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January 29, 2005

Wade in the water.

Never blogged a dream before, so this oughta be interesting:

The first part I remembered after waking up was that L and I were in a bustling deli. I'm filling in the blanks here, but let's call it the lunch rush.

It felt like NYC -- a din of diners, and the humid air near the counter was perforated with food smells and shouted orders from waiters to line staff, the grind of machines slicing meat, humming refrigerators, cash registers, etc. Every now and then, the front door would open and a tide of traffic noise would surge in.

I wasn't hungry, and I recall feeling that we were in a hurry to get somewhere, so I was confused as to why we were stopping. After waiting patiently, L got the ear of a graying counterman in his fifties with long sleeves rolled up past his elbows. I didn't hear him take her order, but he moved away swiftly.

We waited for a few minutes, then a few minutes more. I wanted to ask her what she'd ordered, but the noise was too great. I people-watched instead; the action behind the counter of a busy Manhattan delicatessen was positively florid. It reminded me of a nature program where a huge pack of animals crowds together for some common purpose, like crossing a river or making a migration.

The counterman walked back towards us, holding a styrofoam tray in one hand and a plastic bag in the other. He caught me looking hopeful, and genially shook his head "no" as the tray dropped into the bag. In the same motion, he deftly spun the wrapped tray, twisting the bag so he could knot it.

We waited a while longer, and it was still too loud to ask L what we were waiting for. I couldn't see her face through most of the dream; it was crowded, and I was standing slightly behind her and to the right. The counterman came our way holding two half-filled squeeze bottles of mayo and mustard and handed them to L.

She smiled sweetly enough to show those adorable dimples and turned to face me. Her body language indicated that her business was transacted, so I followed her out the door and onto the sidewalk. Just then, she wheeled on me, eyebrows high in the air; she'd forgotten something.

I held the door for her, as she was holding a bottle of condiments in each hand, and we plunged back into the deli and wedged our way through people back to the take-out area. The counter man saw us and gave L a nod of acknowledgement before dipping low under a counter. He emerged with a red plastic sports bottle -- identical to the matching set L and I use at the gym -- and filled the bottom with ice cubes before topping it off with water from a soda gun.

He screwed the top on the bottle as he walked towards us and handed it to me. "You forgot to wait for the water," he said.

I thanked him and we left, L opening the door for me with her hip.

And then I woke up, and I have this damned song in my head. Luckily, a Ramsey Lewis version is on my iPod.

And since I'm in still in a bit of a dream state, here's something else that's odd: I'm sitting in this corner cafe, and a few minutes ago, the first car at the light was a green Morris Mini with a Welsh Corgi leaning out the passenger window. At the same moment, "Space Cowboy" by Jamiroquai comes on my headphones.*

* Those of you who caught this oblique reference should feel free to explain it to the others in the comments section.

Posted by Your Protagonist at 12:30 PM | Comments (0)

January 28, 2005

OK, I forgive you for making "Sliver."

Just when I was prepared to write off all celebs as self-obsessed jagoffs, Sharon Stone shows me up for the coldhearted cynic I am. If this doesn't move you even a little, I feel sorry for you:

Sharon Stone raised $1 million in five minutes Friday for mosquito nets in Tanzania, turning a panel on African poverty into an impromptu fund-raiser.

About an hour into the panel, when a U.N. official said 150,000 African children were dying of malaria every month because they didn't have bed nets, Stone suddenly rose from her seat in the audience.

"I'd like to offer $10,000 to help you buy some bed nets today," Stone told Tanzanian President Benjamin William Mkapa, who was on the panel along with Microsoft founder Bill Gates and others.

Stone ten implored others in the hall -- packed with several hundred well-heeled executives and political leaders attending the WOrld Economic Forum -- to reach into their pockets.

"Just stand up. Just stand up. People are dying in his country today," she said. "And that is not OK with me today."

Immediately an unidentified man promised $50,000.

Around 30 others quickly followed, and within five minutes, Stone had raised $1 million, said Sen. Bill Frist, the Senate leader who moderated the panel discussion on how rich nations can best fund the war on poverty.

Posted by Your Protagonist at 12:40 PM | Comments (0)

January 27, 2005

Home again, home again.

I'm a little low-energy after coming back from the desert, but being home with L and the cats is restorative. I still feel vaguely dehydrated; there was a water emergency in Phoenix, so I ended up drinking only soda, juice and margaritas while I was there. Apparently, the water treatment plants are back online, so all's well.

