by Eric Idle
“Doesn’t it scare you that some of these gals will come after you?” He smiles at his own question. We can both understand how terrifying that would be.
“You mean legally or sexually?”
Larry thinks that’s hilarious.
“Either way you’re in trouble. I mean Gwyneth and Geena and Julia … these are pretty heavy names.”
“But they’re not in my book.”
“By name you mean?”
“Precisely.”
“But we can read between the lines.”
“If you must,” I say. “As long as you read the lines. I don’t write what’s between ’em.”
“Just what’s between the sheets.”
“What?”
“It’s all over the internet.”
Ah yes, dear Reader, the internet. There’s the rub. The simple website about me started by some horny eighteen year-old college kid has escalated, has spawned, has multiplied. There are now at least forty websites all purporting to have the scoop on who’s who in my book and who’s screwed who. One even offers a key to the pseudonyms that I use. These people have some balls, I can tell you. Didn’t we all hail the internet as the shining face of the future, the democratization of communication? We did, didn’t we? Well, let me tell you about the Information Superhighway, it’s filled with bums lying all over the road, conspiracy theorists, mischief makers, con men, pornographers, hitch hikers from hell and cunts of all nations. It’s where the paranoid meet the vainglorious. It provides a perfect platform for those who wish to be published but who have nothing to say. If you want to know where the ape is at this moment in its evolution just check out the internet. You may not be so worried then that we stand on the brink of self-destruction. Maybe this would be a good thing for the Universe. If we blew ourselves to bits arguing over the nature of God, that might be a fucking relief for any intelligent life left in the Universe.
Four web sites list in detail who I have slept with. By a strange co-incidence this coincides almost exactly with the top ten box office stars in the world. Women, at least. There is a gay version which makes me blush to even think of. I mean I simply would not go to bed with Captain Kirk. Is there no shame?
According to these websites – called variously StanleyHay.com, Blabbermouth.com, The WritersCock.com, and some which are too filthy even for me to mention – according to these sites I have had exotic sex in abstruse and sometimes downright uncomfortable positions with Julia, Cameron, Drew, Angelina, Selma, Sadie and Gwyneth. According to the internet I have done it with Britney, had it with Whitney, sipped on Brandy, dined on Spice Girls and muff dived Madonna. I have rumpy pumpied with Roseanne, gently genitaled Geena, and even had head from Hilary. I am a walking fantasy, the power tool of America. The subconscious longings of showbiz sexual fantasy all meet in me. For those who dream of fucking the famous, I am the Avatar.
And of course I am now tremendously popular. Fame is an aphrodisiac. Even Henry Kissinger got laid. My phone has been ringing off the hook. Women are calling me. Jane Seymour calls and wonders why we haven’t met. Joan Collins, get this, Joan Collins calls. She gets my number from Morty.
“Are you going to tell?”
“About what?”
“About what happened at Morty’s party.”
“What happened?”
“Shall we just keep it our little secret?”
“Of course, Joanie.”
“It won’t be in the book?”
“No Joanie.”
“Oh.”
She sounds almost disappointed.
“Of course you could just hint that we …”
“Would you like that?”
“I think I would be OK with that.”
“Alright.”
“It would certainly piss off Jackie. She’s been lunching for years with the gals and gets all the hot goss about who’s good in bed and who’re the studs and she says she’s never even heard of you.”
I'm busted. By Joanie. She’s about to expose me.
But no.
“Well done,” says Joan. “Good for you.”
I’m on Politically Incorrect. Bill Maher gets me to sign my book jacket.
“Big fan” he says with a grin.
But don’t I spare a thought about how all this will end? Aren’t I concerned that one day this whole fucking bubble will burst, collapse in on itself and I shall become a black hole? Of course I am. I am obsessed with it. Night and day.
Now Howard Rosenberg has turned on me.
The slime that operates in the fame of others.
