Last read from “The Phantom Of The Opera—And I”:

The dark figure with his face half-masked approached—The Phantom Of The Opera. To clarify, I am not speaking of the brilliant, Tony Award winner, previously seen on the most elaborate of stages. I speak now of the actual Phantom Of The Opera, risen from his chamber.

Seated next to me he said these words, “The lover of The Phantom Of The Writers, you are?”

“I am,” I responded, solemnly.

“A tragic state of being you’ve accepted—to be loyal,” his voice lowered to a whisper, “yes to be loyal to the giver of your talent and to not be seduced by those who love you for what is not yours.”

“I can’t live without what I’ve been given, so I am a slave to the giver…”

We sat in silence for some moments—waiting. Because there is a moment every day when there is pure truth in all-of-the world.

“Why does a man as handsome as yourself wear a mask?” I asked The Phantom Of The Opera who is perhaps the most handsome man I have ever laid eyes on.

A tear ran down his cheek, not for himself, but for I. “For the same reason, you great writer cannot look into a mirror. I wear the mask to hide not my face, but the ugliness that dwells in my heart…”

Our story continues:

THE JERSEY BOYS

The words of the phantom reverberated in parts of my soul that previous to our encounter I had not fathomed existed. Oh the complexity of the soul and the vexations it suffers. Why must I yearn for greatness? Why must I want for others to share my passion? Surely not from an evil, perplexed heart. You see it is indeed this goodness that continuously births the passion that feeds the darkness—and thus the infinite, alpha helix of my pained existence.

“There is another show, great writer, that you must see,” said The Phantom Of The Opera to I.

“No, this was enough. Should I see anything less it would diminish the euphoria I will forever experience when I think of the theatre, thanks to you.”

The masked face tilted towards I and slightly down, as the phantom is a few inches taller than my six-foot-one frame. “You won’t be disappointed. True there is no other performance that can equal my pageantry and my love of the feminine voice is universally known—still there is another voice in our time from the angels.” Pointing north towards the Palazzo. “And there is yet another question you must answer for yourself.”

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The awful question was with us now. “Why does the world resist that which would change it and make it better?”

The Next Day

The Black Angel Fred, assigned to my wellbeing by The Phantom Of The Writers, as previously explained, accompanied me into the restaurant known at the Palazzo as Zine Noodle. I paused for a moment to appreciate the exquisite décor. I made a mental note to thank Rob, Dawn, and Ashley for making sure that I had some sustenance before continuing my personal journey through their land of entertainment. And err not dear reader, I am always appreciative of the fact that I tread mostly in the realm of others and interject my own story without permission altogether. Many do not easily digest this fact, but it is necessary, if not necessarily understood.

Sally Lei escorted us to our very private table and much to my delight we ran directly into Danny Tarkanian.

“Hello Senator,” I said to the handsome former UNLV basketball star, turned lawyer, turned real estate developer, turned politician.

“I’m not a Senator yet, Stan. But I’m working on it,” Danny responded affably.

“Well you will be. The country needs guys like you to get involved and get things going back in the right direction. C’mon you’re sitting with us.”

“Okay, but I have an interview in an hour, I have to call into a radio station…”

So Sally had an array of wonderful food brought to our table. Funny, I had seen some criticisms of Zine Noodle on the Internet—none of which matched my own experience. Interesting it is to be criticized by those you do not know. The experience I have had with my own detractors is, that much of what is not said to your face is simply the fiction of angry and jealous minds.

“We really need to create a better environment for small business,” Danny continued, as we had been talking about some of his positions for most of dinner. “You deal with all kinds of businesses Stan, any new ideas?”

“If I start you’ll miss your interview,” I said, truly worried about delaying the future Senator.

“C’mon, just one.”

“Well take Las Vegas for example: there’s plenty of land, plenty of hotel rooms, a five hour drive from Los Angeles and no major motion picture studio. The state needs to give the land if need be to the person who is willing to develop a studio facility out here. And the Federal Government has to give Venture Capital a special tax incentive to invest in this type of project. Getting banks lending to small business again is a must, but most of the next big things come from VC…”

“And we need to create micro loan options for initial stage startups,” added Danny.

This conversation was headed to the next level, a sense of excitement percolated from my blood through my brain because for the first time in a long time I was speaking with a man running for office that has the capacity to get it. But it was time for Danny to give his interview so I bid him farewell and made a commitment to myself that I would do what I could to help him in his quest to help others. You do see dear reader that because I have few worldly concerns in common with my fellow man I have a most unusual vantage point—I simply speak from a heart uncorrupted by self-interest.

Like the night before, our seats in the theatre that houses the Jersey Boys were only a few rows from the stage. Both the Black Angel Fred and I were struck by the sparseness of the room and stage—nothing like the palace, which The Phantom Of The Opera had built. Fear not my friends. The first few pages of the Holy Scripture reveal quit clearly that the Lord created nothing, before creating creation itself. The “Black Period” I called it when I painted my last show—a necessary step before my affair with words. But a challenge to fill such a space, it is.

The narrative began from a corner in Jersey. Tommy was a character to the exponential consideration. And Joe Pesci, yes that Joe Pesci, did much to bring this band of bandits turned musicians in a band together. But this is neither the time nor place to tell a story best witnessed in person. Recall, that I was there for one specific reason. Frankie Valli possessed the voice of, which the phantom had spoken, but such difficulties. Divorce, Tommy’s gambling and other debts to honor because it was the right thing to do, the death by drug overdose of his daughter, and the departure of the writer of the glorious words we have all come to know through the music.

One question. One song. The writer wrote one song that the Universe itself demanded Frankie Valli to sing. But the label would not release it. And the radio stations would not play it. Yet the writer persisted and like the ocean tasked with beating an enormous crag into sand his will and his money did not cease—not with something as important to the world as this at stake.

“It’s to be good to be true, can’t take my eyes off of you…I love you baby and if it’s quite alright…Your like heaven to touch…”

And the words from this song, which is so much a part of our collective consciousness, a song that a few wanted all not to hear, the words embraced and consumed I and for the second eve in two cycles of darkness I obtained clarity—my work is not alone.

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The email went something like: Sorry to bother you Rob, but I’d like to write a piece called “Dinner And A Show” so I’ll need some dinner reservations and tickets….

For better or worse, in the world of business, which I hold in moderate disdain, I am fairly well known for calling anyone. More than a few billionaires have taken my call, some have become close friends. For the record, many men of wealth and power have not taken my call—far more have not, than have, in fact. And I admit to the fact that I am offended by those who decline, for I am of an overly sensitive nature—this too is well known.

So why email such a request to the President of The Venetian Hotel and Casino for what in the grand-scheme of his day is a seemingly trivial matter…To date the vast amount of the words I have penned with respect to Las Vegas are of the 25 to 50-year-old adolescent having a vicescapade, variety. And yes, I did just invent the word vicescapade. Did I choose this voice for my stories of Sin City? No. The voice chose me as there was no serious point of origination, no anchor—stories of drinking, drugs and zombie sex ensued. And make not a mistake, all to the delight of most readers. There is no shortage of appetite for my debauchery among my faithful bibliophiles. But before leaving Las Vegas, this time, I am compelled, by some phantom, to write a story with a soul. And even if this involved only the forwarding of my email to the person in charge of dealing with someone like me—there is a point of origin at the very heart of The Venetian for all else said. The Phantom Of The Writer’s demanded this and now our story may begin…

THE NIGHT BEFORE

The desert’s clear sky insured that it would be a cold, winter night, but regardless of climate I would be cold, for I am always cold, my soul that of a lover of God, yet my blood perpetually chilled by the sins of my flesh. It was my sixtieth, consecutive, twenty- hour day of writing—usually she comes by day forty-five, oh but she is an unfaithful lover. You see there is a phantom assigned to all of the world’s tasks, but it is the Phantom Of The Writers that I am a slave to, she is the siren of sirens as there is nothing more powerful than the craft she presides over. And there is no greater ego than found in those of who practice it…

“I’ve been waiting for you,” I said looking up from the computer—today’s quill.

She walked towards me. And like a virgin experiencing love for the first time my heart trembled, my breath became uneasy. The fragrant scent of her body filled my nostrils, intoxicating she is. Her white skin, close to translucent, as she is the nearest creation to Eve—in Eve’s original state of being, before Adam demanded opaqueness from mankind. Her eyes are smoldering coals. Her lips, perfectly formed, are red and filled with life. And the most beautiful face in the Universe is framed in black hair that shines with a life unto itself. A gentle wisp across my own face is enough to cause one to want to die—happy.

“Tales of Sin City, my love,” she said sitting down in the chair next to my own.

“I think every city should have its own voice, so I’ve given this city…”

“No need to explain, people are entitled to have some fun…” She smiled, which was a more than adequate conclusion to her thought, “How banal the use of the talent I’ve given you.”

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“Everything leads to something…I just don’t know what I’m doing here…I’m lonely I miss you…”

Her arms were around me and she whispered these words into my ear. “I made you the world’s best writer, that was our covenant, of course you’re lonely. Must I wax cliché, wordsmith?” She kissed me on the lips. “You don’t eat. You don’t sleep. Maybe I was gone too long?”