I stayed up the night before my flight writing and reading. At a quarter of four, my dad knocked on the bedroom door, seeking to repo his laptop. I joined him in the living room, where we ended up talking for a while about life, family and lastly, The Writing Thing.

"So, how's it going? You making progress?" he asked.

"I guess. It's weird. I wake up every day and realize that my happiness and sense of self-worth aren't tied to someone else's expectations, or an attempt to please some boss who'll never appreciate or acknowledge my value or contributions. Each night, I have to take a measure of what I've done that day, and only then do I know if I've been productive, or if I'm happy. It's terrifying."

My dad looked at me over his glasses. "Frankly, son, I'd be worried if you weren't terrified." And then he told me how proud he is.

I'm not big on pushing inspirational quotes, but I came across this in an interview with photog/director David LaChappelle:

A real performer, an artist, wants to share their gift. They don't want to sing in the shower. Van Gogh wanted his paintings to be hung in galleries. It's not that they want just recognition or attention or fame. They want to share some life. Inside there's knowledge, and they want others to partake of that same thing they feel. It's like when you see something beautiful -- say you're driving and you see an amazing sunset, and you look to turn, and there's no one sitting beside you. Your first reaction, you want to tell somebody, "Look at that!" It's almost like you can't appreciate it as much when you're alone.

Posted by Your Protagonist at 03:58 AM | Comments (0)

January 26, 2005

No home training.

I attended a talk by Malcolm Gladwell, who's touting his new book, "Blink." I turned my dad onto "The Tipping Point" when my love and I visited for Thanksgiving, so he was very excited to learn the author was coming to his town.

I took a seat in the third row before the lecture hall filled up, as Dad has some juice with the venue where the lecture took place. As I looked around at the folks taking seats, they didn't strike me as the sort who'd be very interested in hearing someone talk about the power of instinctive and intuitive decision-making. As it turned out, I was half-right. The woman next to me actually took out her knitting when Gladwell took the podium.

I don't think I've been that close to a complete jackass since a vendor in Cancun exhorted me to pose for a photo with his sombrero-wearing burro. I'm thinking the donkey had better manners.

This crowd was rubbing me the wrong way. Two mouth-breathers to my left chatted in stage whispers, speculating about who the author was and what he might speak about. After he was introduced, a few pointy heads behind me made cracks about the author's hair, which is styled in a large, loose 'fro.

In his talk, Gladwell referenced his hair when he talked about how people form snap judgements based on appearance. He'd once been hassled by undercover NYPD who thought he looked like a rape suspect. The only resemblance was the bushy hair, but it took him 30 minutes to convey this fact, as he recounted. And so, my question was:

"I haven't yet finished the book (sheepish smile), but I'm wondering about how the concept of thin-slicing applies to law enforcement, specifically when it comes to profiling suspects."

At least the meeskite next to me put down her knitting.

Posted by Your Protagonist at 02:24 AM | Comments (0)

January 25, 2005

La familia.

My flight leaves at 8:10 Arizona time, which means waking up by 5:30 so we can get on the road and be at the airport in time enough to deal with the interminable screening process.

Don't get me wrong; I appreciate the need for increased security. I just think that they should require highly trained professionals to work at TSA, not just chowderheads with clean urine who like to wear tidy uniforms and inconvenience others.

Perhaps it's just late-night crankiness, but all the TSA staffers I can mentally conjure are folks who couldn't pass the Municipal Parking Enforcement civil service exam.

This has been an interesting few days out of town. There are a lot of SUVs out here in the desert, and at least 80% of them have tacky, fading "support your troops" magnetic yellow ribbons on the tailgate. I guess these slack-ass patriots finally figured out that you're not honoring Old Glory by affixing her to your fucking antenna.

I got to drive both parents' vehicles during this trip; the sporty Japanese sedan and the way-cool, space age minivan. It was interesting to drive cars that press you back into the seat when you accellerate, but it made me miss the sensible subcompact we drive around our city. And of course, the beautiful woman who owns it.

Saw plenty of family this trip; my dad's brother and sister, my great-aunt, and a second cousin who dropped in for dinner tonight as he was driving through town. I missed my great-uncle -- he and his wife left the day before I arrived. My dad's brother is an interesting, funny guy. As it turned out, we were both in Cancun within days of one another in December, and he also got a sunburn.

