"Tell me," said Galosh/Zintarus, after thinking for a good long while. "Tell me straight. Do you have any money? I need money."
"I sold my farm before I moved here."
"You sold your farm. Beautiful! And you put half in a suitcase? Hundred-dollar bills?"
"Just like you said."
"I'll meet you," said Galosh/Zintarus. "But it'll cost you. My services don't come cheap. Every second I'm away from this phone is a potential disaster on a scale you cannot begin to comprehend. Missing this call has far-reaching karmic implications. This is an interstellar hotline, my friend, and I am expected to answer."
"What are we talking here?"
"I have a one-grand callout fee. That buys you an hour of one-on-one tuition. Then it's five hundred for every hour after that. For that you get class-A advice. I'll make you the writer you want to be. And if you sell a script...I'll want twenty-five percent of any proceeds. And you get the money up front every time, or, and this I swear by the Many-Tentacled Space Jesus, I'll strangle you to death with my bare hands. I'm an old man but I'm not too old to strangle a back-end schmuck."
It sounded fair. It sounded like the Joe Galosh I'd grown to admire, reading by the strange blue-green light of all that crusty old gay porn.
6.30.2008
6.28.2008
Joe Galosh Is Different Nowadays
First there was a click, then the sound of breathing. Fast, panicked breathing. "Yes? It's ready? I go now?"
"Excuse me," I said. "It sounds like I've called at a bad time. Is this Mister Galosh?"
"Great Jesus," he whispered. "Who is this? How did you find me? Who gave you this number?"
"It's in the book. There's only one J. Galosh."
"Of course," he said. "Of course, the book. All those little numbers. Number sequences are brain poison, they give me night terrors like you wouldn't believe. Spiraling fever dreams. Sixes are the enemy. Sevens, not so bad, but in those dreams you never get sevens. Eights are endless loops of crazy, zeros are oases of perfect calm, but again, you never get zeros."
"I'm sorry to hear that," I said. "Are you Joe Galosh? The writer?"
He wasn't all that interested in my side of the conversation. I get that sometimes. "Remember that number song on Sesame Street? Onetwothreefourfive, sixseveneightnineten, eleven twelve. I first heard that at the height of a three-day wide-spectrum bender in the summer of '87 and it became the soundtrack to my every waking thought until '95, when I met a doctor who specialized in that kind of thing. The doctor used a deprogramming technique he learned in the CIA. It involved dangling my balls in alternate baths of hot and cold water."
"The trick with the balls!"
"Yes," he said. "That's exactly what he called it. So you're a spook. This is new."
"I'm a writer."
"Great Jesus. Another spook writer. You guys have ruined Hollywood, you know that? You have it all tied up. You and the Freemasons. Why are you calling me, spook writer? At this hour?" It was four o'clock in the afternoon. "I need this line free. I'm expecting a call."
"Please...is this Joe Galosh? Do I have the right number?"
"The call I'm expecting is very important. Not just for me."
"Joe Galosh," I begged. "Joe Galosh. Author of Selling Stories For Cash. I'm just looking for Joe Galosh."
"For all humanity, this call. Vitally important."
"Published 1985. Selling Stories For Cash. Joe Galosh also wrote Under All That Weather, His Besmirching Love, and possibly Jurassic Park."
"JURASSIC PARK!" That seemed to grab his attention. "Jurassic Park. Yes, you could say I knew the man who wrote Jurassic Park. Back then, it was called Full-On Dinosaur Frenzy. It was a different movie. A very different movie." He grew wistful.
"I thought it was based on a book."
"No." But it was. It was based on a book by Michael Crichton. The book was called Jurassic Park. "No, it wasn't. Full-On Dinosaur Frenzy came first. George Lucas wanted to make it. But Spielberg read the script and said it stank. But it didn't stink, spook writer. It was sublime. It was channeled, not written. But it was too daring. The world just wasn't ready for dinosaur sex. Spielberg took it and dumbed the whole thing down. Gutted it. Bought the rights to some schmuck's book just so as he could use the name. And instead of paying Joe Galosh the money he deserved...they blackballed him. Now they say it doesn't happen, the blackballing. But it happens. There's a blackballing system at play. It's managed by Freemasons and Jews."