“What do I do, I’m in love with a phantom? And nobody in Las Vegas understands my purpose. How do I make them understand that a city without a soul is destined to become dust? I want to give them a soul before it’s too late,” I pleaded, to the sympathetic jury of one.

Her forehead came to rest against my own. “My love, you can offer them a soul, but it is up to them to take it—”

“Will you help me?” I asked, desperate to rid myself of the anxiety of no purpose.

She nodded. And her hair, that beautiful hair, tickled my face. “I will help you. Tomorrow you must arrange to meet a friend of mine—The Phantom Of The Opera.”

“Not that. Not another phantom in my life. No. My soul suffers enough—like a snake shedding its skin every night, I suffer because of you.”

“Not all phantoms are the same. You’re going to love The Phantom Of The Opera. Not the way you love me, but you two have much in common. And he holds the answers to many of your questions, he’ll show you, which path to tread…I promise.”

“I have no money to see such an elaborate show. I’ve heard the theatre alone cost forty million dollars.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “Send a message to the man in charge, he’ll be inclined to help you.”

“Why would he do that? Four hundred thousand people will go to his show this year, what does he care about me?”

“Success is boring, wordsmith. Powerful men love the struggle of the great ones even if it is not there own. I think we should go to bed my love—it’s time for you to rest. You must be rested…”

THE AFTERNOON

“Hi Stan, this is Dawn from The Venetian, Rob Goldstein asked me to give you a call.”

“Hi Dawn…I need some tickets to The Phantom Of The Opera and Jersey Boys…I’m going to write something for the blogs.”

“Can you tell me a little bit more about what you plan to write?”

“No. But not because I don’t want to, I don’t know until I know. The story tells itself to me and I write it down.”

“Okay.”

“And Dawn I haven’t eaten in a while so I’ll need a couple of dinners. The phantom told me I should eat, that I’ll need all of my strength.”

“Stan, I’ll have Ashley Farkas make the arrangements. Let me know if they’re to your liking.”

“Dawn, one more thing. After the show, when all of the patrons and cast have departed, I’ll need to sit alone in the theatre for the rest of the night.”

“Well I guess I can work that out.” Dawn’s voice reverberated with the apprehension of dealing with the out of the ordinary. “Stan, do you mind if I ask you how you know Rob and Mr. Adelson?” Mr. Adelson as in Sheldon Adelson the owner of The Venetian.

“I don’t…But I am the best writer in the world, so the more imperative issue is for them to know me. You see Dawn, only words about a man can preserve the essence of his accomplishments and of his humanity…I am in fact the eulogist of the living!”

On occasion there are those who are discomforted, even angered, by my title of The Best Writer In The World, not because it is in dispute, but rather because I say it. But what choice do I have? Greatness in all endeavors comes from the path of the truth. No writer that has come before me has accomplished the heights of stage, screen, print and the blog as have I. Should I feign humility? Lie and destroy my craft? Acceptance is temptation, but I would lose her that I love and I could not exist without this love in my heart—for it is this love and this love only that holds back the terrible darkness. Yes, the other side of passion is the most horrific of all monsters—it is the sinner before the saint.

THE NIGHT OF THE SHOW

There are several angels to whom I have the good fortune of being able to count as friends and it is they to whom the phantom entrusts the day-to-day wellbeing of I. Four of them are the graphic masters that bring much of my work to its presentable state. And the one of these that understands my passion like few others is the Black Angel—Fred. So it was to Fred that I extended the dinner invitation to Taqueria Canonita a beautiful spot on The Venetian Canal to dine prior to an encounter with The Phantom Of The Opera.

As one could expect we were seated at a table on the Grand Canal—I could have reached out and touched the passing gondolas, occupied by those in loving relationships more simple than my own. “Amore…” echoed from the voice of the tiller wielding tenor. A lovely waitress navigated our food choices, which were numerous delights. The angel known as Fred was particularly delighted by a combination of something created for Cortez called the enchilada. And for my sake there were libations called Margarita and Mojito and these too were good. In fact as good as I’ve ever had and I am very familiar with these nectars of celebration. And finally there was an enchanting nymph called Annaliza who stopped by our table on numerous occasions to our delight, as her conversation was as tasty as the epicurean expose with which our palates were so diligently engaged.

The theatre, the home of The Phantom Of The Opera, does not equate to any form of monetary value. One million, forty million, a billion—cannot put such a place into perspective, it is simply transcendent. Fred, the Black Angel, and myself took our seats seven rows back from the stage center. Curtains went up, everywhere; in places one does not expect curtains. There was brief narration and a chandelier, a magical chandelier, capable of assembling itself with a cyclonic motion never once witnessed before by the Black Angel Fred or I. From the orchestra emanated a majestic sound. And as I am inimitably familiar with the characteristics of royal blood, I can assure you that this sound can only be produced by those confident that they are playing notes pleasing to the King’s ear. These are the notes scattered around the Universe, upon the destruction of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem—some now gathered in the House Of The Phantom.

Oh the tragic story, of a love not so dissimilar to my own. The Phantom Of The Opera having disdain for the pretenders to talent rejects the invader who occupies the spotlight of his stage. And in collusion with the mistress of the dark he chooses his student—to her, a beguiling young beauty, he gives the voice of greatness. Such a voice may only be given once in any given century—as a world too abundant with beauty, would cease to be beautiful from lack of juxtaposition, so we learned from sin in the Garden Of Eden. But fate is not always kind to the givers of the world. And that, which the Phantom Of The Opera has imbued with what he loves most, is loved and loves another. Surely he has the power to keep for his own what he has created, but this is the tribulation of mankind and a denial of the ways of God. Be firm in this knowledge dear reader, to be close to the Creator and Giver Of All That Is, one must emulate—one must create and give.

4:00 A.M.

I sat alone and broken hearted that night. Humbled by the greatness I had witnessed, I pondered what it must be like to create an alternative reality for so many millions of people as The Phantom Of The Opera has. I couldn’t help but to think that it is cruel that the genius found in the art can be overshadowed even lost by commercial success as if the two by definition are mutually exclusive—they’re not. It is said that a book all have heard of, but none have read is indeed a classic. I have written many such works. So my heart aches to be overshadowed even lost.

The dark figure with his face half-masked approached—The Phantom Of The Opera. To clarify, I am not speaking of the brilliant, Tony Award winner, previously seen on the most elaborate of stages. I speak now of the actual Phantom Of The Opera, risen from his chamber.

Seated next to me he said these words, “The lover of The Phantom Of The Writers, you are?”

“I am,” I responded, solemnly.

“A tragic state of being you’ve accepted—to be loyal,” his voice lowered to a whisper, “yes to be loyal to the giver of your talent and to not be seduced by those who love you for what is not yours.”

“I can’t live without what I’ve been given, so I am a slave to the giver…”

We sat in silence for some moments—waiting. Because there is a moment every day when there is pure truth in all-of-the world.

“Why does a man as handsome as yourself wear a mask?” I asked The Phantom Of The Opera who is perhaps the most handsome man I have ever laid eyes on.

A tear ran down his cheek, not for himself, but for I. “For the same reason, you great writer cannot look into a mirror. I wear the mask to hide not my face, but the ugliness that dwells in my heart…”

Note: the Las Vegas production that this fictional literary work is based on is titled “Phantom — The Las Vegas spectacular”. This production, while extraordinary, has been modified to a certain degree from the traditional production of the “Phantom Of The Opera”.

I would like to thank Rob Goldstein, Dawn Britt, Ashley Farkas and Rochelle Samilin-Jurani for providing the support that is required for a writer, such as I, to write a work such as this. I would also like to give a special thank you to Sheldon Adelson, for all of his good works and  for building such a place as The Venetian, without which there would be no story at all. 

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Ah, to be a schoolboy again.  And drawing pictures with schoolgirls.  And learning so many new things, with visual aids in the classroom to enhance the rich imagination of childhood. ─AS
 
Drawing On Eyelashes

Remember, when you were a kid, doing drawings, and in those drawings drawing eyelashes on some animals to show that those animals were female (lizards, mice, fish, birds)? Another question, this one for bats: Bats, why must you swoop about, swooping for blood, when you could just do you know what with your lashes and almost surely get better results, like maybe even a little ceramic bowl of blood with your name on it (and yes, I know that your name is difficult to spell, Empress of Moldovia, but try to be positive, please)?

I forgot to tell you earlier that I have made a time machine which shows all of time up until now on an overhead projector from 1980. You are going to have to decide who gets to operate the rollers, and if there is any bickering, we’ll just wait until tomorrow to do this. Good.

Here, you get a dry-erase marker. And you, and you. You don’t get one. Why? Because your behavior last week when we were doing the Praying for the Bean Plants experiment was ridiculous, especially since you know that there is no gambling allowed on the premises. Okay, hold on a second while I get this thing going…. Okay. Now please say, “Pause, please” whenever you’d like to draw on some eyelashes, and draw them! It’s almost lunch, so some of you might have to wait until after. Oh, and there is an index right here, so it’s really not hard at all to find what you are looking for. Here are some suggestions: lizards, the pope, mice, Glenn Beck, fish, strip mines, Margaret Thatcher, birds. Please do not forget to put the cap back on when you are finished.

