Lindsay Lohan sat in her underwear in Bungalow 11 at the Chateau Marmont. The undergarments were white, and one bra strap was off her shoulder. She had not showered in the last 24 hours. Lindsay was on her fourth Marlboro Light cigarette and it was only 9:45 in the morning. She had awoken at 7:33, which was typical for her since the night was spent largely drinking champagne and wine at three different clubs in west Los Angeles. This is not to mention the pack and a half of cigarettes she smoked plus the one joint. Lindsay did not have a headache, but she felt woozy and tired. Not the kind of 'tired' that permits sleep; the kind that represents a weary body, one whose chemistry has been taxed. Though she knew on some level that the Marlboros she was sucking on this morning were not helping, she had also convinced herself that the nicotine might shore up her body and get her feeling normal again.
Lindsay was glad that she did not have to go to the Georgia Rule movie set today. She just could not deal with the pressure of the crew, the director, the producers, the actors, and the fact that everyone was watching her, seeing if she could deliver a good performance notwithstanding the hard partying. So far so good, Lindsay thought. Everyday she gave them what they wanted. She felt it. It felt good. But it was also hard at times, and she needed to relax at night to clear out her system. Well, OK, maybe not clear out her system, but fill her system with alcohol, tobacco and marijuana. The nights altered her mood and revived her spirit while she was partying. It felt so good during the night even though the mornings were like having your brain soaked in maple syrup.
Lindsay hung her head low while she sat on the edge of the bed. Her breasts felt heavy. In fact, everything felt heavy. The alcohol bloated her in the morning, forcing her to starve all day to get back that weightless feeling she so craved. She looked down and saw three cigarette butts she had dropped on the floor. Jeez, had she just dropped them on the floor like that? How irresponsible. Lindsay smiled and then rubbed her head.
Dina Lohan, Lindsay's mother, walked out of the bathroom. Dina was also wearing white undergarments. Like mother, like daughter. Dina had a pink towel in her hand with the Chateau Marmont logo embroidered on each end. Dina was drying her hair from the shower she just took.
"You OK?" asked Dina of her daughter.
"Lindsay, I am talking to you. Are you OK?" asked Dina of her daughter, Lindsay Lohan.
"What? I'm sorry. What did you say?" said Lindsay as she put a cigarette in her mouth and sucked hard and deep.
"I said are you OK?" said Dina.
"Yeah. Why?" said Lindsay.
"Because you don't look well," said Dina.
"I'm fine," said Lindsay.
"You should not be smoking this early," said Dina.
"Leave me alone, Mom," said Lindsay.
Dina reaches over to Lindsay and pulls the Marlboro Light cigarette out of Lindsay's mouth.
"What the—" said Lindsay.
Dina places the cigarette in her own mouth and sucks the smoke into her own lungs.
"I'm sharing," said Dina.
"I don't need your shit right now, Mom," said Lindsay.
"My shit? I'm trying to connect," said Dina.
Lindsay reached down into the small cocktail purse on the floor and pulled out a crushed pack of Marlboros. There was one bent cigarette remaining, which she removed and placed in her mouth. Lindsay had a Bic lighter permanently attached to her left hand, which she used to light the bent cigarette.
"So the Brits dropped your record deal. And now we are being sued by these other vulture-bastards. Sorry about the deposition you have to go to," said Dina.
"I'm not going. I can't deal with that right now. Is the air conditioning working? It's fucking hot in here," said Lindsay as she totally removed her bra to air out her breasts. Lindsay through the bra down onto the floor next to her cigarette butts.
"It's working. It is just like, what, 105 outside," said Dina.
"Do you have those sleeping pills?" asked Lindsay.
"Yeah. But you should get up and move around. Get some exercise," said Dina as she continued to puff on the cigarette she pulled out of her daughter's mouth.
"Mom, would you stop with the lectures already. I just need to sleep. I can sleep today," said Lindsay.
"And so what are you going to do tonight, party again?" asked Dina.
"Jesus. You don't stop, do you. I thought you were on my side," said Lindsay.
"I am on your side. But I just think that staying up all night doing what you do, and then taking sleeping pills so you can sleep through the day so you can stay up all night again is not good for your health," said Dina.
"Like you know anything about what's good for my health," said Lindsay. Lindsay flicked her half-smoked cigarette at her mother which missed her by inches.
"Hey. What did you do that for?" said Dina.
"I'm just joking. Get me those sleeping pills. Now, Mom," said Lindsay.
Lindsay lied back on the bed, her bare legs dangling off the end. As she fell back, her ample breasts flopped around and settled to her sides. Dina was about to search for the sleeping pills when she noticed that Lindsay's mouth was open. Lindsay was fast asleep and snoring quite loudly. Lindsay had always snored, ever since she was a child, but the snoring had gotten louder in the last few years. It didn’t matter. Better snoring than drinking and smoking joints. Good, thought Dina. Her daughter will sleep naturally, without the aid of drugs. Dina smiled. Lindsay Lohan would have a healthy day.
Imaginary Moments of Drama, Politics and Culture - By Gary O. Bennett
Saturday, September 11, 2004
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
Johnny Depp Gives Keira Knightley Acting Advice
Johnny Depp sat on a cheap black metal folding chair in his forty foot by nine foot trailer that had been hauled to the southern tip of Grand Bahama Island for the shooting of a scene for Pirates of the Caribbean — Dead Man's Chest. Depp was in costume, his long hair strands tied with beads. The trailer's air conditioning unit sat on top, and was humming with a grind and a rattle, working hard to beat the near hundred degree heat on the expansive white sandy beach outside.
Sitting in front of Depp was Keira Knightley. Keira's hairpiece was on the floor between her bare legs and feet. She was wearing a light blue bikini, her elbows leaning on her knees and she was bending forward. Keira's hair was cropped short, a result of the role she played in the movie Domino. Because of Domino, Keira had to wear a wig throughout the shooting of Pirates.
Depp peeled a banana and started to chomp, as if in his Jack Sparrow character.
"You should eat something," said Depp.
"I have a headache," said Keira as she rubbed her forehead.
"You're dehydrated," said Depp.
"I hate the heat. I hate the beach. This is torture," said Keira.
Keira was five foot seven inches tall and by Depp's estimation weighed no more than 100 pounds. The bones of her shoulders as well as Keira's sternum and collar bones all protruded through paper thin skin. And Depp could see Keira’s spine run up the middle of her back, like a narrow rocky berm running over a sand hill. A skeleton. Not a nanometer of fatty tissue was anywhere on Keira’s body except for her breasts, a location where women did not seem to mind fat cells. Keira had obviously been starving herself for the Pirates movie, but Depp could not understand why since she was in heavy costume for most of the film.
"I do not like to give advice to my colleagues, but I if I may make a suggestion," said Depp.
"A suggestion about what?" asked Keira as she rubbed the back of her neck.
"You're phoning in the performance. That accounts for the fact that you are having a miserable time," said Depp.