He is quite particular in his scorn. I am excoriated by name on the front page of Monday’s LA Times. Well, the Calendar section. No one in Hollywood reads the news. Just the grosses. There is some major concern that Bush will shanghai the Academy Awards by bombing Baghdad. Steve Martin says they will be ready but they are planning to go ahead anyway.
I have always enjoyed Howard’s pieces. He is always funny and fair. The worst of it is I totally agree with him. I too am outraged that some jumped-up Hollywood writer dare expose a few actresses he has been lucky enough to go to bed with. It is low. It is despicable. To parade your private life in print, profiting from the fame of others. He is absolutely bang on correct.
Even more so when the writer is lying through his molars and hasn’t done any of the unmentioned acts, let alone written about them.
It certainly doesn’t make it any easier for me to begin writing.
*
The Tabloids have taken to me in a big way. I’m the new Kato. They are using old eight by ten glossies I had shot when I was an actor. I look pretty good in them. My younger self stares out at me in The Star, my wistful innocent looks contrasting strongly with the lurid tales the tabloids have no trouble inventing for me. Here’s one person who is not going to sue them! According to them I am screwing everybody left right and centerfold. One of the tabloids even commends me on my truthfulness. I am, apparently, a fighter for free speech. A sexual whistleblower.
This hitherto underexposed crusading element in my character gets a big boost when Jerry Falwell goes out of his way to attack me. I have the blessing of a curse from Jerry. I am apparently a special representative of the Evil Forces assaulting American Purity. I feel honored and pleased to be leading this charge. I almost want to confess that there is no book, just to make Jerry look ridiculous. Almost. But not quite. Because I would look ridiculous too. And I can’t afford that.
I have already earned a million dollars.
I am going to end up a very rich man.
My new Business Manager has been outlining some tax precautions I should take.
“No need to let Uncle Sam take it all,” he says.
This is what gives me pause when I feel like coming clean about the whole business. Saying look, there is no book. There never was a book. My sex life is a closed book. A locked door. A shut gate. A dropped portcullis. A barred portal. A bridge too far. A path unchosen.
I don’t want to come clean.
I want the money.
What am I to do?
5
What I decide to do is go to the Fox Lot to see Sam. He is still pissed at me and won’t return my calls, so I figure I’ll go visit him in his office. As I’m driving in I’m surprised to see Tish driving out. She doesn’t see me and by the time I’m out of my car yelling “Tish, Tish, it’s me!” she’s driven off. She is looking great. Security treats me like an idiot and yell at me to move my car. Really. Get a life. Don’t they know who I am?
Sam works over at the back of the Lot on an animated sitcom. He’s an Associate Producer, which is what they call writers when a TV show becomes so successful they need to bribe them to stay on. There are about fifteen Associate Producers on this show. They have a great bungalow with an upstairs and everything, pool table, kitchen, sauna, fruit machines, ping pong, exercise room … they really don’t want these people to go home. I know most of the writers and about half the cast. It’s a great show, co
nsistently funnier than any live action show on the air. Executives are banned from the bungalow. They are not allowed to give notes. That’s the deal. Great, eh? They get all this just as long as they keep the Emmies coming.
Sam looks startled when I show up. I have brought him some flowers and a bottle of Cristal. He doesn’t drink, but I tell him he can give it to his mother. She can use it to put roses in or something.
“How did you know my mother was an alcoholic gardener?” he asks.
He’s too nice to hold a grudge for very long.
We lunch in the Commissary and he fidgets nervously through his Sylvester Stallone Ham Sandwich Special. I have the Oysters Rock Hudson and the Don Simpson Salad.
“It’s how Sly would want to be remembered,” says Sam, looking at the chopped ham. “That or a baked Alaska.”
That’s as close as we get to our old familiarity. Something’s bothering him, I can tell. Maybe it’s my new-found fame. Several people come over and shake my hand during lunch. One very pretty redhead gives me her card and invites me to discuss a project with her.
“That’s new and different,” says Sam.
Is he jealous?
After lunch we visit the set of Don’t Make Me Laugh, Fox’s latest comedy. It certainly lives up to its name.
