by Bruce Wagner
Wouldja like to be in motion pictures? Or do you just want to swing on a star? I’ll be taking you on casting sessions soon—to give you the lay of the land. Shelby says I should wait awhile but I’m feeling housebound and want my Gregor Samson to see the world. Gregor Samsa was a big old bug. Phylliss Wolfe hired a director for Teorema named Pargita Snow. Par-gi-ta Snow—isn’t that strange and lovely? Seems I’m the only one who never heard of her; then again, I’m the only one with a big butterscotch ball in her lap, too. Holly’s dying to meet you, did you know that? She might have to go to Boston first, though—maybe she’ll bring some baked beans for the Beanbag.
Hello, Columbus
TO: [email protected] (STOCKER VIDRA)
FROM: [email protected] (KATHERINE GROSSECK)
Crying for two days…Pink Dot keeps delivering blue ice masks. Haven’t left the house—all dressed down, with no place to go. Dreamed I was in the hospital (for some reason, it was the Writers Guild) and they were tying me to the gurney. I asked why and they said because of your “restraining order.” My dreams always did tend to lean toward the literal (littoral?). Have you forgotten St. John’s, Vidra? You said you’d kill yourself if you ever hit me again. You promised and you never reneged…but can’t you see, Vidra, how this is the same? Out of nowhere? It’s been so wonderful—until now. I’m beat up all over again—
Now I am your mother, your daughter, your brand new thing—a snail, a nest. I am alive when your fingers are. So tell me anything but track me like a climber for here is the eye, here is the jewel, here is the excitement the nipple learns. I am unbalanced—but I am not mad with snow. I am mad the way young girls are mad, with an offering, an offering…I burn the way money burns.
That’s Anne Sexton.
TO: [email protected] (STOCKER VIDRA)
FROM: [email protected] (KATHERINE GROSSECK)
The Dolphin lies at the bottom of her tank, tangled up in blue fisherman’s net, with her Dolores O’Riordan. Does anyone care…Does anyone care…Does anyone care…
*** The THIEF of ENERGY
A two-hour, in Benedict. A mid- to well-known screenwriter named Katherine Grosseck. It seems apparent, from Buzz magaine and other gleanings/cullings—and copious ads in Variety and The Hollywood Reporter—that she is more than likely to be nominated for an Academy Award for Imitations of Drowning, the filmed bio of Anne Sexton (poetess) that starred Emma Thompson. Not very many people saw it (including me!) but I told her I loved it anyway. No harm done. They are all such egoists, but pretend to be humble. They’d never ask, ‘Oh really? Which part did you love?’ instead taking your comment as one of countless myriad laurels thrown at their well-deserved feet. I think she’s an important person for me to connect. I told her I wrote, and she seemed interested rather than on the dismissive. She’s cute (gay, I am sure) and I think with some money reserves, but maybe saving it for the Big Purchase because the house, though rustic, is a tad dilapitated. There is a creek, though, and the most beautiful old green Jag in the Garage—two flat tires. I want it!
She screened her calls during the rub, and one came in from Jodie Foster—I egregiously pantomimed if she wanted me to leave the room but she shook her head so I kept on. She put it on the speaker. I think she got off on that, like people do—you know, playing the pragmatic syabarite mogul in front of me, Gina Tolk, lowly flesh kneader. (It made me think of I Love Lucy when Lucille Ball was rubbing John Wayne. Wanda and I watched that together, a lasting, laughing memory of my beautiful sis.) Katherine and Jodie were talking about some script, obliquely kissing each others asses (they wished), that predictable, always fascinating Tinseltown dance. Later, I circumlocuitously asked what she was working on, and she said, ‘A few things.’ She wrote something new called—I don’t remember the name, but it was Italian adaptation. Carte blanche, I asked if she knew those from the creative side of Melrose Place. She didn’t, she said. She asked why and I said some of them were clients. I further inquired if she knew anything about Palos Verdes, newly created by one of the architects of 90210 and Melrose, named Jeremy Stein. She said she was ‘confined’ to features and I sensed it wasn’t the appropriate moment to pursue—her energy suddenly diffused, becoming straggly—and I hoped she didn’t take my query as too much the grievance-based non-sequitur. Though she could not have known any details as they were not forthcoming! I’m glad not to have continued in the line of questioning re: Chris Carter, forty-year-old executive producer of The X-Files—or wife Dori, too, a scenarist.