"Freemasons and Jews?"
"Oh yes. They don't often work together. But when they do...dynamite, my friend. But then you know that, don't you, Langley boy?"
"I'm not with the government." Or maybe I was. Sometimes it was hard to know. "And hold on--I'm pretty sure that Selling Stories For Cash was dedicated to all the children of Israel."
"It was. I don't mind the kids. The kids are okay. I...I mean, Joe Galosh...was hoping to win a few over."
"Ah. Listen, I, I just wanted to talk to Joe Galosh. Maybe meet him, buy him lunch. People buy people lunch here, right? I'm new in town, a writer, and his book was a great source of inspiration to me."
Silence on the other end of the line. A full count of ten. Then a long sigh. "The man you're looking for is gone."
"He's dead?"
"Not dead, but gone all the same. Transformed, transposed, transmuted, transpired, transformed, trans everything."
"Oh." It all became clear. Joe Galosh wrote women so well. "He's a woman now."
"Not transsexual, you schmuck. Trans everything but that."
"Will you meet me, Mister Galosh?"
"Buck Zintarus. My name is Buck Zintarus. Galosh was my father's name. Never watched the show. Not once. You know it got picked up for a second season, right? That almost never happened! But it wasn't good enough for Marty Galosh, no sir. And when they passed on the third, there he was, smiling his big fat I told you so smile. Writing plays was for goddamn faeries and chumps and schmucks and he made sure I knew it."
"Oh, okay. Buck."
"Zintarus. Just Zintarus. Where I'm from, Buck is, uh, a prefix. Like Mister. You're not the kind of guy who goes around calling people Mister, are you? That would be rude."
Of course not. That would be rude. "No sir."
"Excuse me," I said. "It sounds like I've called at a bad time. Is this Mister Galosh?"
"Great Jesus," he whispered. "Who is this? How did you find me? Who gave you this number?"
"It's in the book. There's only one J. Galosh."
"Of course," he said. "Of course, the book. All those little numbers. Number sequences are brain poison, they give me night terrors like you wouldn't believe. Spiraling fever dreams. Sixes are the enemy. Sevens, not so bad, but in those dreams you never get sevens. Eights are endless loops of crazy, zeros are oases of perfect calm, but again, you never get zeros."
"I'm sorry to hear that," I said. "Are you Joe Galosh? The writer?"
He wasn't all that interested in my side of the conversation. I get that sometimes. "Remember that number song on Sesame Street? Onetwothreefourfive, sixseveneightnineten, eleven twelve. I first heard that at the height of a three-day wide-spectrum bender in the summer of '87 and it became the soundtrack to my every waking thought until '95, when I met a doctor who specialized in that kind of thing. The doctor used a deprogramming technique he learned in the CIA. It involved dangling my balls in alternate baths of hot and cold water."
"The trick with the balls!"
"Yes," he said. "That's exactly what he called it. So you're a spook. This is new."
"I'm a writer."
"Great Jesus. Another spook writer. You guys have ruined Hollywood, you know that? You have it all tied up. You and the Freemasons. Why are you calling me, spook writer? At this hour?" It was four o'clock in the afternoon. "I need this line free. I'm expecting a call."
"Please...is this Joe Galosh? Do I have the right number?"
"The call I'm expecting is very important. Not just for me."
"Joe Galosh," I begged. "Joe Galosh. Author of Selling Stories For Cash. I'm just looking for Joe Galosh."
"For all humanity, this call. Vitally important."
"Published 1985. Selling Stories For Cash. Joe Galosh also wrote Under All That Weather, His Besmirching Love, and possibly Jurassic Park."
"JURASSIC PARK!" That seemed to grab his attention. "Jurassic Park. Yes, you could say I knew the man who wrote Jurassic Park. Back then, it was called Full-On Dinosaur Frenzy. It was a different movie. A very different movie." He grew wistful.