“Is something bothering you, Sam?” I finally ask. My shrink encourages forthright confrontation. I like it too. It puts people at a disadvantage.
“What?” he says, unconvincingly.
“Have you forgiven me for the Mickey Mikado rewrite?”
“Of course,” he says. “I hear it’s already headed for the toilet.”
“So we’re friends again?”
“Who says we were friends?”
I laugh, but I can see he means it. Friends in Hollywood are a useful commodity. The producer Joel Silver was once accused of having no friends. “Friends?” he said. “I have friends I haven’t even used yet.”
*
I have to leave in a hurry as I see Marvin Lutwig coming my way; I cannot stand Marvin Lutwig at any price. Marvin Lutwig is a creepy guy who hangs around comedy people. Sam says he’s like God – he’s not funny and he’s everywhere. He’s always pushing himself forward for projects he’s completely unsuitable for and is famous for attending the opening of absolutely everything. He’d attend the opening of a tin of salmon if was free. Sam once said that Marvin Lutwig gives anti-Semitism a good name, but Sam’s a far more polite guy than me and, sadly, unlike me he can’t pretend that he hasn’t seen Marvin. He waves.
“Oh no,” I say.
“Too late,” says Sam. “He already saw us.”
Marvin has eyes in the back of his head. He rubbernecks the crowd at galas, searching for someone more famous to stand next to. He’s legendary for hosting tributes for recently deceased celebrities. It doesn’t matter whether he knew them in life, he simply invites other celebrities to come along and mourn their passing, and then gets himself photographed with them. He’s an operator all right. He gets sponsors to pay for these events and then sells the whole thing off to the Internet or the less discerning cable networks. It’s rumored he takes a fee for this, and I wouldn’t be in the least surprised because the guy has moxie. I once told him to fuck off and he laughed and said “Very witty, Stanley!” as if I had just made a joke. He’s insult-proof. Now he’s fixed his beady black eyes on us and is loping towards us. He has a stud in one ear. His hair is a greasy mess and he is several pounds overweight. He comes puffing up, sweating and beaming broadly.
“Hello, Stanley,” he says in his creepy, grating voice. “Congratulations on the book. I hear it’s a monster.”
He talks and dresses like a sixties rock promoter. He comes up with these weird phrases. Monster. Vibe. Nifty pickings. Fab. He thinks it’s cool but it’s sad.
“Bet the ladies love you now Stanley, eh?” he says, managing to be both ingratiating and insulting. I want to vomit.
“Excuse me Sam,” I say, “I have to vomit.”
6
I’m hot.
That’s what I’m told.
And getting hotter by the day.
Heat in Hollywood is the square of the interest in you multiplied by the power of PR.
I now have a very beautiful pale-faced publicist who works the phone night and day. I think she would kill for me. Janey looks like an angel child but talks like the devil’s spawn.
“You’re hotter than a bitch on heat,” she says. “Lots of pussy for Stanley. Your dick’ll be licked from here to breakfast time.”
I can’t believe such things come out of her sweet mouth.
“Nothing the girls love more than fucking for a cause. You are going to be so screwed. I hear Dharma already had a taste.”
Now how did she know that?
“How about you?”
“Say what?”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
She puts her lovely head back and laughs.
“Honey, I’m off your shelf.”
I’m blank.
Am I not good enough for her, is that what she means?
She sees my confusion, which makes her laugh even more.
“Dear child, I’m not on your shopping list. I’m with the other team.”
I still don’t get it. She finally has pity on me and stops laughing.
“Stanley, what planet are you from? I’m gay, you chump.”
I’m shocked to learn she is a lesbo.
“Oh. You look disappointed. Well, that is sweet.”
I feel ten years old.
“Tell you what, hon, if I get a sudden change of hormones I’ll be sure to moan on your horn. But don’t wait up. Meanwhile we got books to sell, so let’s do some phoners.”
I hate phoners.
I’ve been doing publicity for a week and already I hate them.