 
If only, when I was in the fifth grade, and giving and receiving those little baby blue  heart-shaped confections with the small red printing on them, I had had the wisdom imparted by this next piece.  I daresay I might have had a better marriage. ─AS

Valentine

Q: Which child is loved best by its mother?
A: The child who receives the most valentines in the small, decorated bag taped to the front of its desk.

Q: Why do we celebrate Valentine’s Day?
A: Because of Saint Valentine, who fell in love with a white deer in the forest, then a white dove in a dovecote, then a brown squirrel (also in the forest), then back to the white dove.

Q: Is it true that a proper valentine is bright red and trimmed in lace?
A: Yes, like the human heart.

Q: Is it true that Saint Valentine was a brown deer?
A: No one is sure.

Q: Will I ever find love?
A: Yes, at a bar. You will be offered a pastis by an elderly man with an accent. He will tell you that you look just like his dead son. He will show you a photograph of his dead son, whose name is Stephen. You will fall in love with Stephen.

Q: Which valentine is better, one with a mouse hugging another mouse or one with a bluebird carrying a valentine in its beak?
A: The latter.

 
I can’t wait to meet the narrator of this next story, as well as her extended family.  ─AS

Your Pig Family

When I signed up for the show, I was like, he’s the bachelor, right? So I knew you’d be amazing. But I had no idea you’d be so amazing. I mean, I knew you’d be amazing, but not this amazing, you know? You’re like everything I’m looking for, and when we connect we have this, you know, energy. I hope you know that I’m here for the right reasons. I can’t believe we’ve made it this far. The one-on-one dates have been just, you know, incredible. And last night in the hot tub. Every time I look at you, I’m like, wow. He is so amazing. And now I’m going to meet your family in Seattle. That’s just, well, I’m nervous! Totally nervous but totally excited and happy. I can’t believe we’re taking it to the next level! And then your pig family in Issaquah. I’m more worried about them than your other family, you know? Because people’s pig families can be really critical. One time, a long time ago, I was dating this guy, and his human family loved me, we totally got along, but his pig family just did not like me for some reason. I think it was his pig brother, you know, jealous or something, I don’t know. So the relationship didn’t work out. But anyway, everything happens for a reason. I’m just so excited and nervous! It’s going to be amazing. I’m like, what kind of wine do they like? Should I bring flowers? My pig mother hates flowers. They remind her of the hospital, which you can imagine, remember I told you about her back problems? She’s seriously in a wheelchair more often than she’s on her feet. She’s so strong, so strong. Anyway. I’m super excited! Whew. Just breathe, right? It’s going to be amazing.
 
Catherine Coan’s first book, Aviation (poetry), was published by Blue Begonia Press in 2000. Her design work can be seen at Stay, the downtown Los Angeles hotel she created with business partner Amy Price. Her Canary Suicides (assemblages in vintage bird cages featuring little feathered demises) are currently on display at Arty, the downtown L.A. gallery she co-owns with Price (also at www.canarysuicides.com <http://www.canarysuicides.com/> ). She has taught university literature and creative writing since 1995.

The first of the three featured stories speaks to the collapse of the real estate market, and the great bargains to be had for buyers with cash in hand.  As readers will discover, however, getting that “dream house” may be more complicated than that.

Hummingbird Nest Ranch

Sotheby’s: Was $75,000,000, Just Reduced to $5,995,000. Recession Special!

HUMMINGBIRD NEST RANCH. The finest world-class equestrian estate on approximately 123 acres, built in 2004, just 40 minutes from Beverly Hills! Beautiful Mission Revival-style mansion (approximately 17,000 square feet, designed by Richard Robertson). Approximately four of the 123 acres boast a Native American burial site!

The three-level main house has thick stucco walls, copper gutters, a courtyard succulent garden with an aggressive fifteen-foot carnivorous plant, and a Spanish-style roof.

There are five bedrooms plus attached guest quarters, an office, a cabana, two heated pools, a twelve-person Jacuzzi, and a gazebo. Luxury details include paver tile floors, decorative tile work around the windows, wood-beamed ceilings, and a state-of-the-art French kitchen in red lacquer and stainless!

Surrounding the main house are three guest houses, ten staff houses, and substantial hunter-jumper equestrian facilities including an international grand prix arena (600×300 feet); rubber-and-sand mixed ring (300×250 feet); derby grass field (650×250 feet); large main barn (approximately 20,000 square feet) with 37 stalls (14×14 feet), six grooming stalls, two wash stalls, vet office, and farrier’s workshop and quarters! In one of the stalls lives a man with a human body and horse head (Palomino) named Carl who does not wear clothes and will not leave. But, again, the stainless and red lacquer kitchen. Also, derby grass field!

This is a green property with three private water wells, solar panels in several buildings, water treatment and distribution system, a roving sinkhole that may or may not have swallowed a film crew, and two fuel storage tanks (gas and diesel, 500 gallons each). The estate is gated, uses public utilities and solar energy, and prominently features a helipad.

 
If one was once doing much better before the deep recession, perhaps this tale of the ephemeral nature of comfort and relationship will strike a chord.  If not, at least enjoy this little gathering.

Camp

Sit by the tiny fire, yes, the flame there about the size of the flame on a lit match, and I will tell you a story. I have made coffee for you over the fire in a little iron skillet from the dollhouse. The one that burned down. Yes, this is what is left of the house: the ash, this tiny skillet, and this fire. A family lived in the dollhouse, a family of mice. They called themselves a family, but really they chose each other. You already have coffee? Well, here, I’ll add the coffee I made to the coffee in your travel mug. They had hard and separate lives for a long time, and just before the fire, they found each other and the house and there was a brief period of peace and television. How’s the coffee? I’ll bet you can’t tell the coffee I put in there from the original coffee you had.
 
Lastly, there is the story of a baby who was an enigma since birth.  Readers may puzzle over its life and times.  Is this story also its epitaph?  Or is it with us still?  

Baby Onionhead

It did not cry, even when it was born, even when it was kicked by its siblings. Its pale green-piped translucence was lovely in sunlight. No one named it. No one could tell if its heart could break.
 
Catherine Coan’s first book, Aviation (poetry), was published by Blue Begonia Press in 2000. Her design work can be seen at Stay, the downtown Los Angeles hotel she created with business partner Amy Price. Her Canary Suicides (assemblages in vintage bird cages featuring little feathered demises) are currently on display at Arty, the downtown L.A. gallery she co-owns with Price (also at www.canarysuicides.com <http://www.canarysuicides.com/> ). She has taught university literature and creative writing since 1995.

A comment on Facebook from my childhood friend Lisa was all that was needed to transport me back to age thirteen and our first game of ping-pong—I loved Lisa all those years ago. I could spend a whole day lying on the grass, staring at the sky, and thinking about her. What if? What if? Neil Young’s voice is singing, “Old man take a look at my life…”

And to further cosset my self-indulgent emotions, July 2009 marked the first anniversary of two significant events in my life, not as significant and pure good as thirteen-year-old love, but significant nonetheless. A year ago, July 2008, my book “Stan Lerner’s Criminal” won the Grand Prize at the 2008 Hollywood Book Festival. And to promote myself as a writer, at the urging of Todd Sims (founder of GrooveTickets and friend of the past), I committed publicly in cyberspace to become a regular blogger. Downtown Oliver Brown was not a thought at this time. In fact it was my blog Erin Brockovich’s Daughter that was the impetus for Oliver. And it was Oliver’s success on Blog Downtown (Eric Richardson’s blog) that made downtownster.com and blogsincity.com inevitable progressions.

I had intended to go on in this vein and revisit the tragedy of  “Stan Lerner’s Criminal”, Barnes & Noble, Borders and why an award-winning book is so hard to find or hasn’t been made into a movie—I am often asked these questions. But it’s the first Friday of August and we should all be having a goodtime in the sun…Of course there is more, as brevity is nowhere to be found in my nature—except when it comes to the soul of my wit.

Although much overshadowed by “Stan Lerner’s Criminal”, 2008 was also the year my novella “In Development”, the story of Hollywood’s most powerful and scummiest producer, was released. Recently, literally the last few days, I’ve finished what’s called in the industry, “the polish” of the screen adaptation. So, suffice it to say, that “In Development” is on my mind and I’m thinking that a story of sex, manipulation, lying, betrayal, and murder—otherwise known in Hollywood as a story with a happy ending, might just set a superlative tone for the weekend.

So please read on and enjoy a few chapters of a book from the summer of 2008, “And the seasons they go round and round.”