"Excuse me?" said Keira.
"You are not in character. In fact, you haven't even created a character for Elizabeth Swan. You're just saying the lines. The words are coming from nowhere," said Depp.
"Oh, like the fey pirate thing you're doing with Jack Sparrow is a real character. Give me a break," said Keira.
"Well, maybe it's thin, but it's still a character. I've at least made a choice. And so I am having fun," said Depp.
"You're having fun because it's an excuse for you to be feminine, which is really all you want to do anyway. Why don't you put on a dress and go all the way," said Keira.
"Jack Sparrow is not a cross dresser. And he likes women. He just has a way of being. Anyway, I am not the one who has a headache and is starving themselves to death," said Depp.
"What? I am not starving myself. Anyway, my body is like none of your business," said Keira.
"You are in my trailer,' said Depp.
"I am in your trailer because the fucking air conditioning is not working in my trailer. And don’t think that kiss thing we did means anthing. I got a headache right after the five fucking takes on that kiss," said Keira.
“The first one was the best,” said Depp.
“I sort of liked the last one,” said Keira, who then became mindful of her betrayal. “I liked the last one because it was the last one, got it,” said Keira.
"Look. They are about to shoot you running around on the beach. Get dressed and show yourself how good a time you can have. Get a little character and have a little fun. Run around the beach and act silly. Be silly. Then you will not feel the heat, and the beach will become a beautiful place. And I bet your headache will go away," said Depp.
"Is that Johnny Depp giving me advice or Jack Sparrow?" said Keira.
"I'm not sure," said Depp.
Keira smiled. She grabbed her wig and stood on her pencil thin legs and opened the trailer door. The bright sun of the Bahamas shot in like a saber. Keira stepped out and closed the door from behind. Depp decided that Keira weighed less than 100 pounds, and was probably too weak to create a character. Maybe she was exhausted from her work in Domino. Maybe she was just doing it for the paycheck. Afterall, it was a Disney movie based on a Disney theme park ride. So maybe Keira Knightley felt like she could just phone it in and rely on her big-lip smile to get her through the movie. But as far as Depp was concerned, whether it is a light movie or a heavy movie, an actor should always find a way to create a character. Without it, the people do not get their money's worth. And for Depp, it was all about what the audience was getting. If they are not getting character, then what’s the purpose of the actor, Depp thought. Depp suspected that the popularity of digital animation was in part due to the fact that actors had not been doing their work. Why would an audience watch an actor just say the lines if they could also watch animated cars just say their lines. Actors have so much more in their arsenal of tools, it was a shame most of them did not use the power of their craft.
Depp was starting to feel sad. He could feel Jack Sparrow leaving his body. Depp stood up and shook his body, shaking out his thoughts and retrieving the pirate Jack Sparrow. Jack Sparrow returned and he was ready to go. He walked his light walk to the door and left the trailer into the Bahamian sun. And the movie continues.
Sitting in front of Depp was Keira Knightley. Keira's hairpiece was on the floor between her bare legs and feet. She was wearing a light blue bikini, her elbows leaning on her knees and she was bending forward. Keira's hair was cropped short, a result of the role she played in the movie Domino. Because of Domino, Keira had to wear a wig throughout the shooting of Pirates.
Depp peeled a banana and started to chomp, as if in his Jack Sparrow character.
"You should eat something," said Depp.
"I have a headache," said Keira as she rubbed her forehead.
"You're dehydrated," said Depp.
"I hate the heat. I hate the beach. This is torture," said Keira.
Keira was five foot seven inches tall and by Depp's estimation weighed no more than 100 pounds. The bones of her shoulders as well as Keira's sternum and collar bones all protruded through paper thin skin. And Depp could see Keira’s spine run up the middle of her back, like a narrow rocky berm running over a sand hill. A skeleton. Not a nanometer of fatty tissue was anywhere on Keira’s body except for her breasts, a location where women did not seem to mind fat cells. Keira had obviously been starving herself for the Pirates movie, but Depp could not understand why since she was in heavy costume for most of the film.
"I do not like to give advice to my colleagues, but I if I may make a suggestion," said Depp.
"A suggestion about what?" asked Keira as she rubbed the back of her neck.
"You're phoning in the performance. That accounts for the fact that you are having a miserable time," said Depp.
"Excuse me?" said Keira.
"You are not in character. In fact, you haven't even created a character for Elizabeth Swan. You're just saying the lines. The words are coming from nowhere," said Depp.
"Oh, like the fey pirate thing you're doing with Jack Sparrow is a real character. Give me a break," said Keira.
"Well, maybe it's thin, but it's still a character. I've at least made a choice. And so I am having fun," said Depp.
"You're having fun because it's an excuse for you to be feminine, which is really all you want to do anyway. Why don't you put on a dress and go all the way," said Keira.
"Jack Sparrow is not a cross dresser. And he likes women. He just has a way of being. Anyway, I am not the one who has a headache and is starving themselves to death," said Depp.
"What? I am not starving myself. Anyway, my body is like none of your business," said Keira.
"You are in my trailer,' said Depp.
"I am in your trailer because the fucking air conditioning is not working in my trailer. And don’t think that kiss thing we did means anthing. I got a headache right after the five fucking takes on that kiss," said Keira.
“The first one was the best,” said Depp.
“I sort of liked the last one,” said Keira, who then became mindful of her betrayal. “I liked the last one because it was the last one, got it,” said Keira.
"Look. They are about to shoot you running around on the beach. Get dressed and show yourself how good a time you can have. Get a little character and have a little fun. Run around the beach and act silly. Be silly. Then you will not feel the heat, and the beach will become a beautiful place. And I bet your headache will go away," said Depp.
"Is that Johnny Depp giving me advice or Jack Sparrow?" said Keira.
"I'm not sure," said Depp.
Keira smiled. She grabbed her wig and stood on her pencil thin legs and opened the trailer door. The bright sun of the Bahamas shot in like a saber. Keira stepped out and closed the door from behind. Depp decided that Keira weighed less than 100 pounds, and was probably too weak to create a character. Maybe she was exhausted from her work in Domino. Maybe she was just doing it for the paycheck. Afterall, it was a Disney movie based on a Disney theme park ride. So maybe Keira Knightley felt like she could just phone it in and rely on her big-lip smile to get her through the movie. But as far as Depp was concerned, whether it is a light movie or a heavy movie, an actor should always find a way to create a character. Without it, the people do not get their money's worth. And for Depp, it was all about what the audience was getting. If they are not getting character, then what’s the purpose of the actor, Depp thought. Depp suspected that the popularity of digital animation was in part due to the fact that actors had not been doing their work. Why would an audience watch an actor just say the lines if they could also watch animated cars just say their lines. Actors have so much more in their arsenal of tools, it was a shame most of them did not use the power of their craft.
Depp was starting to feel sad. He could feel Jack Sparrow leaving his body. Depp stood up and shook his body, shaking out his thoughts and retrieving the pirate Jack Sparrow. Jack Sparrow returned and he was ready to go. He walked his light walk to the door and left the trailer into the Bahamian sun. And the movie continues.