Last part of rub was intense. Took as much energy from her as I could, and it just drained and drained, like venom from a snake. I took energy from her sexual organs—maintaining professional propriety at all times, I firmly pressed down on the lower stomach close to Pubis, while telling her to breathe deeply. I think too she was loaded. I know I could have done stuff to her but would like a possible mentor-like relationship so didn’t want to indulge any hijinks; they tend to backfire. By maintaining pressure, I believe I gained access to areas of her disipline (film structure, dialogue, arc of character) that will be useful, even temporarily, as it is tapped—pure, without extraneous neurotic bullshit she carries around in daily life. She was relaxed afterward and pleased enough to make another appointment. She is entering my webb.
Amazing brillant brainstroke! I was about to call Erica Miller (the NPI referral) but instead rang Doctor Calliope Dolittle Starfucker back and left word with her secretary that I was Katherine Grosseck! Gave my cellular and she called back within the hour. Said she loved Imitations of Drowning, can you believe it? Physician, heal thyself! Dolittle Starfuck went on to make it clear she ‘is still Donny’s therapist’ and me being the slow wit that I am took a while to catch on that this was possibly a reference to a former relationship. (Donny Ribkin? Could it really be? OHMYGOD!) I disguised my voice slightly—suddenly worried she and the ‘real’ Katherine had spoken before; a worry soon dispelled—snuffling and saying I had a cold, I was entering the Canyon blah blah yakkety yakkety. It was a ‘natural.’ Made appointment for three pm next week! Her office is near an Rx on Roxbury with a coffee shop within that I love called ‘Mickey Fine.’ I saw Charles Bronson there once, when Jill Ierland was still alive (a handsome man who walked like a panther). I think I could have helped by rake her energy. She was so beautiful and in such pain.
You’ll Never Eat Me During Lunch…
Eric, you’re gonna love this. Went to a benefit with Cat—oh! he told me this crazy thing about River Phoenix. He said that guy from The Donna Reed Show—Paul Petersen, isn’t that his name?—I’m serious about this—Paul Petersen started a support group for washed-up child actors. Because so many of them are fucked up? And a few months or weeks or whatever before River died, Paul and his group actually stopped by River’s house to do an intervention because someone saw him shooting up in the bathroom of a club. I don’t even think it was the Viper. Try to imagine some over-the-hill Brady Bunchers at your door like a post-pimple passel of Pentecostals! It’s enough to make anyone OD.
Now where was I? Oh yeah. So we go to this benefit, me and Cat, which was good because I saw Jodie Foster there and (thanks to Saul) she already knew about Pargita being hired for Teorema and had even talked to Katherine. E, remind me to call Saul—Shelby says she talked to Keitel and he’s mightily interested in working with Holly again, if we can make the schedule fit. I think we only need him for three weeks. So…after the benefit we go back to Cat’s house in Sunset Plaza, which is like anal high-tech with token grunge messiness::::::::::the CD system’s plugged into his Mac—the album covers actually appear on-screen! He put on Mozart’s “Requiem”; can’t get away from Teorema. All the hot, hep young things dig Pasolini and he lobbied, very sweet and humble I might add, to be the Son. Well, if he’s serious, we’re definitely a Go. I sort of smelled this coming in Park City::::::::::I tried to talk to him about Oberon Mall but he buttoned up. I really think he must have loved her but he can’t go to the hospital to see her because it’s t
oo much like when he had to go sit with his mom. (She died last year, ovarian cancer). Anyway, we get into this long rap about how he misses her (the mom). Poor, sweet kid. He told me that when the agency called with his first million-dollar offer—that Dustin thing that never happened, Homeless People—when he got the offer, he took his mother to Dominick’s and they got drunk. At the end of the night they made out! Isn’t that fantastic? I mean, he’s so guileless.