Prologue

Breakfast at the Peninsula

The Peninsula Hotel ranked among Beverly Hills’ finest establishments. A modest four stories, its cream-colored exterior walls exuded European elegance. The motor court was paved with Tuscan cobblestone and it curved in a half circle around a spectacular yet understated fountain. Stan Peters arrived for breakfast like clockwork Monday thru Friday at 8:00 in either his black Rolls Royce Phantom or his diamond silver Mercedes Benz SL 500.

This particular morning, he was looking more impeccable than usual. The Ermenegildo Zegna boutique on Rodeo Drive had just taken delivery of its handmade suit collection for the fall season the day before. As always, Stan, the store’s best customer and Hollywood’s most powerful movie producer, had been there to pick up each of his 31 new suits. He would repeat this routine at several of the city’s high-end boutiques; rarely did Stan need or bother to wear the same custom-made suit twice.

The hotel’s bell captain, Rick Johnson, was a handsome young man of twenty-five—an aspiring actor. As always, he stepped forward to open Stan’s car door himself, rather than delegate such an important task to a valet. Opening the great producer’s door was not as optimal as being in one of his movies but it was a step in the right direction. Hollywood’s most powerful producer had come to know him by his first name.

The door of the Mercedes opened, as it always did, not requiring any of Stan’s own personal exertion. He never took this for granted. He appreciated not being bothered with such trivialities. It was certainly worth a twenty-dollar tip to not have to think about opening and closing the door of his automobile.

The air was just right. Not too warm, not too cold. Not too humid, nor too dry. Just right. Stan had no control over the weather of course, but he had chosen to remain in Los Angeles for exactly this reason—perfect year-round weather.

He stretched his six-foot-one frame as he rose from the 65-way adjustable, heated, and programmable leather car seat. The sound of the fountain filled his ears. Stan smiled the bright white smile of a man whose company was about to go public. A smile that said he was a man on top of the world. That he was talented. That he cared and wanted to encourage others to aspire to his greatness. Yet, he was confident that no man could really be his equal.

“Good morning, Mr. Peters,” said Rick amiably.

“Good morning, Rick. It looks like we’re in for some nice weather today. You have to love living in California!” Stan responded, already thinking about the healthy, delectable food he would soon be putting into his perfectly muscled body. A body that at forty was in even better shape than it had been in high school.

“It certainly looks like it’s going to be a great day, Mr. Peters. Enjoy your breakfast…Oh, would you like me to have the car washed while you’re eating this morning?”

Stan looked at the fine German automobile for a moment. It had just been detailed the day before but he thought it could certainly have gathered some dust not visible to the naked eye but was there nonetheless. “Yeah, better give it a rinse.” And with that he turned and walked toward the large double door entrance to the five star hotel.

Again with no effort of his own, the door opened. “Good morning, Mr. Peters.”

“Good morning,” Stan replied. Other than Rick, he did not know the names of the ten or twenty people that managed his morning breakfast routine. If need be, he could always read their nametags.

“Good morning, Mr. Peters,” said the gentleman next to the doorman.

“Good morning, good morning.” And with just a few silent steps, he was at the entry to the Belvedere Room.

“Good morning, Mr. Peters,” said the lovely hostess. “That suit is beautiful.” Her dark hair was pulled back and her young eyes shone brilliantly with a nebula of possibilities. “It fits you perfectly. You always look so handsome, but that suit is even more perfect than usual.”

“Well thank you…Mary,” he said, quickly glancing at her nametag. “The Fall season just came in yesterday. I still have a lot of things to pick up.”

“Well, I’ll be looking forward to seeing all of it. The usual table or would you like to try the patio today?”

“The usual table would be superlative.”

“Good morning, Mr. Peters,” said Janet, the hostess’ supervisor. “It’s so nice to see you. I just noticed that the trades are not at your table. I’ll bring them right over.”

“Thank you, Janet,” Stan said, taking the final steps to his table.

He sat down on the soft green cushion and slid over just slightly. The silver was all set correctly and the white tablecloth was blinding, which was what he expected. The hotel knew that he expected this, so only new tablecloths were used at his table. Stan’s demeanor was always pleasant but there was no doubt that he would ask for his table to be redressed and set again if he detected even the slightest flaw in its appearance.

The room, which had the feel of a fine garden, blossomed with both Hollywood and business elite. Stan caught many of their gazes as he walked into the room and still more as he sat. When unavoidable, he would flash back a warm smile and give just the slightest nod of his head. He peered for a moment out the glass wall to the patio thinking that the star of his last movie was there having breakfast with her new husband. He had slept with her a few times and was strangely satisfied to see that she was now married.

“Your skinny latte Mr. Peters,” said the middle-aged-Pilipino server as he set the large white cup and saucer on the tablecloth directly in front of Stan. Then, with a great deal of concern and concentration, the Pilipino latte server moved the silver sweetener container just to the upper right of Stan’s cup and saucer so that he would not have to reach for it at the end of the table.

“And the trades,” said Janet, handing Stan both the Hollywood Reporter and Variety.

“Thank you, Janet.” Stan ripped the small yellow package of sweetener, which he preferred to the blue or the pink packages of sweeteners, and mixed it into his latte and raised the cup for his first caffeinated drink of the day.

“Good morning, Mr. Peters. Will you be having the usual today?” asked the intelligent looking waiter in his late twenties, an aspiring writer of some type.

He had mentioned something about writing one day while in the course of telling Stan that he was a great fan of his. Stan recalled his own empty offer to read some of the young man’s work. An empty offer not because Stan was being disingenuous but empty because Stan had observed that most people with aspirations were afraid to succeed. Meaning, no one really wanted their work to be judged by someone who could do something for them.

 “Omelet, jack and cheddar…”

“Avocado, fire roasted salsa, Tabasco, and fruit on the side,” the waiter said, finishing Stan’s sentence. He pushed his round wire-rim glasses a little further up on his nose and smiled.

“No potatoes or bread,” Stan added, although he didn’t have to because everybody knew that he liked potatoes and bread but didn’t eat them to keep his simple carbohydrate intake to a minimum.

All this ass kissing is really something. They do it because you’re a powerful man in Hollywood. If they only knew what a lying, thieving, scumbag you really are. Maybe they do know and they don’t care. Could that be?

 He took a sip of his latte. It tasted better than most because it was made from a coffee bean that was eaten by a small rodent, which then excreted it out in its feces. 

Don’t be so hard on yourself. To be a successful motion picture producer you have to have talent. And you put in years of hard work developing that talent. Not that it mattered to anyone—fuckers. Be honest with yourself. You got to where you are because you have the most important ingredient—an inexplicable character flaw. Not the, I’m gay and my family won’t accept me or I’ll show everyone who should have been voted most likely to succeed. No, it’s way beyond that.

An old timer with an attractive young companion waved to him from across the room. Stan smiled and gave a nod.

To really be fucked up enough to succeed at this level you had to have been born a nice guy with a good heart. Twenty years of being screwed over, lied to, used, and unappreciated. And one day you were lucky enough to wake up and be you. It didn’t happen gradually. It just happened.

Janet returned with an apologetic look. Stan knew without her saying a word what the cause of her guilt happened to be. He handed her the green cloth napkin that had been stretched across his lap and then watched, quite pleased, as she laid the new black napkin in its place. “I’m so sorry about that,” she said, the corners of her mouth turned just slightly downwards.

“Not a problem. Thank you, Janet.” Stan watched her walk away. The well-fitted navy blue suit she was wearing left no doubt that her body, in spite of her being well into her thirties, was still in excellent shape. She had certainly been a dancer of some type in her youth, Stan imagined.

Sounds like a terrible existence the way you describe it. It’s not. Your life is a dream life and you wouldn’t have it any other way. I wish someone could just love me for me. Too late. You got the fancy cars, great food, the world-class pussy, the incredible houses in ten different countries, an amount of money in the bank that even you can’t spend. So many women, so little time…Wall Street loves you.

“Your omelet, sir.”

“Thank you. It looks wonderful.”

“Can I bring you anything else?”

Stan looked lustfully across the room at the attractive blonde with the old goat who had been pleasant enough to wave. “No, this will be fine for now.”

“Well then, enjoy your breakfast, sir.”

Stan’s fork cut through the well-whipped, triple grade A, cage free, grain fed, organic, brown egg with ease. The egg, cheese, avocado, fire roasted salsa, and Tabasco delighted his taste buds. And just as he swallowed it happened—a sickening moment of self-doubt.

The only thing that can fuck up the Peters Entertainment IPO is a bad project. In highly advanced industry terminology, ‘A piece of shit movie’. Not to be confused with a shitty movie the manipulative scumbags in marketing can save with some kind of bullshit MacDonald’s cross promotion. No—the kind of movie that gets fucked up by some tight ass, wanna-be- cool, college graduate, studio executive, a producer’s worst nightmare, maybe even a career killer. What a terrible thought. It’ll never happen to you. You’re Stan Peters for fuck sake. You don’t make piece of shit movies.

Stan decided it was a waste of time to let his mind continue to ponder the meaning of life. He reached for the Hollywood Reporter and began to read the horrifying news on the front page.