Phoners are a bore. Phoners, in case you haven’t guessed, are phone interviews. They come in two sizes, the long and dull phone conversation with the print journalist from Milwaukee, who asks you about everything in your entire life for an hour and a half and then reduces this to a single line of newsprint, and the live phone interview with the jocks on the radio. I just did 28 of these. I have another 30 to go. Live phoners work like this: you get up before dawn and slog over to a grungy studio in Hollywood where your PR lady patches you in one at a time to endless radio stations up and down the country. I have been on drive time in New Jersey, breakfast time in Phoenix, coffee time in Atlanta and three hours later I’m still hitting the morning traffic in downtown San Francisco. Ten minutes for each station and it’s all the same.
“This is WXBC Chicago and when we come back we’ll be speaking with controversial writer Stanley Hay, who claims to have slept with everyone in LA, here on Bob and Ray in the morning, don’t miss it – meanwhile, here’s Aerosmith.”
There are always two of them. You can practically hear their beards. They are totally jacked on coffee. After a few of these you pick up on their adrenalin so you are more hyped than they are.
“Stanley you there?”
“Yeah I’m here.”
“Good, you dog. This is Ray. Big fan. We’ll be coming to you live in about two minutes.”
“Great.”
Then they leave you on hold while you listen to more Aerosmith.
“This is 92.5, the station that rocks, and now we have that interview with the star of The Writer’s Cut, but first, hemorrhoids. Have you found painful and sore hemorrhoids can really make you miss that vital play in the ball game …?”
“Stanley?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s me, Bob. Ray’s just doing a coupla commercials and then we’ll be coming to you live in about a minute or so from now. We just gotta take some local news. Love the book.”
He has no idea it isn’t even out.
So you sit there while you hear about traffic diversions downtown, a local child-molesting case, a suspected herpes epidemic amongst teens, and then finally you’re on. They have two q
uestions they want to know about the book. Will it be a movie? Who will be in it? That’s it. Period. Oh, occasionally a few of them get clever and ask me who I have screwed in Hollywood. I don’t have to worry – they don’t give me time to answer anyway. They shout a few lewd suggestions at each other, shriek with laughter, thank me for livening their morning and it’s on to more heavy metal.
“When we come back we have Bozz and Nukey from Slipper and tomorrow Keef and Soapy will be here from Smack City to give away great free tickets for their All Damp All Night concert. That’s live on the station that rocks. Meanwhile here’s Toad the Wet Sprocket.”
If it’s not the two jocks it’s the zoo format, one dominant master and three or four acolytes of varying sexes chiming in. These shows love sound effects. Every single lame entendre is underscored by a whoopee cushion, or electronic raspberry. They put quotation marks round all suspected humor, in case you miss it. It’s loud, intense and exhausting. They egg each other on to make further outrageous remarks. I’m asked if there are any African Americans in my book? If I practice sexual segregation? What’s the most sex I’ve had in one day? Whether I have been to bed with Gloria Estefan? Have I slept with Ricky Martin? Am I gay? Am I against gays? It’s like being grilled by the inmates of a mad house. It’s the opposite of therapy. Their questions are aimed to pull me apart. Do you sleep with hamsters? Have you ever had sex standing up? What about phone sex? Did you ever do it on a private plane? I manage to get in a quick one-liner about suffering from private jet lag. They love that. They chortle and bang drums and blow whistles for about a minute. Nice one Stanley, they yell. God knows what the punters feel, stuck out there in their cars.
Two days of this and I’m a zombie. I have dealt with the jerk-off fantasies of every jock in America. They all want to be Howard Stern. Howard Stern apparently wants to be me. According to my publicist he has heard of my book and is jealous. He wants me on his show. I am to go to New York.
It’s no secret that Hollywood is a stock exchange, but mere writers are rarely quoted on the S&P 500. Bill Goldman is, of course, and Joe Eszterhas bullied his way in there for a minute or two, but can you even name another screenwriter? Of course not. The only time anyone remembers Best Screenplay is if an actor wrote it.