"I thought it was based on a book."
"No." But it was. It was based on a book by Michael Crichton. The book was called Jurassic Park. "No, it wasn't. Full-On Dinosaur Frenzy came first. George Lucas wanted to make it. But Spielberg read the script and said it stank. But it didn't stink, spook writer. It was sublime. It was channeled, not written. But it was too daring. The world just wasn't ready for dinosaur sex. Spielberg took it and dumbed the whole thing down. Gutted it. Bought the rights to some schmuck's book just so as he could use the name. And instead of paying Joe Galosh the money he deserved...they blackballed him. Now they say it doesn't happen, the blackballing. But it happens. There's a blackballing system at play. It's managed by Freemasons and Jews."
"Freemasons and Jews?"
"Oh yes. They don't often work together. But when they do...dynamite, my friend. But then you know that, don't you, Langley boy?"
"I'm not with the government." Or maybe I was. Sometimes it was hard to know. "And hold on--I'm pretty sure that Selling Stories For Cash was dedicated to all the children of Israel."
"It was. I don't mind the kids. The kids are okay. I...I mean, Joe Galosh...was hoping to win a few over."
"Ah. Listen, I, I just wanted to talk to Joe Galosh. Maybe meet him, buy him lunch. People buy people lunch here, right? I'm new in town, a writer, and his book was a great source of inspiration to me."
Silence on the other end of the line. A full count of ten. Then a long sigh. "The man you're looking for is gone."
"He's dead?"
"Not dead, but gone all the same. Transformed, transposed, transmuted, transpired, transformed, trans everything."
"Oh." It all became clear. Joe Galosh wrote women so well. "He's a woman now."
"Not transsexual, you schmuck. Trans everything but that."
"Will you meet me, Mister Galosh?"
"Buck Zintarus. My name is Buck Zintarus. Galosh was my father's name. Never watched the show. Not once. You know it got picked up for a second season, right? That almost never happened! But it wasn't good enough for Marty Galosh, no sir. And when they passed on the third, there he was, smiling his big fat I told you so smile. Writing plays was for goddamn faeries and chumps and schmucks and he made sure I knew it."
"Oh, okay. Buck."
"Zintarus. Just Zintarus. Where I'm from, Buck is, uh, a prefix. Like Mister. You're not the kind of guy who goes around calling people Mister, are you? That would be rude."
Of course not. That would be rude. "No sir."
6.25.2008
Benny-K
I asked my neighbor Benny-K if I could use his phonebook to look up Joe Galosh. Sure, he said.
Benny's a skinny old guy who seems to wear the same loose black stuff all the time--black sweater, black pants, black socks, black shoes, black Casio watch, black scarf. He must dye his hair black every day; it's the most unhealthy, unreflective shade of black you've ever seen. No human shade, this. It's like looking at the the inside of a coalshed on a moonless night, only it's spread over this old guy's head (and eyebrows). (When I met Benny-K for the first time I asked him (respectfully) who he was mourning and he said, "a pretty girl in the background of a movie I saw when I was eleven." He didn't elaborate. "I don't elaborate," he says. "Nobody understands.")
So Benny goes into his little black apartment and brings out his phonebook, which is in bits. It's a well-used phonebook. A mature phonebook, with the front cover hanging off, and the corners all dog-eared. I was impressed by this: most people these days don't use phonebooks; they use the internet. It's more convenient and it doesn't take up as much room. If you want to look up a specific thing, you use the internet. Like a lot of old guys, Joe Galosh doesn't show up on the internet (just on this blog) so the phonebook is the only option. Benny's phonebook is all worn out. He's drawn little faces beside all the women's names right up to the letter R. Sad faces, mainly, with the occasional smiley devil face.
He says the smiley devil face means that if you call that woman up, she might be willing to talk dirty.
