Friday, October 8, 1993
My friend Laurel wanted me to write about vampires, but I decided not to. She said "This campus needs to know about the growing vampire problem in this city." I said, "Look, Laurel, some of my best friends are vampires, so lay off."
I was sitting in my apartment last week, munching on chicken-flavored crackers from Wal-Mart, when my good friend Paul McCartney stopped by for a beer.
"I gotta tell you, Scotto," Paul said as he slumped into my easy chair, "I'm really depressed."
"Pray tell, why so?" I asked.
"I think Linda's been seeing Mick Jagger behind my back," he replied. "There's that, and then, my last album was a total bore, and I just feel..."
"Creatively bankrupt?" I supplied.
"Exactly," he said, with that lovely Liverpool lilt of his. "I need another 'Silly Love Songs.' I need another 'Yesterday.' I need another 'Spies Like Us,' you know?"
I nodded solemnly. Paul's mental health has been steadily deteriorating ever since Yoko released that box set of hers.
"And... I think all those funny cigarettes over the years have really killed my voice." He shook his head. Paul's a sensitive guy, really.
"Tell you what," I said. "I'll call George for you one more time."
Paul's eyes brightened. "Would you?" he asked.
"I will," I replied. "But I warn you... he's going to want more than one song an album this time. That Wilburys thing really went to his head."
Just then the phone rang. Naturally, I answered it.
"Scotto?" a distraught voice on the other end chirped. "It's me, Julia."
"Oh... hi, Julia..." I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. "Umm... sorry I missed the wedding. I saw you in People though; you looked great."
"Thanks. Listen... I know we haven't been on good terms ever since the whole Kiefer fiasco, but... I need some advice."
"Who is it?" Paul whispered. I waved him off. Nosy little creep sometimes, that Paul.
Julia continued, "It's just that... it's just that I really love Lyle, I really do, honestly, but... no matter how much I complain, he just won't brush his teeth..."
I rolled my eyes. Julia can be so demanding sometimes.
Paul switched on the TV. David Letterman was on, and his guest was that old cheapskate Stevie Spielberg.
"What kind of problems?" Dave was asking.
"Well, for one thing, those dinosaurs were just a terror to work with," Stevie replied, "but I had an actor that was even more of a pain than that..."
Uh oh, I thought.
"Julia, I gotta go," I said, promptly hanging up on her.
"As it turns out, Scotto was a real, I hate to say this, a real bastard on this shoot," Stevie said. "He kept whining about how his part wasn't juicy enough, and why did he have to wear those sunglasses and finally he just walked out."
"You're kidding!" Dave exclaimed.
"No, it was hell. We scrambled for days until Goldblum finally agreed to do it...."
That petty, two-bit, big-screen bore, I thought to myself. See if I co-write that next E.T. movie, pig.
It was getting late. I said my goodbyes to Paul, made myself a bowl of Grape Nuts, and stared out the back window into the darkness. It was a time for reflection.
Yup, things were getting out of hand, that was for sure.
Based on the success of the recent smoke-in at Maucker Union (a sit-in in defiance of recent no smoking laws), we've decided to stage an illegal-drug- in for next week. If that goes well, we'll have an armed-robbery-in and probably some kind of premeditated-murder-in. Hope to see you there.