RPS/RPF - Something to Talk About, Part I (RPS, George Clooney/Anderson Cooper, PG)
So, this has been percolating for a while. I'd thought it was going to be shorter, but I'm not in charge when I'm around these guys. Happy early birthday, ethrosdemon. Don't say I never gave you anything.
RPF/RPS/Entourage/CRACK!
You don't have to have read Make Sure They See My Face to understand this, but it probably helps.
hackthis Productions Present:
Something to Talk About
featuring George Clooney
Ari Gold
Don Cheadle
Ryan Gosling
Shia LaBeouf
and Anderson Cooper
With Matt Damon. And some other folks.
It all starts with the gift basket George Clooney finds on his doorstep one morning. Why does it start there? Well, because it does.
Judging by the very large voodoo doll with Brad Pitt's face on it and the fifty pins stuck in the doll's nether regions with little tags like 'Sterility', 'Crabs', 'Impotence' and 'Whiskey Dick' taped on them, someone in George's life is concerned that George is upset about Brad knocking up Angie Jolie again, but George isn't upset.
He's not anything at all.
It helps that this basket has George's agent, Ari Gold, written all over it. Literally. At least someone still thinks George is worth fighting for, which is a great comfort, because when George bends down to pick up the basket, his back does this twinging thing (thanks Syriana, for all those good times) and then he can't stand back up.
George isn't real old, but apparently he's getting kind of old, which sucks. This is a perfect time for George to have a seat in his doorway for a bit. It's a nice day, the birds are singing, and according to his Crackberry, Matt Damon is calling.
"It my favorite Baby Daddy," George offers by way of greeting. He smiles at Matt's derisive snort.
"I'm feeling a lot of love coming my way," Matt says in a droll tone.
"I'm old and my back just gave out," George says matter-of-factly. "I have love for anybody who's not me at the moment."
"Jesus Christ, do you want me to call Ari?"
George exhales. "I don't think so, but what does it say about me that my emergency contact is my agent?"
Matt doesn't miss a beat. "It says that you're smart, because if your emergency contact was someone like me you'd be dead."
"I told you not to move to Miami," George complains. "What does Miami have that you can't get in L.A., besides gorgeous beaches, 1000% humidity and Little Havana?"
Matt says something about wives and children, but George is mostly thinking about drugs. In particular, he wonders how many Vicodin are left in the bathroom from his last work-related incident. Why is the bathroom so far away anyway?
"Seriously, are you okay?" Matt's concern is touching, and for a moment, George thinks about how good life was for the three seconds that they were dating. He can't remember why it didn't work out with he and Matty. Oh, because Matt wanted kids too. Why doesn't anyone just want a dog these days? Or a nice pot-bellied pig?
"Why couldn't we just get a dog?" George asks after a moment.
Matt is understandably confused, but he rallies admirably. "Because dogs shed all over the floor and you didn't want to have to take it for a walk three times a day. Did you hit your head when your body started its revolution?"
"No, I was just wondering about us." George isn't maudlin. He's contemplative. There's a big difference.
Matt exhales loudly. "Okay, I'm calling Don, you're acting weirder than normal. Did Lloyd switch your coffee again?"
"No, don’t do that, Don'll actually worry or something. Call someone else. Call-"
"Shia." Matt finishes. "I'll call your kid, and you two can commiserate over how much men suck."
It's George's turn to snort. "You can leave the kid out of it. I'm not suicidal just yet. At least not while they still make Xanax and Anderson Cooper's on CNN."
George can just see Matt shaking his head 3000 miles away.
"Speaking of Anderson," Matt segues seamlessly.
George cuts him off. They've already had this conversation. George has, in fact, had this conversation with everyone from his personal assistant to his driver to his mom. His mom loves Anderson. "Did you see Milo leaving Shia to run off with the jailbait coming?" George interrupts. "Because I didn't."
"Milo's an idiot." Matt's tone is mild, but George can feel the irritation. Or maybe that's just him. George hates it when people screw up a good thing out of fear; he's been there before. It's aggravating, and it makes something flare in his back. Oh wait, no; that's just his spine clearing itself up.
"Okay, I'm better now," he says, getting to his feet slowly.
"You sure?" Matt is the worrier; it's what he does.