CHAPTER ONE

Powerful Men

At age 86, Sumner Ballsworth III, ruled Ballcom’s 450 diversified companies with an iron fist. At his command, the directors sat in the boardroom located on the 69^th story of Ballcom Tower. A massive building that had long been an anchor of the Manhattan skyline.

Sumner sat at the head of the table; his younger brother and lifelong nemesis Nelson sat to his left, his close friend and vice chairman, Randolph, sat to his right. Sumner took his time as he let his eyes roam around the table, and then rubbed the deep creases of the skin that hung loosely around his jaw line. He cleared his throat, as he always did before starting a meeting, and the room fell silent.

            “I now call to order a meeting of the Ballcom board of directors.” Turning to Randolph, “Our first order of business is?”

            Randolph, while the same age as Sumner, looked ten years younger. A stout man to begin with, his love of food had assured that his skin would always be stretched to a more youthful tautness. “Our fist order of business, is soaring profits in our Entertainment Sector,” announced Randolph.

            Sumner stared down the table at Michael Eisenfeld. “Can you explain why entertainment profits are up three hundred percent again? Our friends at the Security and Exchange Commission tell me that people who are not our friends are starting to take an interest in our remarkably good fortune. I trust there are no accounting irregularities.”

            Eisenfeld shrugged. “Entertainment is a different beast, Mr. Chairman. It takes individuals with unique skill sets…”

            “I’m not going to tolerate this nonsense!” interrupted Sumner’s brother, Nelson. He turned to his older brother. “Grandfather, would not approve of the types of people that we’re dealing with in this business or the revolting product we’re putting into the market place.” Nelson pointed toward Eisenfeld. “He knows damn well that Mechanic is turning a blind eye to behavior that’s not only unethical but immoral at the studio to make the kind of money that pads his bonus. ”

            “These people make us a lot of money,” said Eisendfeld, in shock that he had to defend making a profit. Eisenfeld looked to Sumner hoping that he would reel in Nelson.

            Sumner shook his head. “I have to go with Nelson on this. How the hell are they making so much money, Michael? Entertainment, was supposed to be a tax write off for us.”

            Eisenfeld had been successfully ambushed and knew it. “The Peters Entertainment deal has turned out to exceed all of our expectations.”

            Sumner’s bushy gray eyebrows rose. “More explanation, Michael.”

            “Well, Mechanic lets Peters do what he wants and he seems to have a unique understanding of what the public’s appetite for entertainment happens to be. ”

            Sumner’s demeanor warmed slightly. “I knew his grandfather. Name used to be Petersburg. Made fortunes in paint and auto parts.”

            “Well the grandson is making a fortune on crap. And we’re paying for it.” Nelson leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

            “We don’t pay for all of it,” Eisenfeld said, knowing that the cat was out of the bag.

            “Of course we do.” Nelson had no idea.

            Eisenfeld sighed. “Co-financing. Peter’s has been bringing in a lot of outside money.”

            Nelson’s eyes bulged. An alert assistant stepped forward with a glass of water and a nitro pill for his heart. “Other people’s money! Ballcom doesn’t have partners! We own everything!” The assistant pushed the pill and the water in front of him insistently. Nelson placed the white pill in his mouth and gulped some water. But before he could resume Sumner held up his hand.

            “Michael, co-financing…” Sumner shook his head. “Is there anything else we should know?”

            “Next week, Peters plans on going public. Initially, he’ll pipeline money into the company but he’ll go to work shortly there after setting up credit lines against his stock. He’ll want a new contract guaranteeing straight distribution from us—for a reasonable fee.”

            “Get rid of him!” Nelson demanded.

            Sumner, who never smiled, smiled and began to laugh. He looked down at the table and composed himself. “Get rid of Peters, for what? Being ambitious.”

            “I’m the second largest shareholder of Ballcom stock—heads must roll.” Nelson looked toward Eisenfeld.

            Sumner followed his brother’s stare. “Well Michael, you made a profit but broke the rules.”

            The blood drained from Eisenfeld’s face. He sat at the table, white as a sheet and speechless.

            “Fire Mechanic and,” Sumner continued after what had been a disturbing pause, “put someone in charge over there that understands our expectations.” Sumner turned to Nelson. “Are you happy now?”

            Nelson smiled. “I want all candidates for the job run by my office for approval. And I want to be the one to tell the new guy to clean things up.”

            Sumner looked at Eisenfeld, who had been spared only to spite his brother and because entertainment had earned billions. “Did you get that, Michael?”

            “Yes, Mr. Chairman. I’ll make the necessary changes. What about the Peters IPO?”

            Sumner stared past the end of the table, out the window, seeing everything. “I’ll take care of that personally.”

CHAPTER TWO

Bad News

Stan sat restlessly behind his oversized, half-circle, stainless steel Pace Collection desk. His drive to the Peters Entertainment Building in Century City had been an almost unbearable five minutes. He stared down at the Hollywood Reporter framed by the black granite inlay that served as the top of his desk.

“‘From Harvard to Hollywood—Jones promoted to head of studio.’ Can you believe it? Brad Jones, that no-talent East Coast cocksucker is running a studio!” Stan looked up from the Reporter and across his desk at his short, corpulent, gray-haired, associate producer of many years, Iren Shmeklestein.  

“Believe it, you shmuck! I told you we should have gone to Disney with this project.”

“Disney? Are you insane? Do you think Disney is going to make a movie called “Two Jews and a Blonde Psycho”? Whatever toes you were sucking on last night must have been laced with something.”

“If you had just seen the feet on this chick.” Iren smiled an obscene smile and continued. “They were beautiful. I can’t understand why you’re not attracted to feet. You don’t even want to know what she could do with them.”

“You’re right, I don’t want to know.”

Iren ignored him. “After I sucked on them for an hour I had her massage my balls with her toes.”

“Did she stick them up your ass and massage your prostate?” Stan asked, suddenly finding himself interested in Iren’s foot fetish.

“No. My asshole is way too tight for that kind of thing. Oh, that would hurt. I’m puckering up just thinking about it. Would you let a chick do that to you?” Iren turned his head slightly to the left and his right eyebrow went up like a curious Vulcan. “C’mon, be honest with me.”

“Yeah, why not?” Stan shrugged, “I mean, as long as her feet weren’t like the size of Shaque’s.”

“You know I respect your honesty when it comes to these things. But seriously, what if it was Shaque’s foot, would you take it up the ass for ten million dollars?”

Stan laughed. “I’d let Brad Jones stick his foot up my ass for ten million dollars.”

A gruff voice emanated from the doorway. “You might have to,” the always-perturbed Ray Delecrotch said as he walked into the room.

Stan turned his head toward his other longtime associate producer. Ray, at sixty-three, was ten years older than Iren and more than twenty years older than Stan. But despite his age, Stan had decided to keep him around. Ray did at least have the decency to dye his hair black. “Have you gained weight? It looks like you swallowed a bowling ball,” Stan commented.

Ray ignored his boss’s observation. “Because that’s how much fucking money we’re going to lose if that no class, talentless prick, shit-cans our movie. I’m sure the boys on Wall Street will love a fuck-up like this a week before our IPO. ”

 Stan’s face tensed slightly—a mixture of concern, disgust, and confusion. “We spent ten million dollars in development on a movie about two wacky Jew producers? You have to be kidding me. Who’s the idiot that okayed that?”

“You did, putz face,” Iren said, no longer able to think about the feet he had made love to the night before. “You paid yourself a million-dollar writer’s fee and rewrote the thing nine times.”

“That’s only nine million, where’d the other million go?” Stan gave a disgusted wave. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter.”

“You rented a private island for a year as a writer’s retreat,” Iren reminded him.

“Writer’s retreat? Then what were you doing there?” Stan asked sarcastically.

Iren pointed at himself. “You think you’re a better writer than I am?”

“Iren, my second grade homework was better than the shit you come up with.”

“Would you two focus. We need to make sure that the studio doesn’t kick this fucking movie to the curb. By the way, do I want to know where we got the ten million from?”

Stan looked at Iren and then back to Ray. “Some old lady in Pasadena.”

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” Ray asked, not believing that they could really be that fortunate.

“Iren befriended her husband just before he croaked,” Stan assured. “It was actually pretty easy to get the money out of the old bag. All I had to do was tell her that we would dedicate the movie to her loving husband’s memory. And, off the record, Iren agreed to suck on her old, shriveled up, callused heels.”

Iren nodded his affirmation. “Let me tell you, she doesn’t have bad feet for an old lady.”

“You guys are being straight with me?” Ray asked, sounding just slightly less irritable. “You didn’t get the money from one of your unsavory buddies?”

Iren swiveled the gray mohair chair in Ray’s direction. “Define unsavory?”

Stan smiled at Iren. “Your sister.”

Iren swiveled his chair back toward Stan. “That bitch would steal candy from a deaf, dumb, blind kid. Tell the truth—would you have sex with a deaf, dumb, blind girl?”

“Of course he would, he’d marry her if he was smart,” Ray said, matter-of-factly. “If I wasn’t so fucking old I’d be hanging out over at the Brail Institute myself. Where else are you going to find a nice girl in this fucking town?”