Thursday, February 5, 2004
Angelina Jolie Convinces Mariane Pearl To Drop Jennifer Aniston
Mariane Pearl sat in the back of the candle-lit restaurant in West Los Angeles. She had walked in and was immediately ushered to a hidden table for six around a tiled partition, clearly set up for private meals and meetings. She though was sitting at the table for fifteen minutes, all alone, sipping a green tea and wondering if this was going to be one of those typical Hollywood meetings where the movie stars are late and everyone waits, sitting on their hands, having small talk simply to fill the dead space until the stars arrive. Mariane, though, had no one to try out small talk with. Alone, is what she was, very much alone since her husband, Daniel Pearl, was brutally kidnapped and murdered in Pakistan. She had written her book, A Mighty Heart: The Brave Life and Death of My Husband Danny Pearl to keep herself busy, to diminish the feeling of loneliness, an attempt to bring back Danny if just in her mind as she reconstructed her husband's life.
Mariane was surprised when the book was immediately picked up and it sold well. She immediately became a minor celebrity, calls from agents about appearances, speeches, fund-raising events and of course movie deals. It was the call from Jennifer Aniston, a direct call, a personal call, with Jennifer on the other line, calling Mariane on Mariane's cell phone, that was the biggest surprise. Jennifer read the book and wanted to buy the movie rights. They met on several occasions, Jennifer Aniston and Mariane Pearl, at restaurants, at Jennifer's house, at Mariane's house, at business offices, and all along Jennifer was very upfront about why she was interested. Jennifer Aniston wanted to play the role of Mariane Pearl in the movie based on her book.
Mariane was of course flattered. Jennifer Aniston playing her. The thought was both amusing and at times difficult to wrap her arms around. Not that Jennifer Ansiton couldn't do it. It was just that anyone playing Mariane, particularly someone so beautiful and charismatic and famous as Jennifer Aniston, was difficult to fathom. Someone other than you playing you was like looking in a mirror and seeing someone else. Or was it like watching yourself, an act of narcissim that Mariane did not wish to grapple with. Afterall, this happened all the time. So she had decided to let it happen. Jennifer Aniston would be Mariane Pearl. At least in a movie.
Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie walked around the partition, both dressed very casually, hidden by sunglasses and scarves. Mariane was surprised to see Angelina Jolie. Mariane thought that she was simply meeting Brad Pitt.
"Sorry we're late," said Brad.
"It's OK," said Mariane.
A waiter arrived.
"Just a cappucinno for me in a paper cup," said Brad.
The waiter looked at Angelina, who shook her head in silence.
"This is Angelina. Angelina this is Mariane Pearl," said Brad.
"Hi," said Angelina.
"Hi," said Mariane.
"I have some very exciting news, Mariane," said Brad.
"Yes?" said Mariane.
"We are proceeding with the movie. Michael Winterbottom is directing. I'm producing. We are starting right away with development," said Brad.
"Great," said Mariane.
"A minor change. Well, actually a big change, one that helps the film enormously. Angelina is going to play you," said Brad.
"Angelina? But I thought--" said Mariane.
"Jennifer is no longer involved. But that is OK. It is all good," said Brad.
"But I was just talking to Jennifer, I don't know, maybe three weeks ago. She was doing some research," said Mariane.
"Brad, I said it would be better if--" said Angelina.
"No. It is important that you are here. Mariane, this is a crazy business. Things never proceed as originally planned. Usually things fall apart. But you are lucky. You are very lucky. Rather than fall apart, your book, Danny's life and your life will all come together in a movie starring an actor with even better credentials. It is all good, and I promise you this will move forward and be a major motion picture," said Brad.
"I don't know. I feel funny about this. I feel bad," said Mariane.
"Yes, but frankly, Mariane, you really don't have a say in casting," said Brad.
"Oh shut up Brad, of course she has a say," said Angelina with a slight smile on her face. "Mariane, I have read your book several times, and it has become very important to me to become a part of this project. As you no doubt know, I have dedicated much of my life to traveling the world and to purposely involving myself in causes for the underprivileged, the poor, the sick. I have used my celebrity as best I can to help others, rather than squander it on a Hollywood lifestyle. And to me, the fact that you and Danny did not have the resources at your disposal as I do, you nevertheless still dedicated your lives to others. That astounds me, that you and Danny would give so much of yourselves when you did not have much in the way of money or wealth or command of the media. I sit here in awe of you and of your late husband, and I would consider it a privilege, indeed an honor, to play the role of your life. In fact, I hunger to do so because it is a story that must be told," said Angelina.
Mariane was not stupid. She felt she was being played, and Angelina was playing her like a deck of cards. But quite frankly, Angelina seemed sincere. Now of course she might be simply acting. Afterall, she is an actress. But the energy between Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt disturbed the air around the table with a narcotic that almost made Mariane giddy. Maybe Mariane was being played, but she felt high from it all.
"I am very flattered that you would say all that. But I still feel uncomfortable about the Jennifer thing," said Mariane.
"Of course you do. Anyone would. But you know the things that have happened. Jennifer no longer has any interest in the production company, Brad's Plan B production company, that purchased the rights to your book, and to put it bluntly, and I think you know this all too well, shit happens," said Angelina.
Mariane looked at Angelina who was returning the look. Brad had long since sat back in his chair sipping his cappuccino that was served almost immediately after he ordered it. Brad was out of the equation, at least for this meeting. Angelina’s “shit happens” remark was her way of communicating that this is the way it is, and there is nothing Mariane can do about it. Nevertheless, it almost added to the narcotic effect of the moment to watch Angelina Jolie say “shit happens.”
"Well, OK. I guess," said Mariane.
"I knew you would understand. And you know we are going to be spending a lot of time together. I have to get to know you. I've got to know you to play you," said Angelina.
Mariane could not help but think that this little meeting had already started to instruct Angelina about Mariane.
"One thing, though, Mariane, and this is very important. You must drop the Jennifer Aniston thing when asked by the media, and you must enthusiastically support the decision of casting me in the movie. If the media starts to give us bad press, then this project will fall apart. That is not a threat, it is just Hollywood for you. It sucks, but money comes and goes so fast, and everyone is skittish about everything. You understand," said Angelina.
"Yes," said Mariane.
"I've got to go. Brad," said Angelina as she stood. "You guys talk, fill Mariane in on the timing and everything," said Angelina to Brad. "It was great meeting you," said Angelina as she turned and walked out into the hot Los Angeles late afternoon sun.
"You want a drink?" asked Brad Pitt.
Alone with Brad Pitt in the back of a fancy Los Angeles restaurant. This was all set up to seal the deal. The girls came to terms, and now the guy is going to make certain it all proceeds in accordance with the plan. Plan B, that is.