George uses the doorframe as support and takes a deep breath to make sure he's actually as good as he's now pretending he is. He kicks at the basket, causing something inside to clank loudly, probably wine. He pushes at the basket with his foot, banging it over the doorstop and sliding it along the floor into the house. "Yeah, I'm sure. Go play with your blob, I'll call you later about Night Crimes. That's why you called, right?
"Right," Matt says belatedly. "Yeah."
"Good, because if you were calling to talk about babies, I'd have to see about getting you sterilized."
"You’re a harsh godfather, Clooney."
George snorts. "So I've heard."
Once upon a time George Clooney was a single B-List star on a primetime TV show, and then he left ER and started working in feature films. For a while George dated an underwear model, but that didn't really work out so well, because Mark Wahlberg was just a little too unrefined. So, George broke it off with Mark and began seeing Brad Pitt, and it was a good life.
When Brad got married, George didn't mind. In fact, that made things even better, because George had a married boyfriend, who he could make lots of movies with and have lots of really hot, filthy sex, and then send him home to someone else. And then Brad and George picked Matt Damon to be their third, and that was okay too. George adored Matt -- he adores Matty. Plus, Brad was a lot for George and Jen to handle on their own. And things were great. George had Matt and Brad, and Ari to wipe his ass, and maybe he got greedy. Maybe George got too complacent, because he woke up one morning and Brad had left him for Mother Theresa 2.0, and then the next day Matt had run off with an Argentinean bartender, and George was on his own for the first time in a long time. It's been a steep learning curve.
Actually, the story doesn't start with the gift basket on George's front doorstep; it starts with George standing in his backyard on a balmy Friday afternoon, making hamburgers for the stars of his next directorial adventure, Night Crimes.
See, the thing is, George makes movies. Yes, that's sometimes obscured other things, like being People's Sexiest Man Alive for two nonconsecutive years, but George didn't know that job came with a scepter, a crown and a sash. There was a nice novelty factor attached to that job, but it didn't make him happy. Amused, yes; happy, not so much so.
Movies make George happy.
George doesn't need expensive cars and clothes and fancy homes or fifteen hundred ankle-biters drooling on his furniture to give him a purpose. Making movies about things that are important gives George purpose. Making a movie about the crisis in Darfur is George's purpose in life right now. He's already done his documentary, but that's just not enough. He and Don Cheadle have traveled the world trying to tell people what the hell is going on, but nobody's listening. Nobody cares.
That's always the problem. Nothing is ever enough.
Nobody ever cares enough.
"Hey, dad!" Shia LaBeouf's hollering is more than enough to jar George out of his reverie. Dad? Dad?! "Stop thinking about the fifty ways to castrate my ex and make sure you're not burning the food."
George scowls at his newest protégé even as he double checks to make sure the hamburgers aren't burned. They're a little crispy, but Shia will live. As will Don and Ryan Gosling.
George takes this set of burgers off of the grill and drops on four more, raising an eyebrow as Shia wanders out of the kitchen and onto the patio with a large glass of something brown in his hand.
"Short Stuff, are you supposed to be drinking that much in AA?" George asks, right before he snatches the glass out of Shia's hand and downs it in one.
"It's for the role!" Shia protests, trying to get his glass back. "You said my guy gets a drinking problem from all the war trauma! I need to see what that's like." George is much taller than Shia. It's just mean of him to hold the glass out of Shia's reach. Yes, George is a mean dad.
"It's method acting!" Shia makes another jump for his glass. "Viggo would approve."
"Yeah, but Viggo's not coming along on this ride, so you know, be careful with that," George warns, ignoring the laughter coming from somewhere behind Shia.
"You know, for a confirmed bachelor, you sure sound like a parent," Don Cheadle mocks from the doorway.
"Like I would wipe Shia's snotty nose," George gripes, winking at his pseudo-son. "You make a kid gay one time, and suddenly you're responsible for bailing him out of jail and paying his way through college. I'm telling you, I don't know how you do it, Don."
Don laughs, taking a long drag of the beer in his hand before he drops down on a stool near the grill. "You know, you keep protesting this much and I'm going to have to make a call to Ari."
"It's for his own good," George explains. "He's too young to appreciate alcohol that good; his palate isn't developed enough. It's better left to the old folks."
