Tilda Swinton: The Man Who Fell to Earth

Got the most interesting call today from a friend working on a film in London. It seems Tilda Swinton may be trying to muscle her Amoretto di Meat Packing boyfriend into any movie that will have him.

Just shy 20 years her junior, Sandro Kopp would be perfect for any scene requiring an Italian waiter or gondolier.

It’s hard for me to imagine anyone with genitals being attracted to Ms. Tilda. She’s interesting looking, but interesting in the same way you look at a strange sculpture in a museum. You stop, you look, you acknowledge it politely by saying “Ja, das freut mich” but you certainly don’t sleep with it. It’s far too cold and bronzy.

I can only imagine what this young, sexy Italian boy said when he first laid eyes on the creature from Planet Nein.

“Oh my goodness! My heart, she’s beating like an African.. como se dice… drum!? Santa Maria di Tutti Frutti, I am in love with a 47 year-old space alien!”

“Come to me, beautiful man-boy creature. You are full of life. Your skin is sweet. You are… uncut. My iron lung and space capsule await you.”

Naturally, everyone should have a beautiful European love pet at least once in their lives. They have such funny accents and actually like to kiss. What do you think those free air miles for?

Tilda Swinton gives Oscar the business while Sandro prepares a feast of Chrysanthemums and beetles from behind

Ode to Dudley Moore and Why Penelope Cruz Doesn’t Count

Life is too short.

I get into a such a melancholy mood whenever I watch a day’s worth of E! True Hollywood Stories. The one on Dudley Moore made me sad. I wish he were still alive so I could have my people send him a fruit basket.

Hollywood needs a NEW Dudley.

Not as cute as Davy Jones but a tad moore musical (accomplished jazz pianist), people thought he was a drunkard when he died. He had a rare form of palsy. The bastards. People are stupid and by the time they figure out the truth, its too late for an apology. Anyway, it was Peter Cook who was the alcoholic.

Dudley Stuart John Moore, 1935 - 2002

He was married four times, each relationship worse than the next. Like most party people, he was so busy having a good time, he probably didn’t think that his life could take a turn for the worse.

Who knows? Maybe it pay to settle down with a nice wife. A nice wife being one who will wipe your nose or ass when the chips are down. And not take you to court during your last few years of life.

Last Night’s Oscar Party

sucked. Ugh.

We ended up at a party in a mansion somewhere up in the Bel Air hills. I suppose Diana Krallspace’s “planned impromptu” performance made it palatable. Truth be told, I think she is overrated as a singer.

As far as I’m concerned, she jumped the shark when she married Elvis Costello. The lovechild of Elvis Presley and Lou Costello would make anyone’s eyes water.

As I drank my 10th Tanquerey, and listened to Krall chime, I had an epiphany. Blonde people get far too much recognition. What of all the far uglier singers with better voices who never made it? We all know why. Because they weren’t blonde that’s why. Let’s just admit this. We’d all be so much better off if we were honest for once. I dare not color my God-given locks. Too brutally dark. There was that unfortunate Sun-In incident back in the late ’80s but let’s not speak of it any further.

The party was full of the usual pricks. Frankie, Tony, Marla, Bony. It got especially lame when Matt Dillon offered Mischa Barton a Slippery Nipple. He kept telling her it was a drink. She got pissed off but still kept on smiling (evidently there was a reporter from Hello! Magazine embedded among the guests).

Wasabi Jackass?

It got really ugly when Anne Hathaway started calling that short, little guy from Entourage (what’s his name?) a human thermometer. “At least I don’t smell like Amy Winehouse’s puddin’ factory!” Meow.

I only went to the stupid thing because I was assured that the lovely Ms. Aniston would show. I have a script for her featuring a dog and an addict that takes place in Jamaica called “Marley and Me.” The soundtrack features all Bob Marley songs. Sheer fucking genius. But did she even bother to come?

I’ll tell you something, if I were one of the most famous actresses in Hollywood, I sure as shit wouldn’t be playing grab ass with the Arquettes on some island. I couldn’t afford to lose the brain cells.