Mariane was surprised when the book was immediately picked up and it sold well. She immediately became a minor celebrity, calls from agents about appearances, speeches, fund-raising events and of course movie deals. It was the call from Jennifer Aniston, a direct call, a personal call, with Jennifer on the other line, calling Mariane on Mariane's cell phone, that was the biggest surprise. Jennifer read the book and wanted to buy the movie rights. They met on several occasions, Jennifer Aniston and Mariane Pearl, at restaurants, at Jennifer's house, at Mariane's house, at business offices, and all along Jennifer was very upfront about why she was interested. Jennifer Aniston wanted to play the role of Mariane Pearl in the movie based on her book.
Mariane was of course flattered. Jennifer Aniston playing her. The thought was both amusing and at times difficult to wrap her arms around. Not that Jennifer Ansiton couldn't do it. It was just that anyone playing Mariane, particularly someone so beautiful and charismatic and famous as Jennifer Aniston, was difficult to fathom. Someone other than you playing you was like looking in a mirror and seeing someone else. Or was it like watching yourself, an act of narcissim that Mariane did not wish to grapple with. Afterall, this happened all the time. So she had decided to let it happen. Jennifer Aniston would be Mariane Pearl. At least in a movie.
Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie walked around the partition, both dressed very casually, hidden by sunglasses and scarves. Mariane was surprised to see Angelina Jolie. Mariane thought that she was simply meeting Brad Pitt.
"Sorry we're late," said Brad.
"It's OK," said Mariane.
A waiter arrived.
"Just a cappucinno for me in a paper cup," said Brad.
The waiter looked at Angelina, who shook her head in silence.
"This is Angelina. Angelina this is Mariane Pearl," said Brad.
"Hi," said Angelina.
"Hi," said Mariane.
"I have some very exciting news, Mariane," said Brad.
"Yes?" said Mariane.
"We are proceeding with the movie. Michael Winterbottom is directing. I'm producing. We are starting right away with development," said Brad.
"Great," said Mariane.
"A minor change. Well, actually a big change, one that helps the film enormously. Angelina is going to play you," said Brad.
"Angelina? But I thought--" said Mariane.
"Jennifer is no longer involved. But that is OK. It is all good," said Brad.
"But I was just talking to Jennifer, I don't know, maybe three weeks ago. She was doing some research," said Mariane.
"Brad, I said it would be better if--" said Angelina.
"No. It is important that you are here. Mariane, this is a crazy business. Things never proceed as originally planned. Usually things fall apart. But you are lucky. You are very lucky. Rather than fall apart, your book, Danny's life and your life will all come together in a movie starring an actor with even better credentials. It is all good, and I promise you this will move forward and be a major motion picture," said Brad.
"I don't know. I feel funny about this. I feel bad," said Mariane.
"Yes, but frankly, Mariane, you really don't have a say in casting," said Brad.
"Oh shut up Brad, of course she has a say," said Angelina with a slight smile on her face. "Mariane, I have read your book several times, and it has become very important to me to become a part of this project. As you no doubt know, I have dedicated much of my life to traveling the world and to purposely involving myself in causes for the underprivileged, the poor, the sick. I have used my celebrity as best I can to help others, rather than squander it on a Hollywood lifestyle. And to me, the fact that you and Danny did not have the resources at your disposal as I do, you nevertheless still dedicated your lives to others. That astounds me, that you and Danny would give so much of yourselves when you did not have much in the way of money or wealth or command of the media. I sit here in awe of you and of your late husband, and I would consider it a privilege, indeed an honor, to play the role of your life. In fact, I hunger to do so because it is a story that must be told," said Angelina.
Mariane was not stupid. She felt she was being played, and Angelina was playing her like a deck of cards. But quite frankly, Angelina seemed sincere. Now of course she might be simply acting. Afterall, she is an actress. But the energy between Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt disturbed the air around the table with a narcotic that almost made Mariane giddy. Maybe Mariane was being played, but she felt high from it all.
"I am very flattered that you would say all that. But I still feel uncomfortable about the Jennifer thing," said Mariane.
"Of course you do. Anyone would. But you know the things that have happened. Jennifer no longer has any interest in the production company, Brad's Plan B production company, that purchased the rights to your book, and to put it bluntly, and I think you know this all too well, shit happens," said Angelina.
Mariane looked at Angelina who was returning the look. Brad had long since sat back in his chair sipping his cappuccino that was served almost immediately after he ordered it. Brad was out of the equation, at least for this meeting. Angelina’s “shit happens” remark was her way of communicating that this is the way it is, and there is nothing Mariane can do about it. Nevertheless, it almost added to the narcotic effect of the moment to watch Angelina Jolie say “shit happens.”
"Well, OK. I guess," said Mariane.
"I knew you would understand. And you know we are going to be spending a lot of time together. I have to get to know you. I've got to know you to play you," said Angelina.
Mariane could not help but think that this little meeting had already started to instruct Angelina about Mariane.
"One thing, though, Mariane, and this is very important. You must drop the Jennifer Aniston thing when asked by the media, and you must enthusiastically support the decision of casting me in the movie. If the media starts to give us bad press, then this project will fall apart. That is not a threat, it is just Hollywood for you. It sucks, but money comes and goes so fast, and everyone is skittish about everything. You understand," said Angelina.
"Yes," said Mariane.
"I've got to go. Brad," said Angelina as she stood. "You guys talk, fill Mariane in on the timing and everything," said Angelina to Brad. "It was great meeting you," said Angelina as she turned and walked out into the hot Los Angeles late afternoon sun.
"You want a drink?" asked Brad Pitt.
Alone with Brad Pitt in the back of a fancy Los Angeles restaurant. This was all set up to seal the deal. The girls came to terms, and now the guy is going to make certain it all proceeds in accordance with the plan. Plan B, that is.
Friday, October 10, 2003
Transcript Of Cell Phone Conversation Between Brad Pitt And Jennifer Aniston
The following is a transcript of a cell phone conversation that was recorded by a ham radio operator stationed in New Orleans. The recording was made in the late evening of July 12, 2006. The operator had a radio unit purchased on the internet from Romania which had the capacity to pick up the wavelength band used by cell phone providers. The unit was operated in violation of FCC rules, and so the ham operator was unwilling to release possession of the recording she made of the conversation, nor was she willing to permit us to use her name. She was kind enough though to permit Parodical to listen to the recording, and we transcribed the conversation to the best of our ability. Where we could not make out a word, we say so. From the conversation, Parodical believes this was a conversation between Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston. You can decide for yourself. The following is the transcript:
Aniston: I don't want to talk.
Pitt: Listen, it's important that we (garbled).
Aniston: No.
Pitt: One night.
Aniston: No.
Pitt: I'm in Santa Barbara, you can take the (garbled).
Aniston: Reading screenplays?
Pitt: Yeah.
Aniston: So who are you (garbled) up in Santa Barbara?
Pitt: No one.
Aniston: I know what “reading screenplays" means Brad. You think I am stupid.
Pitt: It sounds like you care. You're getting emotional.
