watched it, remember?…No, no, I distinctly remember you placing it in the garbage.  I did not tell you to preserve it…no…I was not stoned…I was not so stoned that I would forget such a thing…and by the way, thanks for giving me a heads up on getting the call from the National Enquirer.  What, the money I gave you was not enough?…forget it.  OK, just forget the fucking thing…Excuse me, what?  You want what?  Child support?  You fucking goddamn bitch…all the goddamn money you been taking is not enough?  Now you fucking want child support…great….don’t tell me what I can and can’t afford.  I did not want a child, Rielle…you are so fucking lucky there are laws….laws against murder, because I would break your fucking neck, do you hear me.  Too fucking bad we don’t live in Saudi Arabia…I’d be able to just get rid of this problem with one call.  Just one call I’d be able to lock you up or cut out your tongue.  So fuck you, and fuck your goddamn Frances, whatever her name is.

Edwards throws his Blackberry against the wall where it shatters.  He falls to the floor and grabs his forehead trying desperately not to cry.  He raises his head, takes a few deep breathes, and slowly rises.  He walks over to his desk and opens the bottom drawer revealing a small 22 caliber handgun.  He looks at it, standing, motionless, staring at the gun.  He then slams the drawer shut.