Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: robert evans

And The Three Men I Admire Most, They Caught The Last Train For The Coast

“Slasher, you’re a mess. Let me buy you a hooker to vomit on.”

“I’m fine, Bob.”

“You’re better than fine, baby: you’re high-caliber and long-stemmed. God ain’t makin’ ’em like you any more, and this town knows it. Have you ever thought about acting?”

“I’ve played myself a couple times, and I’m not real good at it.”

“Bullshit! Never let me hear you say that! Acting is just lying while handsome. Any schmuck could do it. Hell, I did.”

“Sure, maybe.”

“I see you as a modern-day Bob Hope. Can you dance?”

“Not even a little.”

“This is not a problem. We can fix that in post. Tremendous talent, Hope. The skits, the soft-shoe, the whole schmear. And pussy. No one got more pussy than Bob Hope. That’s why he golfed. Man loved holes.”

“It’s weird to think of Bob Hope that way.”

“Bali, Morocco, Rio; pussy, pussy, pussy. That was Hope, and that’s Hollywood! The whole business is built on pussy, Slasher, and don’t you forget it. Who’s got it, who wants it, and who’s gettin’ it! It’s all a game, but it’s deadly serious, too. Man’s gotta measure himself, so how does he do it? Pussy. And Oscars. Some say family. Y’know who says family? Losers say family. We know, don’t we? Pussy and Oscars, Slasher.”

“Uh-huh. You holding?”

“Not personally, but my English butler, Kippers, has an entire pharmacy sewn into the lining of his morning coat. Kippers!”

CELL PHONE NOISE

“I gotta take this, Bob.”

“If it’s Coppola, tell him to go fuck himself.”

“Sure.”

“This is Slash.”

“Slasher! You talk pussy?”

“How do you know what we were talking about?”

“Put Bobby Evan on phone. Am big fan.”

“No.”

“He stay in picture so good.”

“Yuh-huh. Is there a reason for this call?”

“I join band. Kim Jong-Un have squeezebox, Only Korea no sleep at night.”

“There’s no accordion parts in any of my songs.”

“Patience.”

“No.”

“Pretty sure.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Agree disagree.”

“No!”

DIAL TONE NOISE BECAUSE ONLY KOREAN PHONES STILL DO THAT

“Who was that, Slasher?”

“You wouldn’t believe me, Bob.”

“Kid, I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe. Richard Pryor on fire off the shoulder of Mulholland. Valerie Bertinelli glittering by the Paramount Gate. Now all those spectacular, only-in-Hollywood moments have been lost. Like cocaine in the rain.”

“What?”

“If it’s even cloudy outside, bring your coke in the house. Hard lesson!”

“Yeah, okay, sounds good. That was Kim Jong-Un.”

“Why didn’t you let me talk to him!?”

“You want to talk to Kim Jong-Un?”

“I want to talk to anyone with an entire country’s treasury at his disposal!”

Thanks, Bob

Did Robert Evans live? More than a lotta schmucks, I’ll tell ya. Did he love? Too much, at least according to his divorce lawyers. And is he dead now? You bet your ass.

(Not reading The Kid Stays in the Picture is akin to self-harm. You are, in an active and affirmative sense, hurting yourself by not immediately purchasing and devouring Robert Evans’ memoir.)

The Kid Has Entered The Picture

“Boychik! You’re late!”

I’m sorry, what is this?

“Lemme tell you something about our business, which is known in the parlance as ‘show.’ Time is everything. Hits, they come and go. Same with money, although in my case, more of it went then ever came. Even wives. They all came, and they went. But not time. You’ll never get it, not even on the back end.”

What are you doing here, legendary Hollywood producer Robert Evans?

“A new gig! Last few years, your pal Bobby’s been rolling snake eyes, but this morning I made my point. The call I’ve been waiting for. My English butler, Roquefort, had just brought me my breakfast: two grams of Merck cocaine and a surreptitiously-obtained nude photo of Adreienne Barbeau. They don’t call it the most important meal of the day for nothing!”

Uh-huh.

“I picked up the phone and gave ’em the old Brooklyn shpritz. Ello, gov’nor? The voice on the line says, Evans, how did you ever convince anyone you were an actor? That was terrible. I knew that staccato song! It was my old friend DT calling from D.C.”

Trump?

“The one and only! Hell of a guy. Funny story: once watched him piss himself out of fear when he saw Sidney Korshak. We were playing tennis here at my great home Woodland. We were both gritty, trash players, but neither of us would ever concede a point. We played like we lived. I was down two matches to nothing, and had gotten Donny to double the bet. Also, I had gotten him to produce the cash and give it to Dustin Hoffman to hold. Sometimes, Donny made bets his pocket couldn’t cover, and then you had to chase him down for months and you’d only get half.”

Sounds right.

“I’m about to serve when here he comes. The Sphinx from Chicago. Black suit, shantung cut, elegant like you’ve never seen before. It’s 85 degrees, and he’s cooler than Chet Baker in February. Korshak! He winks, and I-95 shits down. He shrugs, and Panama goes back to belonging to Colombia. Animals instinctively feared him. He was my padron, my mentor, my big scary buddy. Everyone there is pretending not to stare at him when, from the referee’s chair, we hear Dustin Hoffman yell out DONNY PISSED HIMSELF! It was true. We watched the yellow stain grow. Was it disgusting? Absolutely. Could anyone take their eyes off it? Not on your life.”

What does this have to do with anything?

“I’m setting the scene! If you weren’t such a schmuck all the time, you might learn something about life.”

Sorry.

Yes, Mr. President, I said. What can Robert Evans do for his country? I’ve always been a patriot, and been beholden to power. And D.C. has real power, unlike Hollywood. We may make bombs, but they drop ’em. And their budgets! Donny gets right to his point, by which I mean he babbled about his favorite teevee shows for 45 minutes. Then he got to his point.”

Which was?

“I’m producing the migrant crisis.”

Oh, this makes no sense.

“It makes all the sense. I’ve worked with children before.”

Child actors, Bob.

“True. And, if I can be candid, none of them turned out okay. Most were sold off to wealthy foreigners. That’s what Cannes is for, you know.”

Really?

“Absolutely. I personally bought Sarah Jessica Parker there.”

Wow. Bob, this is not the job for you.

“That’s what they said when I took over Paramount Pictures at the age of 28! That’s what they said when I wandered into the operating room at Ceders-Sinai off my tits on toot and wielding a scalpel!”

Well, they were right about the second one.

“I firmly believe I could have performed the nephrectomy. That’s what you need in the business, kid: faith. Faith, and Charlie Bluhdorn’s private number.”

No one knows who Charlie Bluhdorn is.

“This kid thing is gonna be my big comeback. I can smell the long green! Towne is gonna give us pages, and then me and Irish are going down to Texas to do some location scouting.”

Irish?

“Nicholson.”

Sure.

“First, we’re going to Louie Mendel’s to get cowboy outfits made up, though.”

Stay away from those kids, Robert Evans.