Aniston: It's late. I have to go.
Pitt: I can come to Chicago.
Aniston: Oh right, like no one will know you are here.
Pitt: We'll meet in cars. By the lake somewhere.
Aniston: You trying to get romantic?
Pitt: No. I am trying to (garbled) so we can (garbled).
Aniston: Send me an email. I'm not meeting in cars.
Pitt: Just a brief time together. I need to figure something out.
Aniston: I have to go.
Pitt: Please.
Aniston: I have to go.
Pitt: I just need to (sound of a click) Jenn, Jenn.
The conversation ended there.
Aniston: I don't want to talk.
Pitt: Listen, it's important that we (garbled).
Aniston: No.
Pitt: One night.
Aniston: No.
Pitt: I'm in Santa Barbara, you can take the (garbled).
Aniston: Reading screenplays?
Pitt: Yeah.
Aniston: So who are you (garbled) up in Santa Barbara?
Pitt: No one.
Aniston: I know what “reading screenplays" means Brad. You think I am stupid.
Pitt: It sounds like you care. You're getting emotional.
Aniston: It's late. I have to go.
Pitt: I can come to Chicago.
Aniston: Oh right, like no one will know you are here.
Pitt: We'll meet in cars. By the lake somewhere.
Aniston: You trying to get romantic?
Pitt: No. I am trying to (garbled) so we can (garbled).
Aniston: Send me an email. I'm not meeting in cars.
Pitt: Just a brief time together. I need to figure something out.
Aniston: I have to go.
Pitt: Please.
Aniston: I have to go.
Pitt: I just need to (sound of a click) Jenn, Jenn.
The conversation ended there.
Thursday, August 7, 2003
Katie Couric Loses Her Cool In The Heat Of Pasadena
Katie Couric swung the door open to the penthouse suite at the Ritz Carlton Huntington Hotel in Pasadena, California. The door slammed on the wall making a very loud boom and bounced back almost hitting Sean McManus as he entered from behind. It was 7:34 PM, but the early evening sun hung over the distant Pasadena hills, cutting through the smog and the 106 degree heat. Katie through her bag down on the couch and walked up to the window looking at the palm trees that were drooping in the oven-like air. Sean McManus closed the door to the hotel room gently.
"I told you I didn't want questions," said Katie.
'Of course you were going to get questions, Katie. That's what happens when you appear at these functions," said Sean.
"This was my idea, this Eye on America tour, not yours. I am in control of this, and I told you this would happen if we came here," said Katie, without turning, still standing at the hotel window.
'You have to face the media at some point, Katie," said Sean.
"I am the fucking media. Do you get that? I don't have to face anything," said Katie.
"You're pissed they asked you about what you were going to wear at your debut?" asked Sean.
"My debut? My debut? You think I am a debutante? It is not my goddamn debut. It is merely my first night in the fucking chair, OK," said Katie.
"OK. OK," said Sean.
"And I am going to get tired real fast if all anyone gives a shit about is what I am wearing or what makeup stylist I am using. I am becoming, in fact I am the CBS News Anchor with a capital 'A,' and I dictate what is news and what is not news. And my goddamn wardrobe is not news," said Katie.
"OK. OK," said Sean.
"And this fucking Television Critics Association whatever meeting, who the fuck are these people? Television critics? Don't they have anything better to do? The world is blowing up and they are asking me about Dan Rather, like he matters anymore, for chrissake," said Katie.
"You handled everything well. You didn’t lose your cool," said Sean.
"Of course I didn't lose my cool. I smiled through the whole thing. That's what you are paying me for, to keep this fucking smile on my face even though I am dealing with idiots and morons. Do you know how fucking hard it is for me to keep this smile going? It is worth twenty million dollars this fucking smile, twenty mil a year, and I can turn it off anytime I want. Like right now. See. Am I smiling? Am I smiling? No. But with the camera, with the fucking lights, when it matters, I will smile. And I will keep smiling, Sean, to keep you and CBS happy," said Katie as she turned to face Sean McManus, the President of CBS News.
"That's good, Katie," said Sean.
"So you better fucking do one thing, and that is keep me happy. I don't need this shit. I have everything I want. So keep me happy, and I will keep smiling. And don’t think the two million dollar monthly paycheck is keeping me happy. That keeps me neutral. Neutral, got that," said Katie.
"OK. OK. Got it," said Sean.
"A bottle of champagne. Order room service. We'll start there," said Katie as she sat on the couch and removed her high heels.
"Yes. Of course. Of course," said Sean.
"I told you I didn't want questions," said Katie.
'Of course you were going to get questions, Katie. That's what happens when you appear at these functions," said Sean.
"This was my idea, this Eye on America tour, not yours. I am in control of this, and I told you this would happen if we came here," said Katie, without turning, still standing at the hotel window.
'You have to face the media at some point, Katie," said Sean.
"I am the fucking media. Do you get that? I don't have to face anything," said Katie.
"You're pissed they asked you about what you were going to wear at your debut?" asked Sean.
"My debut? My debut? You think I am a debutante? It is not my goddamn debut. It is merely my first night in the fucking chair, OK," said Katie.
"OK. OK," said Sean.
"And I am going to get tired real fast if all anyone gives a shit about is what I am wearing or what makeup stylist I am using. I am becoming, in fact I am the CBS News Anchor with a capital 'A,' and I dictate what is news and what is not news. And my goddamn wardrobe is not news," said Katie.
"OK. OK," said Sean.
"And this fucking Television Critics Association whatever meeting, who the fuck are these people? Television critics? Don't they have anything better to do? The world is blowing up and they are asking me about Dan Rather, like he matters anymore, for chrissake," said Katie.
"You handled everything well. You didn’t lose your cool," said Sean.
"Of course I didn't lose my cool. I smiled through the whole thing. That's what you are paying me for, to keep this fucking smile on my face even though I am dealing with idiots and morons. Do you know how fucking hard it is for me to keep this smile going? It is worth twenty million dollars this fucking smile, twenty mil a year, and I can turn it off anytime I want. Like right now. See. Am I smiling? Am I smiling? No. But with the camera, with the fucking lights, when it matters, I will smile. And I will keep smiling, Sean, to keep you and CBS happy," said Katie as she turned to face Sean McManus, the President of CBS News.
"That's good, Katie," said Sean.
"So you better fucking do one thing, and that is keep me happy. I don't need this shit. I have everything I want. So keep me happy, and I will keep smiling. And don’t think the two million dollar monthly paycheck is keeping me happy. That keeps me neutral. Neutral, got that," said Katie.
"OK. OK. Got it," said Sean.
"A bottle of champagne. Order room service. We'll start there," said Katie as she sat on the couch and removed her high heels.
"Yes. Of course. Of course," said Sean.