I hadn't seen my great-aunt since I was about 11 or 12. She's in her late seventies, but she's as sharp as a box of tacks. She had me add my number to her cell phone's speed dial, so I expect to receive (and place) a few entertaining calls in the near future. If we're still in the country when my annual family reunion occurs this July, I have to attend. I'm very curious about these people with whom I share history and genetic material -- and I made a promise to an old woman.

I'm looking forward to being home, even though it's been excellent to see family. L is working on a book proposal and tying together the loose ends of a recent home purchase, so she stayed in Ess Eff. A moment doesn't pass that I don't think about her.

My Treo keeps her close, however virtually. I keep fiddling with the device, sending her notes like "pls save Medium on the TiVo," or "I love you beyond all reason and measure." The Treo also contains many photos. My great-aunt caught me thumb-typing this evening:

"Your sweetie?"

"Well, no I'm just --"

"Don't be embarassed. Nothing wrong with being in love."

At my dad's request, I'd processed several photos from the weekend on his Epson. I'd slipped in a few of me and L at home and in Cancun. They were drying on the dining room table later when Great-aunt Octavia walked past and spotted one of me and L, her head on my shoulder. In the photo, L's hair is a radiant reddish-pink, like bright bouganvilla. Octavia tapped the photo.

"Is that her hair?" A real question, not a judgement.

"Yes, that's shortly after she dyed it."

"That's not a wig?"

"No, ma'am -- that's her actual hair color." I pointed at a different image of me and L in my dad's backyard, her tresses reflecting every hue in the desert sunset. "That's what it looked like a few months later, before it faded to this." I held up my Treo so she could see a very blonde L looking drop-dead gorgeous.

"My! She's lovely. That is a beautiful head of hair, don't care what color." She looked up at me. "You bringing her to the family reunion?"

"Well, if we're not traveling, I'll definitely try to make it."

"That's fine -- but will you bring her with you?" Octavia looked me right in the eyes, and it seemed less like a question.

"If we're in the country, I'll come. I'll ask her if she'll come with."

Octavia nodded her approval. "That's good. Bring her. If you're together and you love her, she's family, so she should come down." She turned to walk away, so I barely heard her say "and if anyone gives you some shit, you bring them to me."

Posted by Your Protagonist at 09:05 PM | Comments (0)

January 24, 2005

Johnny Carson, 1925 - 2005.

I won't bore you with my impressions of the man. Suffice to say, I'm very glad he existed -- our culture's better for it, and he made me laugh.

I was just reminded of this bit below when I read one of his obits. It was just after the fall of the U.S.S.R. in 1991 -- the band was playing "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" as he intoned:

Democracy is buying a big house you can't afford with money you don't have to impress people you wish were dead. And, unlike communism, democracy does not mean having just one ineffective political party; it means having two ineffective political parties. ... Democracy is welcoming people from other lands, and giving them something to hold onto -- usually a mop or a leaf blower. It means that with proper timing and scrupulous bookkeeping, anyone can die owing the government a huge amount of money. ... Democracy means free television, not good television, but free. ... And finally, democracy is the eagle on the back of a dollar bill, with 13 arrows in one claw, 13 leaves on a branch, 13 tail feathers, and 13 stars over its head -- this signifies that when the white man came to this country, it was bad luck for the Indians, bad luck for the trees, bad luck for the wildlife, and lights out for the American eagle. I thank you.

Posted by Your Protagonist at 02:21 PM | Comments (0)

January 22, 2005

Blasts from my past.

In gathering material for an online portfolio, I came across these two pieces.

The first piece was written for a Web parody called Stale, a takeoff on Microsoft's Slate. It's a trifle dated, but still funny.

The second piece was written with a good friend. A mutual buddy of ours was helming a new comedy site, so we pitched in.

We wrote it together based on my premise: "That Puff Daddy is such a non-talent. What if he sampled someone's Web page?"

Good times.

Can a person make money doing this stuff, I wonder?

Posted by Your Protagonist at 11:13 PM | Comments (0)

January 20, 2005

This newshound has lost the scent.

Four years ago today, I sat in my apartment and watched several hours of inauguration coverage. I muted the C-SPAN feed and played funk and soul MP3s most of the day -- "One Nation Under A Groove," "Chocolate City," "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised", and other tracks in that mood.

