Sometimes I don’t feel like writing; and thenâ€¦deus ex machinaâ€¦a good thing comes out of a bad thing.
- It’s a bad thing not to feel like writing.
- It’s a bad thing to have a â€œfriendâ€ who wants every conversation to be about him. That old dumb joke about the ego-centric actor: â€œMe, me, me, me, me, me. Well, enough about me; let’s talk about you. What did YOU think of my performance tonight?â€ That joke was written about my ex-so-called-friend.
- It’s a good thing to dump that â€œfriendâ€ or drift away from him gradually so it doesn’t seem like a dumping and so that I can start having conversations with people who sometimesEveryOnceIn-a-While want to hear about me.
- It’s a good thing to go to a wrap party;
- but it’s a bad thing when the ex-so-called-friend corners me.
- It’s a bad thing when he does the â€œme/me/me/meâ€ routine
- but it’s a really good thing because now I have a topic for this column, whereas–before the party–I didn’t feel like writing.
Friend starts out,
Yeah, we’re so Hollywood that we call everyone â€œBabyâ€ even if we haven’t spoken to them for a year and we are in the Mutual Dislike or at Least Ignore Club.
Fred the Friend continues,
â€œRemember that class we took together? Remember how the teacher hated me?â€
No, actually, I don’t recall it that way. She was a hard taskmaster for everyone. Besides, Fred, it’s been eight years since we took that class together; and I have not been focusing on how Suzy hated you for the past eight years. Actually, Dude, I have had other things to think about.
Friend Fred blathers on,
â€œâ€¦that piece I wroteâ€¦Suzy hated meâ€¦that performance I didâ€¦that chick in the class thought I was bzzzz bzzzzâ€¦what was that chick’s name? Shaula. Shaulaâ€¦bzzz bzzz. Shaula was weird.â€
â€œYes, she acted like she thought I was a vampire last time I saw her. She wouldn’t â€¦â€
â€œYou were in a film with her?â€
Jealousy here. Every time I work and Fred doesn’t, he starts to quiz me about how I got the gig, who cast me, bla, bla, bla.
â€œNo, well, yeah. Sort of. I cast her in one of those 48-hour film marathonsâ€¦â€
â€œWas that the Basement CafÃ© television series? I was in that.â€
â€œNo, it was a 48-hour filmâ€¦â€
Fred (you are getting the drift) interrupts. Every conversation must be about him.
â€œDid I ever tell you about that Basement CafÃ©?â€
â€œI was in that, too, remember?â€
(And you’ve only told me about how poorly they treated you, like, maybe, I dunno, 17 times already!)
â€œThey treated me so poorly. They told me they’d write a character for me and then they just cast Samson instead and they told me I couldâ€¦and then I had my brother, my friend the editor, my shrink pay a call on themâ€¦bzzzz, bzzzz. They are so poopy.â€
I zone out because I HAVE heard this story before. Matter of fact, I was on set when it happened; not that Fred would even remember the presence of someone else other than his famous and poorly treated self.
As I edge away in search of more interesting company, Fred dashes to the sofa. Lays full-length, face-down on the back of the sofa, humping the cushions like he’s in some kind of stoner sex-scene.
â€œDid I tell you about this audition I had?â€ he says, pressing his lips into the sofa-back and rocking his hips. â€œThey told me to be sexy. So I humped their couch.â€
He moans and grunts. He can be heard above all the cocktail chatter; but I am no longer paying attention.