I received a business card.
I was at the premiere for The Descendants and a man in a pink shirt bumped into me. Hard. Oh god I’m sorry, I said. He didn’t apologize, didn’t walk on—he was staring at me. Then I really looked at him; wrinkled pink dress shirt, beard, food in his teeth. In retrospect, I think he had food in his pockets. Movie premieres, and this one in particular, have pretty heavy security, so I thought at worst this guy was just pickled and made eccentric by enormous, casual wealth. Who knows anymore.
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Being in L.A. at the moment, I read with interest this list at the Daily Beast titled The Five Best Novels on Hollywood. (Also, happy Oscar weekend! Turns out this is a big deal out here…) I like Day of the Locust and The Last Tycoon but I’m mezzo-mezzo on Play It As It Lays and The Player (admittedly it’s been a long time since I read either). The only one I haven’t read is Children of Light by Robert Stone. Anyway, I’d argue that two masterpieces are very, very missing from the list.