Saturday, April 5, 2003
Bashar al-Assad Takes A Call From Mahmoud Ahmadinejad
Bashar al-Assad sat in the ornate wood chair that was flecked with small semi-precious gems in the parlor of one of his palace suites in Damascus. Bashar was wearing casual beige slacks and a white shirt that was not tucked in. It appeared like he had stopped mid-stream while dressing to sit by the large blue land-line telephone that sat on the oak table in front of him. The table was a perfect square, and had identical chairs one each side, all empty but for Bashar's.
Bashar was young and fit but had a lot on his plate. He often felt like he was living in the shadow of his father, Hafez al-Assad, who was President of Syria from 1971 until his death in 2000. Bashar was born in 1965, and so was young in 2000 when he became President of Syria after the death of his father. Bashar did not want to be President. This privilege was meant for his older brother, Basil al-Assad. But Basil died in an automobile accident in 1994. Upon the death of his father, the Syrian Parliament quicky lowered the minimum age for the Office of Syrian President to 34 to accommodate the election of Bashar, who ran unopposed.
Bashar thought about his education. He was a doctor, having completed his medical degree at the University of Damascus, and his specialty in ophthalmology in London hospitals. Bashar spoke fluent French, English, Arabic and Farsi. Farsi was the language of Iran. And at the moment he was waiting for a call from Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, the President of Iran. Bashar knew why Mahmoud was calling him. Mahmoud believed that the tide was shifting in the favor of Iran and Syria in world affairs, and wanted to make certain that Syria remained firmly on the Iranian mission of destroying Israel and preserving Hezbollah. Bashar hated the conversations with Mahmoud. Mahmoud never listened. Mahmoud preferred to speak and hear himself speak, like he was on some juggernaut that could not and should not be stopped. Mahmoud made Bashar nervous.
The telephone rang.
The telephone rang, and Bashar al-Assad adjusted himself in his chair to prepare for this call from Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. They were so different, Mahmoud and Bashar, thought Bashar. He viewed Mahmoud as an uncultured loudmouth who had the bad manners to assert the power of being the biggest bully in the playground. Mahmoud came from the street. Bashar came from royalty. Bashar had manners, and he was not personally disgusted by the thought of an Israeli state or Jews in general. He did not adopt the great Islamic mission that Mahmoud seemed to be on, a mission that Bashar feared was going to drag Arabs back to the middle ages.
On the fourth ring, Bashar picked up the phone.
"Hello," Bashar said in perfect Farsi.
"We have an opportunity to deliver several long range missiles to Syria to be trucked to Lebanon. The Israelis are for the moment shy about bombing moving vehicles," said Mahmoud. It was just like Mahmoud to bypass diplomatic pleasantries and launch into the purpose of his call.
"I am concerned about trucking missiles through my country," said Bashar.
"We will truck them on school buses. The Israelis will not strike school buses," said Mahmoud. Of course, Mahmoud ignored Bashar's hesitation.
"They are already using aircraft again," said Bashar.
"Just to support their troops. The missiles will be arriving tonight," said Mahmoud. Unbelievable, thought Bashar. The President of Iran was so presumptuous and had already sent the missiles. Bashar was insulted, but his diplomatic instinct told him to ignore his feelings.
"Maybe it is time to make a deal with the Israelis," said Bashar.
"Our people are suffering in Lebanon. It is time to make the Israelis and the Americans pay for their crimes. I am glad you agree," said Mahmoud.
What a jerk. As if Mahmoud was talking to a child. This was typical of Persians. For centuries they had always thought of themselves as better than Arabs, as more cultured, and smarter and wiser. It annoyed the shit out of Bashar, as it did other Arab leaders, but Mahmoud was so 'in your face' about everything he did. And his playground bully routine appealed to the Arab street, Allah only knows why.
"Where are the missiles being delivered?" asked Bashar.
"I do not have that information," said Mahmoud.
Liar. Mahmoud knew. He just did not trust Bashar.
“One more thing. Make an announcement that the Syrian Army is on high alert,” said Mahmoud.
“They are on high alert. It is a matter of caution,” said Bashar.
“Yes. But make the announcement. It will give the impression that the stakes are being raised,” said Mahmoud.
“I do not think that is wise,” said Bashar.
"I have to go. As a courtesy I wanted to let you know about the missiles. Make the announcement. May Allah be with you. God is great," said Mahmoud. The phone line clicked. Mahmoud had hung up.
Bashar placed the handset in its cradle. He had wished to evolve Syria into a modern state with culture and freedoms and capital investment. But events seemed to swoop him and his nation in directions not intended by Bashar. Bashar had put out feelers to the Americans, overtures to communicate that he wanted to deal and to move forward. But Bush was so deaf, ignoring every overture. In point of fact, Bashar would rather have a meal with an American than with an Iranian. But Bush had painted Bashar as a monster. And his country had pushed him to befriend Iran.
Bashar did not know if he should continue trying to make overtures to the Americans. Indeed, Bashar did not know what to do about the fast moving events and chaos. Indecision sapped Bashar of power. And power is what he needed right now. Power to act. Power to save his nation, and possibly the region. Power to stop Iran.
Bashar was young and fit but had a lot on his plate. He often felt like he was living in the shadow of his father, Hafez al-Assad, who was President of Syria from 1971 until his death in 2000. Bashar was born in 1965, and so was young in 2000 when he became President of Syria after the death of his father. Bashar did not want to be President. This privilege was meant for his older brother, Basil al-Assad. But Basil died in an automobile accident in 1994. Upon the death of his father, the Syrian Parliament quicky lowered the minimum age for the Office of Syrian President to 34 to accommodate the election of Bashar, who ran unopposed.
Bashar thought about his education. He was a doctor, having completed his medical degree at the University of Damascus, and his specialty in ophthalmology in London hospitals. Bashar spoke fluent French, English, Arabic and Farsi. Farsi was the language of Iran. And at the moment he was waiting for a call from Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, the President of Iran. Bashar knew why Mahmoud was calling him. Mahmoud believed that the tide was shifting in the favor of Iran and Syria in world affairs, and wanted to make certain that Syria remained firmly on the Iranian mission of destroying Israel and preserving Hezbollah. Bashar hated the conversations with Mahmoud. Mahmoud never listened. Mahmoud preferred to speak and hear himself speak, like he was on some juggernaut that could not and should not be stopped. Mahmoud made Bashar nervous.
The telephone rang.
The telephone rang, and Bashar al-Assad adjusted himself in his chair to prepare for this call from Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. They were so different, Mahmoud and Bashar, thought Bashar. He viewed Mahmoud as an uncultured loudmouth who had the bad manners to assert the power of being the biggest bully in the playground. Mahmoud came from the street. Bashar came from royalty. Bashar had manners, and he was not personally disgusted by the thought of an Israeli state or Jews in general. He did not adopt the great Islamic mission that Mahmoud seemed to be on, a mission that Bashar feared was going to drag Arabs back to the middle ages.
On the fourth ring, Bashar picked up the phone.
"Hello," Bashar said in perfect Farsi.