If you talk about this, E, you’ll be jailed and castrated (not too much of a leap). But seriously, you cannot discuss this with anyone, even if they’re terminal—and I know that means most your friends. So he’s telling me about his mother and then he starts to cry and within like twenty seconds he’s licking my pussy like a tiger cub: his tongue is serrated. He begged me to stay but I left around three. Go figure::::::::::Zoloft makes me so sleepy I actually have to cut it into fours. Hard to believe a sliver of whiteness could make a difference (and it doesn’t seem to. Not yet, anyway). Calliope says I’m depressed but it’s an “agitated depression.” Oh really? If I’m so agitated, how come I feel like Phylliss Epstein-Barr? Shit, there’s the phone. Gotta run. Nexus calling—
Maps to the Stars
I read in THE HOLLYWOOD REPORTER about a project called TEOREMA, a remake of the film called TEOREMA {CIRCA ?} by an Italian: P. PASOLINI. I’m going to Blockbuster on my break to rent it {I called—they actually have it}. The article implied that CAT BASQUIAT was possibly one of the actors to be slated—I think he is amazingly beautiful and have been in such sympathy for him since the death of his mother, RIALTA LOPEZ. (CAT’s stepfather is Mexican.) PEOPLE magazine said they were thisclose. With the tragedy that struck his girlfriend, OBERON MALL—well, it was a terrible year for this multi-talented {and extremely well paid!} manchild. {That was mean of me.} I am going to pursue the TEOREMA audition—I have always wanted to work with a foreign director, particularly MERCHANT-IVORY Productions. {EMMA THOMPSON is an ideal, she was so wonderful in IMITATIONS OF DROWNING, a role of a lifetime—and now an AWARDWINNING WRITER, too! {{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY {{{CIRCA 1995}}} }}. I haven’t included her in the PANTHEON because I am selecting domestic actresses only, to keep the list manageable. NOTE TO EMMA: Get Thee Back to Kenneth!!!} There should be no limits to our dreams.
A red-letter day: I have just been offered a position at the popular restaurant Sweets, which is partially owned by the powerful ICM agency! Jabba and I are going to the Monkey Bar to celebrate. We hope to run into Mr. JACK NICHOLSON, who, as owner, is a frequent booth sitter.
We went to visit her mom and I think that depressed her, as it would have anyone. Lavinia is grossly overweight and a “rager,” to boot; I’m surprised she hasn’t had a heart attack {or two}. The house is unbearably humid because she is always cold so that the heat is on constantly. It smells of sweat and cake mix {and did I detect urine?}. When Lavinia went to the bathroom, Jabba led me back to a former maid’s room where a tiny television was connected to a VCR. A cassette of one of her father’s old shows was on the screen! It “is-was” called THE CHET STODDARD SHOW. Evidently they were bitterly divorced some years ago and this is what the poor woman does all day—namely, watches the soap opera of her life, as if suspended in animation. I find this so sad. Yet, at the same time, as an actress it is quite the character fodder. It is something that could only happen in Hollywood. We went to an NA meeting after and I asked Jabba about her dad. She usually sees him around the holidays and said if I didn’t go back to Vancouver, maybe we could all have Turkey Day together. I told her I would really like that {which I would}. She said she’d take me to meet her grandfather next, an apparent recluse who lives by the HOLLYWOOD SIGN and once wrote for Mr. BOB HOPE. Another Hollywood story, no doubt. What a melancholy, magical town this town can be.
TEOREMA {CIRCA ?} is a VERY strange movie! It’s about this GORGEOUS man {TERENCE STAMP, who I’m not that familiar with but do know had a marvelous comeback in PRISCILLA, QUEEN OF THE DESERT {{CIRCA 1994}} }. He seduces an ENTIRE FAMILY—the maid, the son and daughter, the mom, even the dad! That’s the ENTIRE plot and it is VERY VERY sick! Then he goes away and the family, who have each grown dependent on him, sexually and otherwise, goes BONKERS. The young girl has to be hauled away in a straitjacket and the dad takes his clothes off in what looks like a Europe version of GRAND CENTRAL STATION! Even Jabba thought is was SO crazy! The mom picks up this guy on the street and sleeps with him in a motel then drops him back off—he’s like a common street HUSTLER!