Still, I tried to relax but kept getting cornered by Lenny Kravitz’ daughter. Evidently, I didn’t get the memo about her being the next Halle Barry. I didn’t get the one on Halle either.

Everything started to get fuzzy the time this teen-aged boy wearing a hoodie – who looked like Pete “As dumb as I look” Wentz but I think was Samantha Ronson – began yacking about Owen Wilson’s new Christmas movie hit. Wasn’t it amazing how someone could give such an Oscar-worthy performance despite all those methadone-induced hallucinations?

That’s when the acid kicked in. “IT’S CALLED MARLEY AND WHAT?!?”

He, she freaked and disappeared into the bathroom presumably to tell dicknose. Damnit to hell. I had dibs on that script. FUCKING SEARCHLIGHT BASTARDS. They didn’t even get the Bob Marley reference right.  I got screwed blue. You can’t move fast enough to keep up with the ass-kissing backstabbers in this town. How could they move so quickly without ME noticing? I bet they made it in India. Everyone knows they can make movies in two days at a fraction of the cost.

I realized, yet again, what a desolate, barren wasteland of soulless sub-humanoids I live among. That’s when I started to taste my own vomit.

And let me put one final rumor to rest. I don’t care how much caviar costs per ounce, it doesn’t taste any better coming up.

Off to Peet’s for a Americano with cheese.

New Year’s Resolutions

* Less Ashton Kutcher

* Have the negatives of any movies featuring Jim Carrey with: God-complex, God-like powers or abilities magically destroyed

* Look into new fat vapor-suction treatment (google: Kardashians)

* Get invited to Artist Formally Known As‘ Oscar party next year for lucrative hob-knobbing and human sacrifice

* Live, breathe Kabbala

* Send gluten-free gift basket and script to Gwyneth, Apple, Moses

* Pitch Ramsey’s Kitchen Nightmares/Best Little Whorehouse in Texas teleplay to Spielberg; Get meeting

* Get name of hot new dentist to the stars from Lorenzo Llamas

* Make appointment with Deepak to open up third and fourth chakras (bring 10% coupon)

* Reserve ashram pilgrimage for me, Greg Kinnear and Beyonce

* Look into optioning the rights to “Snakes on a Plane: The Musical” starring Katie Holmes, Katt Williams and Eva Longoria as the snake in heat.

* Start using conditioner on genital area

* Make appt. to have carbon footprint measured (if smaller than Madonna’s, ok)

* Find at least 10 more scripts for Will Smith to star in featuring him as:

1. the only man left alive on earth; or
2. the only man who can save the earth; and
3. the only man who’s ego cannot survive within the earth’s atmosphere; must
4. play widowed father with lovely mulatto child (male); must
5. be struggling against grossly unfair situation (space aliens, white America); but
6. remains stand-up guy playing fair even when token chips are down (i.e. non-threatening to whitey); and
   
7. is the smartest guy on earth = box office gold

* Get thin

* Get laid

* Find soulmate

* Get prenup

* Make movies with meaning, purpose that help mankind

* Start drafting Beverly Hills Chihuahua II: Chihuahua Takes Manhattan

* Seacrest: fucking out

Confessions of a Hollywood Producer Part I: The Beginning of the End – Greenlighting Beverly Hills Chihuahua

I make no apologies for the work I do. People want to watch crap. We give it to them. If not us, who? Low median IQs are to blame, pas moi.

But lately, my soul has been tormenting me which is strange since I am not Catholic.  Am I part of the problem? Am I one of the reasons why this country is going down the shitter in flames?

Are we where we are today in a social, economic and moral crisis because I gave the green light to Beverly Hills Chihuahua?

“Pretty Woman meets Ass-Sniffing Dogs” the pitch cried. “The kids will love it; they can go with their parents.”

It’s a movie about a dog getting a manicure. God WILL punish me. People are starving in the world and we actually spent $20,000 filming a dog get manicured.

Where did I put that bottle of muscle relaxants?

Act I, Scene II: Mani Pedi Bow Wow