As I told more than one friend who called to kvetch, I was resolved to pay rapt attention to everything these evil bastards would do in the ensuing four years. I became an even more voracious news junkie. Given the staggering missteps of the current junta, I had a full plate almost every day.

And this morning, I woke up and went straight to the gym, did an hour on the elliptical, then noodled around town for a bit;

And so on. Not once did I tune into any news coverage, peep out analysis of Shrub's speech via the blogosphere or consider tuning into C-SPAN. When I noticed that Countdown was doing a segment on the swearing-in, I TiVo'd it away into the cornfield immediately. I have a feeling that I'll be taking a bit of a news fast in days to come. I'll keep an eye on top stories and international events, but I'm feeling entirely disengaged from the political process.

Posted by Your Protagonist at 10:52 PM | Comments (0)

January 19, 2005

Quotidian wisdom.

Every now and then, I manage to slightly impress myself with my ability to get through to someone. It's rare, so allow me to congratulate myself once, here.

This was years ago, back in the day when I accepted invitations to go crazy.

After hearing a litany of all that was or could be wrong with the particular situation, I turned to the speaker, smiled my sunniest, and asked, "why don't you take your eyes off the fire exit for a second, and just enjoy the movie?"

I don't know if it's one for the ages, I'm just giving myself props for finding the right words for the right person in the right moment.

Posted by Your Protagonist at 10:55 PM | Comments (0)

January 18, 2005

Two good citizens.

The guy was probably 65 or so. White, bifocals, thinning hair, and focused intention. Before he crossed the street, I could tell that he was making a beeline for the newspaper machine. He jaywalked over as I perused the Chronicle's front page through plexiglas. He had a stiff carriage, favored one leg over the other.

I stepped away from the machine and glanced down the street at an approaching streetcar. The machine made a screee-cronk sound as he extracted the news of the world and the door flipped shut.

He didn't look at me when he said, "there's an extra, if you're interested," before entering the coffee shop; there was a fresh paper sitting atop the machine.

I was considering whether this could be defined as generosity when I saw an older woman from the neighborhood crossing from the opposite corner. She was about 70 with short white hair and red glasses with fashion-forward frames. Wearing chinos, a parka and New Balance sneakers, she was as hip as any of my neighbors.

She glanced at the free paper left by the larcenous Samaritan.

Screee-cronk!

She folded her purchase under an arm and entered the coffee shop.

Posted by Your Protagonist at 09:20 AM | Comments (0)

January 17, 2005

Comments are now enabled.

See above.

However, I'll not be adding any cheesy banner ads for Suicide Girls, Earl Scheib, or Carl's Jr..

Posted by Your Protagonist at 05:16 PM | Comments (0)

"Bitch on Wheels," aka "Meet the Kinderpolitans."

3:45 in the afternoon, and we were jockeying through traffic in the Castro, on our way to yet another open house. It'd been a tense weekend, the local real estate market has lost its fool mind, and I'd developed a newfound appreciation for the term "Sunday Driver."

"We're not gonna make it," I said, nodding at the dash clock. The likelihood of us getting to an open house in the Sunset that closed in less than 15 minutes was fanciful, at best. She pursed her lips.

"You don't think? Fuck it." She looked ahead at the eight cars ahead of us at the stop light.

I prepared to make a U-turn, making a left into the driveway across the street. I stayed put for a moment while a car passed us.

"Bicycle," she called out. "Car -- another bike."

"I see him," I said.

The second cyclist whizzed into the rear view from right to left. I instinctively turned my head to see him coast down the street, but he failed to appear. In the same second, I heard, "oof," and a clatter.

"Omigod!" said Her.

In the street, a skinny guy in his thirties lay across the streetcar tracks next to his bike, rear tire still spinning.

"God-DAMMIT!" he shouted, slapping the asphalt. He rubbed his left knee, just above a fresh rip in his jeans. The first bicylist who'd passed us called to him from the stop sign further down the block.

"You all right?" was the shouted inquiry.

The fallen cyclist pushed himself off the street and righted his bike. He seemed more shaken than injured. "I'm fine! I caught my fucking wheel in the fucking train track! Fuck!"

A middle-aged white guy with a short beard walking a dachsund and a pudgy Jack Russell watched without reaction.

Across the street, drivers queued up for the light viewed the scene dispassionately. The cyclist was up and out of the street pretty quickly, walking his bike to the curb, cursing all the while.

"You're clear now," She offered.