Benny's a skinny old guy who seems to wear the same loose black stuff all the time--black sweater, black pants, black socks, black shoes, black Casio watch, black scarf. He must dye his hair black every day; it's the most unhealthy, unreflective shade of black you've ever seen. No human shade, this. It's like looking at the the inside of a coalshed on a moonless night, only it's spread over this old guy's head (and eyebrows). (When I met Benny-K for the first time I asked him (respectfully) who he was mourning and he said, "a pretty girl in the background of a movie I saw when I was eleven." He didn't elaborate. "I don't elaborate," he says. "Nobody understands.")
So Benny goes into his little black apartment and brings out his phonebook, which is in bits. It's a well-used phonebook. A mature phonebook, with the front cover hanging off, and the corners all dog-eared. I was impressed by this: most people these days don't use phonebooks; they use the internet. It's more convenient and it doesn't take up as much room. If you want to look up a specific thing, you use the internet. Like a lot of old guys, Joe Galosh doesn't show up on the internet (just on this blog) so the phonebook is the only option. Benny's phonebook is all worn out. He's drawn little faces beside all the women's names right up to the letter R. Sad faces, mainly, with the occasional smiley devil face.
He says the smiley devil face means that if you call that woman up, she might be willing to talk dirty.
6.24.2008
The Road To Hollywood
Hello world!
I guess you're wondering where I've been.
Well, a whole lot has changed since I last had an internet connection. We had that storm back home--it more or less ripped up the whole house and in doing so unearthed all the dirty books that Uncle had stashed in the walls, sending pictures of buff sailors and soulful-looking firemen flying all over the property. It also left me homeless.
I was sleeping in a tent beside the remains of the house for a few weeks there, and let me tell you: sleeping in a tent beside the remains of a house is not a long-term survival solution. My back was always aching (even though I was sleeping on a mattress of super-soft Manitary Towels), I was cold, and I was troubled at night by dogs. Harrowed by dogs.
I didn't have much to do in the tent. I was living off the land, a diet of mainly tubers and shoots. When I wasn't looking for tubers or shoots or staving off the dogs I was reading and re-reading the few books that survived the storm. I would gather Uncle's magazines from the fields and ditches to make a fire, and I would spend my nights reading by the light of engorged 1970's penises. I had a cookbook, a self-help book about owning and cultivating your vital essence, a book on scriptwriting by the guy who wrote a critically-acclaimed sitcom called Under All That Weather that ran for two seasons in 1964-65, and an old fantasy paperback called When The Bloodwinds Blow Again (sequel to the far superior When The Bloodwinds Blow, which was sadly lost in the storm.)
The scriptwriting book soon became my favorite. There was a chapter on pitching a story that talked about all the important points--how to dress, the best place to get a shoe shine, how to talk clearly to get your points across, how you should masturbate twenty-five minutes before the meeting so as not to seem too eager, the disorder to fake in order to get a prescription for amphetamines, etc. Anyway--I was reading this chapter (burning my way through six crinkled, love-encrusted copies of Ass Monthly) what should blow into the tent but THE TATTERED COVER PAGE FOR MY ZOMBIE JESUS SCREENPLAY, FISHER OF BRAINS!
It was a sign.
Joe Galosh (writer of Under All That Weather, His Besmirching Love, Selling Stories For Cash and apparently an early treatment of Jurassic Park) wanted me to head West (and slightly South). He wanted me to follow in his footsteps. It's like he says in the book: once you have some kind of a story, all you need is a rich schmuck producer. You present yourself right, you keep yourself sharp but not too eager, you'll get your rich schmuck producer sooner or later. And remember--that talk of back-end pay is for schmucks and George goddamn too-good-to take-your-calls Lucas. You're neither, so get the money up front.
He says schmuck a lot, Joe Galosh. His book is padded out with scripts for all the episodes of Under All That Weather, and the people in that say schmuck a lot too. He also makes numerous allusions to George Lucas and how he's not taking his calls. Also Spielberg.
So I did it. I sold the land to our neighbor (the good people of the Tast-E-Feed corn syrup consortium.) I put half the money in a suitcase--more sage advice from Joe Galosh. I packed my tent and books and a bundle of nutritious tubers and I got on the next bus heading for a place where I might catch a bus that would take me to a bigger place where I could catch the bus for Los Angeles. Yes--I was going to Hollywood!