—then right away picks up two more guys and they make love to her in a DITCH! I can’t believe they’re actually remaking this!!! I am trying, by hook or crook, to get hold of this latest screenplay version, maybe through one of the mailroom kids {ICM, of course} who come in for drinks—these kids are not to be sneezed at, look what happened to Mr. OVITZ and Mr. GEFFEN. According to VARIETY, TEOREMA will feature a WOMAN in the part originally limned by Mr. STAMP—a BRILLIANT frosh outing for ANY ingenue. Not sure which I’d be reading for: the visitor {originally played by Mr. TERENCE STAMP} or the daughter. I’m nervous because the lead role may be too demanding for my current skills, but why not shoot for the moon? Though they may demand a “name.” {Unfortunately, I’m afraid this role is tailor-made for LINDA FIORENTINO, the Comeback Kid! If I went up against Ms. LINDA and lost, I’d still feel proud—the best woman would have won. Now, there is someone who has been through the Hollywood School of Hard Knocks and it shows, in a most provocative way. {{I’m NOT being catty, Diary}}. 1985 was her year: from AFTER HOURS {{CIRCA 1985}} to VISION QUEST {{CIRCA 1985}} to GOTCHA! {{CIRCA 1985}}, she was a rocket poised to be launched. {{Did anyone see SHOUT {{{CIRCA 1991}}}?? I haven’t. She is supposed to have co-starred with TRAVOLTA, no less—and look what happened to HIM!!! A lesson for us all}} But that rocket had to wait until 1993’s NOIR blockbuster THE LAST SEDUCTION {{CIRCA 1994}}. If I could be given the opportunity for ONE such performance, I would rest my case as an actor and gladly retire.} {KELLY LYNCH would be good to team with LA FIORENTINO—they would be SO HOT together, making THELMA AND LOUISE {{CIRCA 1991}} look like a DISNEY!!}
Hello, Columbus
TO: [email protected] (STOCKER VIDRA)
FROM: [email protected] (KATHERINE GROSSECK)
Your Sharkee-ness…
Burning incense in your absence. Long, hot baths, letting the water flow inside. Smiling to myself as I soak—my cunny smiles and when I dry her off, she winks. She declares the day you appeared unannounced at my door to be hereby christened the Day of the Dolphin. (I call it Columbus Day. Oh! Hi! Oh!)
Let me set the scene—again: I’d just gotten a massage and was about to start a fresh crying jag. Thought the sound of your cab was Gina, the masseuse (trailer park material, that one), leaving. Heard the key in the door and my heart along with it: fump-fump fump-bump fump-bump: fell into your arms and you took me, raped me, made me whole again. Fucked me so long and so hard I cried and came and cried for two long days and nights and only now can catch my breath I love you so fucking much, Vidra. I am at your mercy, beaucoup—wham bam, merci ‘dam. I will never do anything to make you question my love again; I won’t be flip about that—about anything else, not that. I love you unconditionally, there is nothing you can do to change that, I will be waiting in supplication, until I die. The bruises on my tits look like giant blue flowers, garlands for my vows. I wear the plug you gave me to meetings and lunches—and at home, thanking the messenger when he drops scripts at my door, thanking the world as I walk around with a dumbass smile, a Manchurian candida, shark fin broken off inside. I empty myself in the toilet only when you say…you have me in line, on-line and every which way: you control the horizontal, you control the vertical. Do not attempt to adjust your RoboCunt/zombie anus, your biggest chocolate flan. I am Sharkee’s machine—
Sight Unseen
Precious Little Beastie Boy…
Holly Hunter and Hassan DeVore visited today and the two would not let you go; I think some of those squeeze marks will be permanent. (They
were in the first play I cast, eight years ago.) Holly and I were in tears—took about a thousand pictures. You should see how you look in Hassan’s arms: like the whitest of mushrooms growing on his chest. You are the Fat Sacred Mushroom from the Planet Zelda. Hassan brought a Blue Matrix mobile and pinned it to the playroom ceiling. He knew I’d hate it but it did provoke ten minutes of whooping-cough-like hysteria. Holly brought you the softest, fuzziest cub I ever saw from FAO Schwarz (we’ll make the pilgrimage soon, I swear I swear). We tried to name it and Holly said if you were a Rod, we could call it Rod Steiger (don’t feel bad, I didn’t get it either)—as in Rod’s Tiger. Ho ho ho. She’s funny that way, your g-thing. Instead, we named her Lily.
After Hassan left, I told Holly I was writing these letters and showed her some, and we cried some more. Don’t mind me; Mama’s a big wuss. Hol was telling me about a school for the blind she read about in The New Yorker—some famous Indian writer went there. She thought maybe it was in Alabama. Her assistant’s going to get us all the info. I dunno; it does seem a little TV-movie-ish. Hey, not a bad idea—could be Mama’s premier production! Who could play me? How about Amy Madigan? (I can just see the article in People.) I do like the idea of moving, though. No riots or earthquakes in Alabama, huh. Least not till we get there. Did you know Grandma Willy’s coming out to see you any minute? That’s right. She would’ve come sooner but she was so sick and now she’s all better. Cheese Whizikkers, you’re a popular guy. Holly even wants to show my letters to her friend, a big editor at Grove Press. Everybody wants a piece of my buddhaboy. Have to quit now. Jeremy’s home.