“I’d date a deaf, dumb, blind, girl. Assuming she’s hot like that chick in “Children of a Lesser God”,” Stan said, feeling that Ray might be on to something. Stan held up his right hand, opening and closing his fingers without saying a word.

“What are you doing?” asked Iren.

“Practicing my sign language.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It’s Helen Keller having an orgasm.”

“You guys always pull this shit on me,” Ray said shaking his head.

Stan and Iren looked at him. “What shit?” Stan asked innocently.

“Changing the subject.”

Stan held up his hand acknowledging the point. “This is definitely a different subject, but isn’t your nose big even for an Italian guy?”

 “Unsavory like—drug dealers, gangsters—criminal unsavory.” Ray stared at Stan making sure he wouldn’t be digressing any further.

“Absolutely not,” Stan’s tone was insistent. “I swear on Iren’s hemorrhoids that we emptied an old lady’s bank account.”

“Did I tell you my hemorrhoids are killing me?” Iren asked, shifting his weight in his chair.

“Not like my back.” Stan gave his lower fifth lumbar a gentle rub. “I think I have early-onset arthritis.”

“You guys swear, no fucking around?” asked Ray, thinking that his ulcer might be acting up.

Stan pulled the gold Mont Blanc from his pocket and began rotating it across his knuckles. “I don’t even know any criminals.”

Marle’s voice had a heavy New Jersey accent as it came through the intercom. “Stan?”

“Yes, Marle dearest. What is it?” Stan asked, his always-troublesome secretary.

“I have Carlos Escobar on the phone, he says he needs to talk to you about the Laundromat business. He says you know what he’s talking about.”

“I’ll call him back. Thank you.”

“The Laundromat business?” Ray was immediately suspicious.

“It’s the next big thing,” Stan said without missing a beat. Then, he looked innocently at Iren.

“In South America,” Iren agreed, with a nod and a wink that Ray could not see.

“Anyway, let’s forget about the whole criminal thing…” Stan suggested just as Marle’s voice intruded through the intercom again.

“Stan?”

“What?” he yelled out the door rather than into the intercom.

“I’ve got Dominick Luciano on the phone. He wants to know if you can meet him in Vegas tonight to discuss your idea about forming a Teamster’s Union Entertainment Fund.”

“Tell him I’m just a little busy right now please.” Exasperated, he looked back from the door to Iren and Ray. “The phone doesn’t ring all fucking morning, Brad Jones is running a studio and now everything goes crazy. I mean who the fuck else is going to call during this time of crisis?”

“How about the Pope?” Iren smiled and nodded.

“Stan?” Marle’s voice was even louder and more nagging than before.

“Tell whoever it is to fuck off!” Stan shouted loudly out the door. “This is just unbelievable,” he turned and said to Iren and Ray.

Marle’s hot, young, size zero body stood in the doorway. “It’s the Pope—you can tell him to fuck off yourself.”

Stan reached for the phone with haste. “Pope, it’s always so good to hear from you…Yes, Iren is sitting right across the desk from me…Sure, I’ll put you on speakerphone.” Stan hit the button and shrugged as his co-producers looked at him uncomfortably.

The Pope’s voice was a deep and raspy growl with a heavy European accent. “Shmucks, eight percent on our money—we can get that in the bank and not tie up our cash for eighteen months at a time. Stan, if you and that little putz you call a co-producer can’t do better than eight percent this year, I’m going to pull the plug on you two. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

“Listen, Your Majesty…”

“Excellency, not Majesty you thieving Jew prick.” The Pope not so kindly corrected.

“Whatever,” Stan rolled his eyes. “We’re doing our best. Out of what little decency we have we’ve been putting the Vatican’s money into our safest films. Mostly animated shit for kids.”

“Fuck the kids shit!” screamed the Pope. “Have some balls and put us into something with some tits and ass! That’s where the fucking money’s at!”

“Well I was worried about the church’s reputation,” Stan said in his own defense.

“Who the fuck died and made you Pope? I’ve got priests banging little boys by the thousands. That means lawsuits up the ass, and that means settlements up the ass. Millions and millions of dollars paid to a bunch of fucking crybabies who can’t take a little consecrated affection. So put some sex and violence on the fucking screen and get me my twenty percent. Do you fucking understand me?”

“Yes, Pope,” answered Stan, feeling pummeled by the pontiff.

“Good!” was the last word they heard before the distinct sound of a phone receiver being slammed down.

Ray slouched down in his chair and shook his head. “You pissed off the Pope. That’s fucking great.”

Stan hit the off button, silencing the beeping phone receiver. “What a ball-buster he can be. That’s what happens when you go eighty years without getting any pussy.”

“We’ll be going the next eighty years without pussy if that prick Brad starts fucking around with this movie and blows our IPO,” Ray said with a sense of impending doom.

“I’m not letting that no-talent shmuck tell me how to do my job!” Iren said in a state of alarm.

“If you don’t, he’ll put the fucking thing in turn around,” Ray said, making matters worse.

“Listen to me, that jackass isn’t going to tell you how to do your job.” Stan’s voice was calm and reasonable. “And trust me, he’s not putting our movie in turn around. Now that he’s a bigshot, he won’t give a shit about us.”

Iren’s fat cheeks had turned red. “You know I’ll put the little prick in his place.”

“I’ll punch him right in the fucking face if I even think he’s going to put us in turn around,” Ray added.

“Just let me handle this Ivy League, creatively challenged cocksucker. And that’s if he ever gets to us on his bullshit things to do list. I mean, come on, what type of loser would start poking his shit stuffed from too much ass kissing nose into our movie?”

“Stan.” Marle’s voice was filling the airwaves again. “I’ve got Brad Jones on the phone. He says it’s very important.”

Stan shook his head. “What a pathetic nebish.”

“What a piece of shit,” Iren said, then pretended to spit on the floor.

“Fucking lowlife,” Ray said, making a fist with his right hand and slamming it into the palm of his left hand.

“Put him through,” Stan advised Marle, then waited a moment to compose himself before speaking. “Brad, how are you doing? It’s so good to hear from you. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

“Have you read the trades today?” Brad’s voice was a mixture of good-cheer and serious business.

“No, I’ve been in an editing session for the last thirty-six hours,” Stan said trying to sound as clueless as possible. “ Is everything okay, I’ve been completely out of touch with the world.”

For some reason Iren decided to hold up the Hollywood Reporter that had been on Stan’s desk. Stan acknowledged this with the hand job motion. Ray flipped off the phone then bit his own knuckles.

“Thirty-six hours?” Brad sounded incredibly impressed. “Goodness gracious man, I don’t know how you do it.”

“We never miss a deadline or a budget around here,” Stan said, turning the confidence up just slightly. “When the studio does business with us, it’s family. You know that we love you guys.”

Iren commenced sticking his tongue through his fingers like he was licking a pussy. This encouraged Ray to start sticking his index finger through his other hand—the universal fucking signal.

Brad’s voice became warm and generous. “Stan, that’s so nice of you to say. We’re very fond of you around here and you know I am personally a huge fan of your work.”

The gold Mont Blanc fell from Stan’s hand as Iren bent Ray over his chair and pretended to fuck him in the ass.

“Thanks Brad, that really means a lot to me. Someone with your education and talent, supporting what we do, you know I really don’t even know what to say.” Stan’s face registered the revulsion of seeing that Iren had Ray down on all fours. He couldn’t help but remember the day he passed on a script about two gay cowboys—a two hundred million dollar mistake.

Two cowboys fucking in a tent. Who could have predicted that one would be a hit?

“Honestly, one day if the board of directors is smart, they’ll put you in charge of everything.”

“Well Stan, actually that’s why I called. It was just announced today in the trades—I’m the new head of the studio.”

“Congratulations! It’s about time, I mean good, you deserve it. I’m sure you’re going to be super busy. But when things settle down in the next couple of years, I’d love to talk to you about what we’re up to over here.”

“Stan, things are going to be different. I plan to be very hands on.”

“Even better.” Stan’s brow wrinkled as his cheeks retracted upward. “I mean, it’s about time there’s someone on top who cares about what’s going on in the trenches.”

“I care Stan and I’m really glad you feel that way. I had my concerns.”

Stan couldn’t imagine things getting much worse when he heard Marle scream. She had come to hand deliver his mail only to see Iren apparently humping Ray on the floor. It was shocking even for a Jewish girl from Jersey.

Stan rubbed his forehead. “I’m a team player, Brad, you know that.”

“Stan, I have my concerns about this comedy you guys have in development. I know we’re committed to production funding, but creatively speaking “Two Jews and A Blonde Psycho” just seems to be missing something. And Stan, I’ve given your cast list a very close look. For lack of a better word, I hate it.”

Iren and Ray, prompted by Marle’s scream, had returned to their respective seats. Iren began writing something on a notepad.

“Brad, if things don’t work out for you as a studio boss you should become a psychic. I was just having this exact conversation with Ray and Iren. We’re completely on the same page.”

Iren held up the notepad, which read, “you miserable cocksucker” accompanied by a picture of Brad on his knees orally copulating a very well endowed man.