I checked the lane and switched into reverse as the guy threw a lanky leg over his bike and coasted down to his friend at the stop sign. Neither rider wore a helmet, and their bikes were in middling shape. Both had the bad skin, spare build and squirrelly demeanor I associate with meth users. Rider One exchanged a few words with Rider Two as we caught up with them at the stop sign.

We were through the intersection when I heard, "thanks for stopping!" I pulled over.

"Was that for us?" I asked Her.

"No. We are not getting into it," She fairly ordered. She'd seen me show some aggression behind the wheel the day before, and was wary. Me, I don't think you can really call it "road rage" unless someone has a vein bulging in their forehead.

Some oldster had tooted his horn while I waited for a light. My left arm shot out, bolt-straight at the prominent "NO TURN ON RED" sign so the guy could see I wasn't just parked and contemplating the meaning of life. Like an angry gyroscope, my finger stayed true to the sign as I went through the intersection.

"Keep hitting that horn, old man," I'd grumbled, "and I'll pull you out of that car and beat you with your wooden leg."
She'd looked at me like I'd grown a third arm.
"Hey, come on. I don't even know that he has a wooden leg."

I snapped out of my reverie and drove on. The mouthy biker followed us down the block, but his friend with the errant balance leaned against the stop sign, massaging his knee some more for full effect.

I made a left onto a side street and pulled over.

"What are you doing?" She asked. "We are not having a confrontation with some freaky bikers today."

"I just want to see what he wants." I put the car in park and killed the ignition. She stiffened slightly in her seat as Bigmouth pulled up next to us. I rolled the window down a few inches.

"So, what were you shouting?"
"Why didn't you help my friend back there?"

She whipped in her seat before I could form a response.

"What are you talking about? We stopped when we saw there was an accident!"

"Yeah, but you didn't even ask to see if he was all right, and you --"

"We were stopped, we saw him take a spill, and he got right up!" said She. "We didn't move until we saw that he was okay!"

"Yeah, but you didn't even ask to see how he was doing," lamely replied the cyclist. His bad luck, instead of two assholes in an SUV, he pulled two decent individuals in a subcompact.

"We saw the whole thing," I said in an even tone. "He got his wheel caught in the tracks for the streetcar, got wobbly, and went over."

Crybaby Tweaker had recovered sufficiently to join us. He parked his bike directly behind our car and walked around to the driver's side window.

"Yeah, thanks for nothing," he started.

"None of that was our fault," I cut in. "We were stopped - stationary. We saw you take a spill, and we didn't move on until we saw that you were all right." Christ, what did you want me to do, you little creep? Fucking pick you up and kiss your boo-boo?

Crybaby seemed angry and unsure. He hadn't challenged us directly at the scene of the accident, and now, a bitchy lamentation had become a confrontation.

"You could at least have asked to see whether he was okay," said a slightly chagrined Mouthy. He had a bad front tooth that wasn't going to get any better. I imagined him shaking his fist at every dentist's office he cycled past.

"I never even got the chance! He said he was all right." I took a breath. "He got up and shouted, 'I'm fine!' What were we supposed to do?"

Mouthy was not comfortable with the tack the convo was taking. Upon further examination, it was becoming apparent to all that he and his companion were whiny children with an overgrown sense of entitlement and a sincere aversion to responsibility-taking.

"Well, uh -- be careful driving around," he responded.

I turned the ignition and put the unimposing car in drive. "Yeah, thanks."

"And be careful backing up," he admonished. I ignored him and drove straight away so they could discuss the innate selfishness of automobile drivers in more depth.

I spent the short drive home musing on whether Crybaby had parked his bike square behind our car in the hopes that we'd back over it and really give him something to waah about. I don't usually spend a lot of time feeling superior to others, but there are afternoons when I definitely feel like one of only a few adults in a city of children.

Posted by Your Protagonist at 02:16 PM | Comments (0)

January 04, 2005

Not on a roll, yet. Progress, nonetheless.

I spent a little over five hours yesterday in my local cafe, writing.

The end product was four pages of a scene inspired by a late-night desire for a burrito. I'm back at the cafe in the same seat now, but I've yet to take up where I left off. I haven't even read yesterday's product yet -- I'm reluctant, for fear that it sucks that much.

As She thoughtfully reminded me yesterday, writing is like any other sort of conditioning; the more you do, the easier it gets. When I first stood on an elliptical last year, I could only hack 15 minutes on low resistance. Now, I can motor for an hour at a time on a steep incline, once burning a personal best of 1072 calories. I'll admit taking pleasure in watching those more svelt than I peep surreptitously at my machine's display before nudging up their own levels.