"We have an opportunity to deliver several long range missiles to Syria to be trucked to Lebanon. The Israelis are for the moment shy about bombing moving vehicles," said Mahmoud. It was just like Mahmoud to bypass diplomatic pleasantries and launch into the purpose of his call.
"I am concerned about trucking missiles through my country," said Bashar.
"We will truck them on school buses. The Israelis will not strike school buses," said Mahmoud. Of course, Mahmoud ignored Bashar's hesitation.
"They are already using aircraft again," said Bashar.
"Just to support their troops. The missiles will be arriving tonight," said Mahmoud. Unbelievable, thought Bashar. The President of Iran was so presumptuous and had already sent the missiles. Bashar was insulted, but his diplomatic instinct told him to ignore his feelings.
"Maybe it is time to make a deal with the Israelis," said Bashar.
"Our people are suffering in Lebanon. It is time to make the Israelis and the Americans pay for their crimes. I am glad you agree," said Mahmoud.
What a jerk. As if Mahmoud was talking to a child. This was typical of Persians. For centuries they had always thought of themselves as better than Arabs, as more cultured, and smarter and wiser. It annoyed the shit out of Bashar, as it did other Arab leaders, but Mahmoud was so 'in your face' about everything he did. And his playground bully routine appealed to the Arab street, Allah only knows why.
"Where are the missiles being delivered?" asked Bashar.
"I do not have that information," said Mahmoud.
Liar. Mahmoud knew. He just did not trust Bashar.
“One more thing. Make an announcement that the Syrian Army is on high alert,” said Mahmoud.
“They are on high alert. It is a matter of caution,” said Bashar.
“Yes. But make the announcement. It will give the impression that the stakes are being raised,” said Mahmoud.
“I do not think that is wise,” said Bashar.
"I have to go. As a courtesy I wanted to let you know about the missiles. Make the announcement. May Allah be with you. God is great," said Mahmoud. The phone line clicked. Mahmoud had hung up.
Bashar placed the handset in its cradle. He had wished to evolve Syria into a modern state with culture and freedoms and capital investment. But events seemed to swoop him and his nation in directions not intended by Bashar. Bashar had put out feelers to the Americans, overtures to communicate that he wanted to deal and to move forward. But Bush was so deaf, ignoring every overture. In point of fact, Bashar would rather have a meal with an American than with an Iranian. But Bush had painted Bashar as a monster. And his country had pushed him to befriend Iran.
Bashar did not know if he should continue trying to make overtures to the Americans. Indeed, Bashar did not know what to do about the fast moving events and chaos. Indecision sapped Bashar of power. And power is what he needed right now. Power to act. Power to save his nation, and possibly the region. Power to stop Iran.
Saturday, November 9, 2002
Madonna Lectures Guy Ritchie On Islam As She Does Yoga In Her Underwear
Salty sweat beads formed on Madonna Louise Veronica Ciccone's face and sculpted bare arms as she completed one hundred push ups. Her breasts were held tight by a black running bra, and she was also wearing a black thong. Madonna was as naked as someone could be without being naked. As she finished her last push up, she raised her slightly rippled butt into the air in the yoga pose known as a Down Dog, where her hands and toes were firmly planted on the red mat below, arms and legs straight, and her body forming an inverted "V."
Madonna's hair was long and tied into a pony tail, which hung down, its last few inches lying on the mat under her head as she remained in the Down Dog for a count of fifty. Madonna then stood into a sun salutation, raising her hands into the air, stick straight upwards, her palms together in prayer-form. She took a deep breath in and lowered her arms to her side.
Guy Ritchie sat on a bench drinking out of a small straw that was poked into a small soy milk pack. He looked at his wife, at her arms and legs and face. Almost every muscle was visible, all the striations of muscle tissue revealed themselves through Madonna's aging skin. The blue blood vessels ran up and down Madonna's arm and legs, not to mention Madonna's neck. The unstoppable juggernaut of age betrays itself everywhere, from head to chin. Of course, Madonna's oxygen injections and botox had smoothed out her face, and the strawberry hair and side part gave Madonna a thirty something look. But it appeared to Guy that his wife's passionate, no, obsessive quest to maintain a lean and mean body had actually resulted in making her look older, not younger.
Of course, everyone was in awe that someone 48 years old could possibly be so trim and obviously fit. But the unmentioned, the unspoken truth was that it aged Madonna, much like the marathon runner who looks older than their years. Guy couldn't say this. Not to his wife, of course. Madonna would launch into a fury about Guy's bad habits and poor nutrition. Hence, the soy milk pack Guy was holding in his hand.
Guy hated soy milk. He had given up beer. He had given up whiskey. He didn't smoke anymore. He was nearly a vegetarian. And there was something about the whole life style change imposed on him by his wife that drained Guy of any creative impulse. He had virtually dropped out of filmmaking. He felt lost and confused and supremely healthy. As if his life force had been sucked out of his libido and his penis and sent to his blood chemistry or liver, or some body part that had nothing to do with cranking out a story or shooting a movie.
"I think we should visit a mosque. It's the only way," said Madonna.
Oh Christ, thought Guy. Madonna had lost touch.
Guy Ritchie's wife wants to go to a mosque. Guy was not sure he heard his wife correctly. Madonna was in a twisted position on the floor of the Presidential Suite of the Westin Excelsior Hotel in Rome on the Via Veneto. The suite was the rounded corner of the famous hotel, which Madonna insisted on, or more accurately assumed she would get. The hotel had to move a Saudi oil minister to another suite to accommodate Madonna's expectations. Guy was aware of this because the hotel manager was in a tizzy to satisfy the Saudi minister, who was only mollified when offered the Hotel's Bugatti as a free car to use while in Rome.
"Did you hear me? Guy, I hate when I talk and you don't respond. It's so fucking annoying," said Madonna.
"Yes. I heard you," said Guy.
Guy had almost had enough of Madonna's quest to bring the world together, to somehow solve the mess in the Middle East with two gay dancers, one tattooed with a Star of David, the other with a Star and Crescent. Guy thought the two dancers wrapping themselves around an aging pop star whom was writhing and gyrating her body with sexual gestures was not only weak and shallow, but embarrassing. But no one was going to tell his wife that. No one could tell Madonna anything anymore. She knew best about everything. Certainly about how to solve the Arab-Israeli conflict.
"I don't really want to go to a mosque," said Guy as he sipped some more of the dreadful soy milk through what Guy sometimes thought of as an infant straw.
"That's the point. Of course you don't want to. That is why we will go," said Madonna as she contorted herself into another yoga pose.
"I am not wearing that shit, and I am not lying on the floor praying to Mecca, or whatever the fuck they do,' said Guy.
'You just have no love in your heart, do you. We go to church, we go to synagogue, and now we go to a mosque. You must love the people who hate you. That is the only way. We can bring people together that way," said Madonna as she started to do one-arm push ups. Guy hated when his wife did one-arm push ups, something he could never do, and as far as he was concerned a feat meant only for men.