“Creatively speaking,” Brad’s voice was all business now, “I want you to make this movie more red-state friendly. Maybe the movie could end with the main characters seeing the light and converting to Christianity.”

“Yeah, maybe something more like “The Passion of the Christ”.” Stan sighed, thinking that he might wake up any moment from this nightmare.

“Now you’re talking! And Stan, pull out all of the bad language and sex scenes. This thing needs to fly with a G rating. The profanity makes the whole thing feel too urban. I’m not interested in doing a Spike Lee movie here.”

“Not a problem Brad. Anything else?”

“Well actually there is. I want you to cut the budget for the soundtrack in half and get Tom Cruise and Russell Crowe to play the leads.”

Ray held up the notepad which now read, “Why not Mel Gibson since we’re making the fucking “Passion”?”

“Mel Gibson?” Stan said, accidentally reading Ray’s sign out loud.

“I like Mel. And a Jew movie might help him get past his anti-Semitic public image.” Brad paused. “If you can’t get both Tom and Russell, I’ll let you substitute Mel for either one. But I really want Tom Cruise in this movie. For the blonde psycho, Renee Zellweger works for me. I liked her and Tom in “Jerry Maguire”.”

“Why not Anne Heche? Playing a psycho wouldn’t be much of a stretch.”

Brad laughed. “Stan you haven’t lost a step. That’s hilarious, a lesbian in a Christian-friendly movie, you kill me.”

Just then Iren held up a sign that read, “Let’s really kill him.”

Ray followed by holding up a sign that read, “I got someone who will do it for ten grand.”

Brad returned to his serious tone and continued, “No, just stick to Renee or Nicole Kidman if you can get her. Nicole works for me.”

“You know her and Tom got a divorce?” Stan immediately wondered why he had bothered to mention it.

“Oh, I didn’t know they were married.” Brad was clueless even for a studio executive. “Do you think it presents a problem?”

Stan rested his elbows on his desk and let his head sink into his hands for a moment. The stupidity of the conversation weighed on him like an aircraft carrier. “Problems are meant to be solved, Brad. Anyway, the guys and I are just raring to go on all of this! So we better get cracking.”

“That a boy, Stan!” Brad shouted, apparently infected with Stan’s insincere enthusiasm. “I’d like to see everything in place by the end of the day tomorrow. Can do?”

“Can do Brad. Not a problem,” Stan said, flipping off the phone. “Oh and say hi to that beautiful wife of yours. I’d love to have you both over for dinner soon to celebrate your promotion.”

“We’d love to come over,” Brad gushed, “Binkie is an even bigger fan of your work than I am. When I told her about the promotion, she said I should make working with you on this project my top priority.”

“Well that explains it,” Stan let slip.

“Explains what?” asked Brad.

Iren and Ray looked at Stan hoping for a quick recovery.

“Our good fortune to have you so involved.” Stan beamed with satisfaction toward Iren and Ray as they bowed that they weren’t worthy in front of his desk. Stan put his hand to his ear. “I’ll be right there,” he shouted to nobody off in the distance. “Brad I have to jump, give my love to Binkie…”

“Talk to you tomo…”

Stan hung up the phone before Brad could finish… “That stupid, evangelical bitch wife of yours.”

“You know we have to kill this guy,” Iren said with complete resolve.

“He’s right. I say we kill him,” agreed Ray.

Iren, content that he and Ray were in agreement, turned to Stan. “Casting Tom Cruise and Russell Crowe to play two Jews is almost as ridiculous as casting Michael Jackson to play a babysitter.”

Stan nodded. “That would probably work for Brad.”

“Stop fucking around.” Ray’s voice sounded more exasperated than usual. “If we’re going to kill this guy we need to get serious. We need a good plan.”

“When Brad and that meddling bitch wife of his come over your house for dinner, we could poison them,” Iren suggested earnestly.

Stan shook his head. “We’re not killing anybody you lunatics. I mean, what type of scumbags have we become that we would resort to killing someone to save a movie from turn around…when we could simply resort to blackmail?”

Iren nodded. “Blackmail… I like it.”

“Blackmail is good,” Ray agreed. “ But this guy is straight as a fucking arrow. He’s the perfect family man.”

Stan’s brow rose, as his head tilted forward making him look positively sinister. “Not for long—but let me take care of that. In the meantime, we better cover our asses and do what he wants. Iren, get on the Tom Cruise / Russell Crowe thing. Ray, you get Renee Zellweger or Nicole Kidman. I’ll swing into action on the whole blackmail situation…”

Marle’s voice was once again coming through the intercom. “Hey it’s me. We’re celebrating my one-year anniversary as your secretary out here. You want to stop by or something?”

“Yeah, of course. We’re on our way,” answered Stan feeling satisfied that things were under control.

If you would like to read “In Development” in its entirety it is available at  http://www.indevelopmentthebook.com   http://www.amazon.com  and if you prefer a great store experience I recommend a trip to Metropolis Books, 440 S. Main Street, Downtown Los Angeles (between 4^th and 5^th) 90013. Tell Julie or Steve, Stan sent you! And for all of my beloved Kindle owners, all of my books are available on Kindle, under my name. Read on….

 BREAKFAST AT BOTTEGA LOUIE

 I did not move to Downtown Los Angeles in order to seek adventure nor to help the less privileged, but rather as a small, insignificant dinghy adrift in the sea of life. It’s true that like all writers, although I was a businessman all those years ago, I have had my moments of self-aggrandizement in which I have felt as if I had some special calling in life. I might have even caused a few dozen or so to share in this indulgent maybe even delusional belief. Yet, the reality is fairly simple: I came to live where I have now lived for the last fourteen years because it was inexpensive. Not that it looks inexpensive, rather the converse is in fact the case—I live in the lap of luxury. Indeed it was a once in a lifetime event that imbued such a fortunate circumstance on to me. A golden cage of my own in a thriving part of the city that has on some blocks even surpassed the quality of life that can be found on Ninth Street between Flower and Hope, for this is where I dwell.

            One such block to rise in status midst our prosperous neighborhood would be 7^th Street. It had some grand old days in the grand old days but had spent forty of the last forty years as a shadow of its former greatness. My own mother, may she rest in piece, reminisced about the trolley cars that had transported her and Aunt Louise to shopping excursions at the stores that once towered above the streets. The original Robinson’s headquarters I’m sure was a favorite stop. And just across the street was Brooks Brothers where my dad had bought suits. I know this latter statement to be absolutely true as I wore a hand-me-down from this very store in my senior picture. I didn’t mind at the time, but now wish I had been wearing a fine suit of my own on this occasion.

            With this location, formerly Brooks Brothers, I am inimitably well versed. Because in the days that I sought to build a clothing empire of my own rooted in the value proposition and a familiar sounding name, I toured the premise with the serious intent of turning it into a larger and improved version of my store a block to the north. Why this did not transpire I can no longer recall, but this is easy to forgive as my empire building days left carnage on the streets that would have wowed the Cesar’s—even Caligula, and after praying for much forgiveness some things a man should be allowed to forget.

            For three years the site that was once almost part of my rein of business terror seemed to be under perpetual on and off construction. The floors above were with equal sluggishness being transformed into lofts—part of an adaptive reuse boom that was both revitalizing the city and adding substantially to my net worth, which ironically had been increasing daily for years as I benefited from no merit of my own other than the weakness to live the life of what I think of as the faux rich. Interesting, that a phantom economy turned my faux rich life into a life of semi substance. No doubt in the future I shall lay claim to visionary status when I inevitably decide that humility no longer suits me. Humility? Yes, in substance if not in form I am a humble man. Particular? Yes. But one can be humble and still have an appreciation for the finer things in life. In fact in Los Angeles you can have all of the fine things in life—as I exemplify with little money at all or a fair amount of money that you owe and mean to, but don’t pay back.

            I had been told of a gourmet market to open in this space where my father was once fitted for suits. Dave told me this and since he is gay and in real estate I assumed it to be completely accurate. Because, let’s face it, who can not keep a secret more so than a gay man that tells everyone he is gay. Personally, if I were gay I would tell no one. I mean that would seem to be more fun—especially with respect to the opposite sex. Imagine a black hole of neediness that one could not be sucked into simply by the fact that you appeared to be, but were not part of the same universe. I think that this is the great secret of heterosexual males—all wish to be gay. Not because they are attracted to men, personally I would rather be mauled by a Grizzly Bear, but because like the truth it would set us free—I digress but not really.

            The gourmet market, known as Bottega Louie, when the wrappers came off the windows was a market, a café reminiscent of an indoor piazza, and fine dining establishment with an open kitchen. The white marble that lay beneath my Gucci clad feet exuded the class of a substantive foundation necessary to all great social interactions. The often-played classical music synthesized with the morning light to give me life again as I sipped my cappuccino and because I am a greedy man I had been indulging myself at Bottega, the little store in Italliano, for eight consecutive mornings.