Yesterday, I'd write fitfully for a half hour at a time, only to get distracted with Web surfing, email and briefly playing a war sim. Most of the people in the coffeeshop belonged to the underemployed class I find throughout San Francisco. Folks who work only as much as they have to, essentially. I've never lived anywhere with so many adults who have so much free time in the middle of their days, said the pot, snarkily referring to the kettle.

I kept an eye on the woman next to me; she was making progress revising a presentation. The guy across from me was licensing digital music online and emailed his partner proudly with a list of all the tracks he'd purchased for a video before closing his laptop and striding off proudly. Everyone seemed to be making progress but me.

So, I read "Desiderata" again to myself just now to see if that might help. Interesting poem, and I'm not big on inpirational texts. I'm only familiar with it because acid-jazzers Mother Earth rap it over one of their tracks.

My favorite part:

If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Wise words from an Indiana lawyer. I particularly like, "avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit." Sorta like the guy plugging in his laptop next to mine who smells like last night's cigars. Christ, I hope that's a cigar smell.

So, I'll log this entry, and will crack open yesterday's work, to see what's there. I think I'm better off pushing through to finish the scene before going back and revising it. Then again, I may decide to leave the patient on the table after the first draft, if it doesn't show promise.

Dammit buddy, couldn't you have showered before coming to the cafe?

I mean, you're sitting right next to me, man! Observe the social contract. Gack. And now, you're bouncing your legs up and down. That and the smell aren't at all distracting. Pray, continue. You're only creeping me the fuck out. (Stinky Tweaker just went to the restroom, so maybe I can wrap this up before he jitterbugs back to his seat.)

One last bit: I'm going to see "O Lucky Man" this evening, and hope to blog about it later. The movie made quite an impression on me when I was in high school, and I'm looking forward to seeing if it still passes muster. I even used the title song for one of my yearbook quotes, senior year:

"Takers and fakers and talkers won't tell you.
Teachers and preachers will just buy and sell you.
When no one can tempt you with heaven or hell-
You'll be a lucky man!"

I was an earnest young fellow back then.

Posted by Your Protagonist at 12:39 PM | Comments (0)

January 01, 2005

Coming to a theater near you.

"You've Got Mail" was on TNT yet again last night. I didn't spend New Year's Eve watching Hollywood kitsch, but there was a TV on, and there it was. I glanced at a few seconds before shaking my head in disgust and stalking from the room.

Anyone else tired of these earnest romantic comedies between Meg and Tom? They haven't made one in a few years, for which I'm grateful. Something tells me that even the two of them are sick of themselves. Sadly, they've inspired a whole insipid subgenre. The original, "The Shop Around the Corner," is a sweet little movie; light, unpretentious. The remake is entirely insipid.

I'm not interested in another matchup between these two unless there are several explicit sex scenes. "3-Hole Punch," starring America's favorite couple. She's an English teacher with an insatiable need for anal sex, and he's a Romanian immigrant studying for his citizenship exam who's only too happy to earn some extra credit. Perhaps they meet during his midnight shift at Kinko's.

(Cue "wa-chicka-wa" guitar riff.)

I can just see them on the talk-show circuit, doing the typical schmaltzy promotional appearances:

INT. LARRY KING SHOW SET - NIGHT

LARRY, looking slightly uncomfortable, sits across his desk from TOM HANKS and MEG RYAN. Tom and Meg are laughing at a joke.

TOM HANKS

Well, Larry -- I'm turning 49 this year, and I was ready for something new. Meg came to me with the script, I read it with my wife Rita, and she pointed out that there was no contrived romance, no cutesy melodrama over a silly misunderstanding -- just several set pieces of raunchy, hardcore ass pounding. I'm a total assman, so the hardest part for me was working with the dialogue coach on the accent. I had to work hard not to screw that up.

MEG RYAN

So to speak!

(Good-natured laughter fills the studio, Larry looks around awkwardly. Meg wipes her eyes.)

We had so much fun making this movie -- so many practical jokes on the set. One time, Tom had craft services replace all of our lube with --

LARRY KING

Uh, hold that thought -- Scottsdale, Arizona, you're on the air...

Posted by Your Protagonist at 11:31 AM | Comments (0)