And here I am in LA with nothing but the clothes on my back and an astonishing aptitude for plot and characterization (also: a bundle of money, a new computer and an unsecured wireless network called 'default' in the apartment above). The place is okay but not very big, or clean, or secure, or close to any of the studios, or close to any of the places where other writers like to hang out. On the upside, it's not a tent, so I don't have to worry about the dogs and their endless circling.
Tomorrow I track down my mentor, my savior, my earthbound Christ, Joe Galosh.
I guess you're wondering where I've been.
Well, a whole lot has changed since I last had an internet connection. We had that storm back home--it more or less ripped up the whole house and in doing so unearthed all the dirty books that Uncle had stashed in the walls, sending pictures of buff sailors and soulful-looking firemen flying all over the property. It also left me homeless.
I was sleeping in a tent beside the remains of the house for a few weeks there, and let me tell you: sleeping in a tent beside the remains of a house is not a long-term survival solution. My back was always aching (even though I was sleeping on a mattress of super-soft Manitary Towels), I was cold, and I was troubled at night by dogs. Harrowed by dogs.
I didn't have much to do in the tent. I was living off the land, a diet of mainly tubers and shoots. When I wasn't looking for tubers or shoots or staving off the dogs I was reading and re-reading the few books that survived the storm. I would gather Uncle's magazines from the fields and ditches to make a fire, and I would spend my nights reading by the light of engorged 1970's penises. I had a cookbook, a self-help book about owning and cultivating your vital essence, a book on scriptwriting by the guy who wrote a critically-acclaimed sitcom called Under All That Weather that ran for two seasons in 1964-65, and an old fantasy paperback called When The Bloodwinds Blow Again (sequel to the far superior When The Bloodwinds Blow, which was sadly lost in the storm.)
The scriptwriting book soon became my favorite. There was a chapter on pitching a story that talked about all the important points--how to dress, the best place to get a shoe shine, how to talk clearly to get your points across, how you should masturbate twenty-five minutes before the meeting so as not to seem too eager, the disorder to fake in order to get a prescription for amphetamines, etc. Anyway--I was reading this chapter (burning my way through six crinkled, love-encrusted copies of Ass Monthly) what should blow into the tent but THE TATTERED COVER PAGE FOR MY ZOMBIE JESUS SCREENPLAY, FISHER OF BRAINS!
It was a sign.
Joe Galosh (writer of Under All That Weather, His Besmirching Love, Selling Stories For Cash and apparently an early treatment of Jurassic Park) wanted me to head West (and slightly South). He wanted me to follow in his footsteps. It's like he says in the book: once you have some kind of a story, all you need is a rich schmuck producer. You present yourself right, you keep yourself sharp but not too eager, you'll get your rich schmuck producer sooner or later. And remember--that talk of back-end pay is for schmucks and George goddamn too-good-to take-your-calls Lucas. You're neither, so get the money up front.
He says schmuck a lot, Joe Galosh. His book is padded out with scripts for all the episodes of Under All That Weather, and the people in that say schmuck a lot too. He also makes numerous allusions to George Lucas and how he's not taking his calls. Also Spielberg.
So I did it. I sold the land to our neighbor (the good people of the Tast-E-Feed corn syrup consortium.) I put half the money in a suitcase--more sage advice from Joe Galosh. I packed my tent and books and a bundle of nutritious tubers and I got on the next bus heading for a place where I might catch a bus that would take me to a bigger place where I could catch the bus for Los Angeles. Yes--I was going to Hollywood!
And here I am in LA with nothing but the clothes on my back and an astonishing aptitude for plot and characterization (also: a bundle of money, a new computer and an unsecured wireless network called 'default' in the apartment above). The place is okay but not very big, or clean, or secure, or close to any of the studios, or close to any of the places where other writers like to hang out. On the upside, it's not a tent, so I don't have to worry about the dogs and their endless circling.
Tomorrow I track down my mentor, my savior, my earthbound Christ, Joe Galosh.
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