            “Oh grand,” I thought to myself as I read the LA Times front-page story. Funny how members of the establishment react when you say LA Times. A giggle and role of the eyes that have come to symbolize a death watch of sorts. Yes, the once proud paper of the Chandler Era of Los Angeles is now owned by an overleveraged trailer park billionaire. “Is it safe?” asked Zell. “Is what safe?” “I simply want to know if its safe?” asked Zell coming closer. “Yes, its safe.” Let me interrupt one of the greatest scenes in motion picture history and say…ITS NOT SAFE! Men who have adorned themselves with wealth renting out space in trailer park establishments should not purchase newspapers! And they should not be funded by unfunded pension funds silly boys of Wall Street. Although if I could write a risk management algorithm I’d probably move back East and short the market—more unoriginal than you might think. But that would be another story of a Chinese terrorist plot that destroyed the economy of our country. Ugh!

            So the front page made it clear that my disdain for killing unborn babies, my belief that government need not more tax money to waste, and the fact that I served our country with distinction now classified me as a potential right-wing threat. I thought about this for a moment—“true,” I concluded. And contemplated throwing a tea party of my own. “No taxation without representation!” meaning: that elected officials should listen and act with respect for the will of the people—not just be elected and do as they please, please.

            “Excuse me handsome, do you mind if I join you,” said the voice, light and polite with an accent from several nice little towns, but not enough time in any to be weighed down with the reality of their circumstance.

            I lowered my paper, my LA Times, perhaps soon to be as relevant as the tenants of the La Brea Tar Pits. Twenty was all she could have been. So pretty, so small, and a polka dot sundress—in April. Her short brown hair was as playful as her smile. Brown well shaped thighs at eye level gave her otherwise breath of dial soap scented fresh-air a sense of sexuality. This girl was a drink to be had…But I had given up drinking in the morning when the last of the old men from Europe I had grown up with had expired. I looked past her at all of the empty tables. Bottega is busy for lunch and dinner, but not breakfast—because it is what they do best. And isn’t it true brothers and sisters that it is the nature of man to want to believe a lie more than the truth. The best should always go unrewarded in this day, which makes it the imperative for contrarians such as myself to indulge in a breakfast at Bottega Louie.

            “Of course you can join me, but there are plenty of other tables.”

            She sat letting out a sigh of relief. “I didn’t come all the way from Windfield Kansas via Lakeside Montana to the City of Angels to eat by myself.” She poked me in the chest with what I considered to be a very well formed little finger. “You look interesting.”

            “I can just give you money to buy something to eat. You don’t have to sit with me,” I suggested rudely.

            “Oh,” her eyes teared up. “You think I’m that kind of girl. It’s true I probably can’t afford to eat in a fancy place like this, but I think you need me more than I need you…”

            I smiled. “Well, now that we’ve cleared that up—please stay.”

 BREAKFAST AT BOTTEGA LOUIE PART TWO

             “My name is Breeze Goodwilling! But my friends call me Breezey and not because it rhymes with easy….You are?” Her hand jutted out toward me.

            “I’m…”

            “No, don’t tell me. I’m just going to call you Man…Like in that book “Anthem”.”

            Forgetting to let go of her hand I asked the obvious, “You’ve read the least known work of Ayn Rand?”

            “And “The Fountain Head”. And “Atlas Shrugged”.” She snapped the fingers of her left hand, which remained free from my grasp. “I’m not going to call you Man, too seventies street, I’m going to call you Roark, like Howard Roark. But you kind of remind me of Hank Rearden also.” She shrugged and clasped her now free hands in her lap in front of her. Then her face lighted up with a thought. “Because you’re an original thinker like Howard Roark in “The Fountain Head” and you look pretty established like “Hank Rearden” in Atlas Shrugged—I’m going to call you Hank Roark. Do you love it, Roarky?”

            “Yes I do. I’ve always wanted to be an objectivist super hero. But seriously my name is Howard—so let’s stick with that, Breezey.”

            Leaning forward she kissed me on the cheek. “I knew you were a Howard.” She leaned back and crossed her arms across her firm, high with youth chest. “Where are you from Howard? It seems like you’ve traveled the world. You’re so worldly postured. And posture never lies.”

            “I was born in East LA. Went to UCLA. Moved to Downtown LA. And once saw a cock fight and bull fight in the same day—in Tijuana, T.J.”

            She leaned forward. “I knew there was something worldly about you. I’ve always wanted to go to a bull fight…But even though I’m open minded I’ve never watched pornography so I doubt a cock fight would interest me much.”

            “Not that kind of cock fight,” I quipped. “Roosters, they tie razor blades to their little rooster feet and they slash each other to death—then they give them to poor people to eat.”

            “That sounds so brutal, but I’m glad they give them to the poor people. I wish the world wasn’t such a brutal place. Don’t you?”

            I thought of all the men I had shot in Lebanon and other countries to protect the American way of life. Sometimes when not able to shoot them I cut their throats or strangled the life out of them. On one occasion I called in a bombing that destroyed, not only a pesky terrorist type, but an entire apartment building filled with families. Just for the record I allow myself to have no regrets about any of this. I am a third generation American and even though industry may be on the decline I feel a sense of pride in that as a people we can still obliterate all other countries and or their people any old time we want to.

            I nodded. “It would be better if the world wasn’t such a brutal place.”

            Breezey looked me eye to eye. “My Grandfather fought in World War II, so I know the posture of your kind. War is different. Grandpa was the nicest man ever; he used to make me pancakes on Sunday mornings. Did someone make you pancakes on Sunday mornings, Howy?”

            The smell of Sunday morning breakfast wafted through the air giving my early morning chores a sense of urgency to be concluded. “A lifetime ago,” I thought.

            “My mom used to.”

            “She doesn’t anymore?” Breeze asked, with the shock exclusive to those who still suffer from youth.

            “Both my parents are dead,” I said flatly. So cold has my life become that not even the memories of the womb that conceived me nor the hands that built the shelter that allowed my being to flourish into the nothingness of today can warm my shell much.

            “You’re an orphan. You poor thing. Lucky I came along.”

            “What would you like to eat?” I asked, repulsed with myself for not wanting her to leave.

            She looked at me with an incredulous smile, so amused was Breeze. “You decide. You’re the man.”

            The waiter at Bottega Louie that tends to my usually fairly simple needs has an uncanny six-sense for my digestive desires. “Would you like to order Mr. Roark?” asked this server of professional distinction.

            “Could you bring the young lady some coffee, juice, Steel Cut Irish Oatmeal, Smoked Salmon Benedict, and a Belgian Waffle, please.”

            “Yes, sir.”

“How about a report?” I asked myself. “Something of a prelude of things to come.” And just like that the good time I was having made perfect sense—I was in Vegas! So let me start by stating the obvious, business is off in Vegas. The former fastest growing city in America is awash in foreclosures—largely due to Californians who bought houses there speculating that prices would continue to go up. A reservation at Switch, the pricey restaurant at Encore that transforms itself every twenty minutes, was easily had with less than an hour’s notice. Gone are the three-hour waits to get into clubs like Rain. And there’s lots of room at the tables to play. Sounds pretty bad—it’s not.

There are still plenty of people in Vegas, it’s not a ghost town and Saturday nights will make you think it’s still 2007. Frankly, I like the smaller crowds and room prices that have come back to being the good deals that make you want to spend a crazy amount of money on everything else that the casinos have a much better profit margin on. I would warn the casinos to not cut back on staff or service to save money during these hard times. Getting it right now can really make for a customer for life. And what about the crowd at the M on a Sunday night?

M stands for Marnell, and the Marnell family knows something about the gaming business. Anthony Marnell II developed the Rio, which during the ten years he and his son Anthony Marnell III ran the place both innovated and set the bar for Vegas in many ways. The buffet, Club Rio, and Danny Ganz leap to the front of my mind. Now for the sake of full disclosure I produced a big hit called “Night Tribe” at the Rio, but this was sadly long after the Marnell’s had left. And I was lucky enough to try and hold to the standard that they had set as Harrah’s, the new owner, did everything possible to make the Rio into the unremarkable place that it now is.

So, when the Marnell’s opened on Sunday the locals turned out. People do have memories after all, and they wanted to see if the casino run by Anthony III would bring back the magic to the local market that Harrah’s had destroyed. And they turned out and turned out. Apparently, so delicious is the rewards card that they offer, people stood in line hundreds long to get one—I bear witness to this. But of course M is a hotel that knows how to take care of locals.

Now I’m tempted to start telling you more about the place but I was quite serious when I mentioned earlier that the M was just too crowded to get into any kind of depth. To do the hotel justice I plan on going back and really getting into the nooks and crannies. I will tell you this: I like the location. The view of the Las Vegas valley and surrounding hills is one of my favorites. The design of the hotel has a kind of classic 80’s feel with a kind of updated twist that gives it an incredibly open feel that lets in a whole lot of light. The view from the lobby out to the pool is incomparable. And the terrace off of the bar makes equally good use of this feature. And I did have a bite in the café. The quality of the food is there. Suffice it to say I’m really looking forward to my next post on this 400 room destine to be a success of a hotel and casino.