Guy thought his wife sounded like an evangelist. But that is what happens when someone starts to believe in the truth of their own shit. Guy hungered for that time when the ambiguities of character inspired him, the people who had turmoil, who wallowed in self doubt but carried on nonetheless. But Guy's wife, Madonna Louise Veronica Ciccone had long ago lost any self doubt. She was everything that Guy thought was totally boring about character. His wife was on a mission she firmly believed in. Guy loved people who were not sure about anything but slogged though the day just to make it to the evening.
"Yes, sweetheart. You are right. I need to get a little more love in my heart. What mosque do you want to go to? I mean, is there a mosque in Rome?" said Guy.
"We need to go shopping for the right clothes. Mosque clothes," said Madonna.
"You know, I don't think we can be together in the mosque. Don't they separate the men from the women?" asked Guy.
"We need to start a reform Islamic movement. Reform Muslims, like Reform Jews. We shall go into a mosque and start to enlighten them," said Madonna as she finished her one-arm pushups and stood, removing the tie from her pony tail letting the long strawberry hair fall over her marble-like shoulders.
"I think you are dreaming," said Guy.
"Typical. That is why you are who you are. I'm going shopping. Try to do something useful today, OK," said Madonna as she removed her running bra and exposed her round but sagging breasts. Madonna wiped the sweat from under each breast with the running bra, lifting each one with one hand as she daubed the bra on the red skin underneath. Guy thought that his wife’s breasts were looking baggy.
Madonna went into the large bathroom and shut the door. Guy Ritchie finished his soy pack and though it on the floor. He was going to do something useful. He was going to find an English pub in Rome and have a few beers. He was going to try to find himself again.
Madonna's hair was long and tied into a pony tail, which hung down, its last few inches lying on the mat under her head as she remained in the Down Dog for a count of fifty. Madonna then stood into a sun salutation, raising her hands into the air, stick straight upwards, her palms together in prayer-form. She took a deep breath in and lowered her arms to her side.
Guy Ritchie sat on a bench drinking out of a small straw that was poked into a small soy milk pack. He looked at his wife, at her arms and legs and face. Almost every muscle was visible, all the striations of muscle tissue revealed themselves through Madonna's aging skin. The blue blood vessels ran up and down Madonna's arm and legs, not to mention Madonna's neck. The unstoppable juggernaut of age betrays itself everywhere, from head to chin. Of course, Madonna's oxygen injections and botox had smoothed out her face, and the strawberry hair and side part gave Madonna a thirty something look. But it appeared to Guy that his wife's passionate, no, obsessive quest to maintain a lean and mean body had actually resulted in making her look older, not younger.
Of course, everyone was in awe that someone 48 years old could possibly be so trim and obviously fit. But the unmentioned, the unspoken truth was that it aged Madonna, much like the marathon runner who looks older than their years. Guy couldn't say this. Not to his wife, of course. Madonna would launch into a fury about Guy's bad habits and poor nutrition. Hence, the soy milk pack Guy was holding in his hand.
Guy hated soy milk. He had given up beer. He had given up whiskey. He didn't smoke anymore. He was nearly a vegetarian. And there was something about the whole life style change imposed on him by his wife that drained Guy of any creative impulse. He had virtually dropped out of filmmaking. He felt lost and confused and supremely healthy. As if his life force had been sucked out of his libido and his penis and sent to his blood chemistry or liver, or some body part that had nothing to do with cranking out a story or shooting a movie.
"I think we should visit a mosque. It's the only way," said Madonna.
Oh Christ, thought Guy. Madonna had lost touch.
Guy Ritchie's wife wants to go to a mosque. Guy was not sure he heard his wife correctly. Madonna was in a twisted position on the floor of the Presidential Suite of the Westin Excelsior Hotel in Rome on the Via Veneto. The suite was the rounded corner of the famous hotel, which Madonna insisted on, or more accurately assumed she would get. The hotel had to move a Saudi oil minister to another suite to accommodate Madonna's expectations. Guy was aware of this because the hotel manager was in a tizzy to satisfy the Saudi minister, who was only mollified when offered the Hotel's Bugatti as a free car to use while in Rome.
"Did you hear me? Guy, I hate when I talk and you don't respond. It's so fucking annoying," said Madonna.
"Yes. I heard you," said Guy.
Guy had almost had enough of Madonna's quest to bring the world together, to somehow solve the mess in the Middle East with two gay dancers, one tattooed with a Star of David, the other with a Star and Crescent. Guy thought the two dancers wrapping themselves around an aging pop star whom was writhing and gyrating her body with sexual gestures was not only weak and shallow, but embarrassing. But no one was going to tell his wife that. No one could tell Madonna anything anymore. She knew best about everything. Certainly about how to solve the Arab-Israeli conflict.
"I don't really want to go to a mosque," said Guy as he sipped some more of the dreadful soy milk through what Guy sometimes thought of as an infant straw.
"That's the point. Of course you don't want to. That is why we will go," said Madonna as she contorted herself into another yoga pose.
"I am not wearing that shit, and I am not lying on the floor praying to Mecca, or whatever the fuck they do,' said Guy.
'You just have no love in your heart, do you. We go to church, we go to synagogue, and now we go to a mosque. You must love the people who hate you. That is the only way. We can bring people together that way," said Madonna as she started to do one-arm push ups. Guy hated when his wife did one-arm push ups, something he could never do, and as far as he was concerned a feat meant only for men.
Guy thought his wife sounded like an evangelist. But that is what happens when someone starts to believe in the truth of their own shit. Guy hungered for that time when the ambiguities of character inspired him, the people who had turmoil, who wallowed in self doubt but carried on nonetheless. But Guy's wife, Madonna Louise Veronica Ciccone had long ago lost any self doubt. She was everything that Guy thought was totally boring about character. His wife was on a mission she firmly believed in. Guy loved people who were not sure about anything but slogged though the day just to make it to the evening.
"Yes, sweetheart. You are right. I need to get a little more love in my heart. What mosque do you want to go to? I mean, is there a mosque in Rome?" said Guy.
"We need to go shopping for the right clothes. Mosque clothes," said Madonna.
"You know, I don't think we can be together in the mosque. Don't they separate the men from the women?" asked Guy.
"We need to start a reform Islamic movement. Reform Muslims, like Reform Jews. We shall go into a mosque and start to enlighten them," said Madonna as she finished her one-arm pushups and stood, removing the tie from her pony tail letting the long strawberry hair fall over her marble-like shoulders.
"I think you are dreaming," said Guy.
"Typical. That is why you are who you are. I'm going shopping. Try to do something useful today, OK," said Madonna as she removed her running bra and exposed her round but sagging breasts. Madonna wiped the sweat from under each breast with the running bra, lifting each one with one hand as she daubed the bra on the red skin underneath. Guy thought that his wife’s breasts were looking baggy.
Madonna went into the large bathroom and shut the door. Guy Ritchie finished his soy pack and though it on the floor. He was going to do something useful. He was going to find an English pub in Rome and have a few beers. He was going to try to find himself again.
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