"Does an old soul count for the old folks?" another person calls from the doorway. George's mouth twists into a smirk as Ryan Gosling slumps against kitchen doorframe and toasts him with a large glass in one hand and bottle of whiskey in the other.
"That whiskey is as old as you are," Don answers, "so, show it some respect."
"Sir, yes, sir," Ryan mock salutes, crossing the patio to drop onto a stool besides Don.
George hasn't spent a great deal of time around Ryan Gosling just yet, but George is a big fan of his work, and that roundtable they did a few weeks ago was hysterical. Well, except for that part where Ryan turned out to be a fan of Angie. George thought he was going to have a rage blackout after that revelation, but for the most part everything is good.
Plus, Don and Ryan go back and Don and George go way back, so if Ryan turns out to be a self-important, navel gazing asshole… yeah, he won't be that different from anybody else George has worked with.
"Are you gonna feed us, or are you gonna spend all day thinking about the Hell Spawn?" Shia pipes up. George blindly reaches out and manages to smack Shia in the back of his head.
"Stop giving me an ulcer and bring the rest of Ari's basket out here." George smiles broadly as Shia trots back into the house with a maximum amount of bitching and grumbling.
Oh crap, maybe he really is becoming a parent.
Theoretically, as director, George can call up his cast and tell them how to high to jump whenever he wants, or in this case, how much to drink. George really didn't need to be left alone with the Sedation Basket Ari sent him; today's male bonding is just the proverbial icing on the cake.
"George, are you real hungry?"
George blinks up at Don. "Why? I could be. Are you watching your girlish figure?"
"Nah, but you made, like, sixteen hamburgers, so I'm wondering if Brad's bringing over the Rainbow Tribe too."
George looks at Don and then down at the grill in consternation. He can only shake his head. He hates Brad sometimes. "You know how I like to over-prepare," he offers wryly.
"So, you're not mad at Brad's super sperm or anything?"
George raises an eyebrow at Don, cutting a glance to Ryan. "Family business in front of the kids, Don?"
"Would you feel happier if I put Matt on speakerphone and we staged another intervention?"
George ponders this for a moment. "Maybe."
"Where do you want this?" Shia asks, waddling through the door holding the basket up for George's approval.
"Over Brad Pitt's head in little pieces," Ryan assesses perfectly.
George nods. "Yeah, pretty much."
Don just chuckles. "You sure you don't want Anderson's number again? It's not like you two don't have a lot in common. At least talk to him about the movie."
"You guys need to just bury that horse. Just because two men are gay doesn't mean they should sleep together," George gripes.
"That's not what you told me and Milo," Shia protests.
George snorts. "Yeah, but don't tell Ari that."
Once upon another time, George arranged for Viggo Mortensen to direct a movie in Canada. The movie was called The Frayed Edge and it starred Shia LaBeouf, Milo Ventimiglia, John Barrowman and Kerry Washington. It was a good movie. And it won an award or two.
During the filming, Brad and Angie had some problems and Brad tried to skulk back into George's life -- but for a change, George wasn't interested. Everyone's got a breaking point. It turns out four kids is George's breaking point.
George is single for a lot of reasons, but mostly because it's so much fucking easier than putting up with someone else's shit. Other people are stupid and callous and vote for the wrong candidate in the primaries. Other people want to bring children into a world that sucks and is already full to the brim with kids who are being neglected, exploited and ignored. The world is full of children who need a home and you don’t even have to go to another continent to find them. You can walk down the street or call the county. If Brad really gave a good goddamn, he could go to the Riverside SPCA and adopt a fucking dog or six. But no, Brad didn't want to do that. He wanted to go off with the magic vagina and ruin the best thing George ever had. Fine.
Fuck Brad Pitt.
Night Crimes isn't a happy movie. It's a war movie. It's a thinking movie. Night Crimes is about the things that people do when the sun goes down that they don't dare to do in the daylight. It's about the things that desperate people will do in the light of day when they just don't care anymore.
Or as George's agent, Ari Gold likes to call it, "It's that fucking depressing, sad-ass Oscar bitch that's going to buy me another five years of marriage and another ten years running this pile of shit town."
Rather shockingly, Ari is excited about Night Crimes -- or maybe he's just excited at the lack of Viggo Mortensen-directed, Canadian gay romances. George hasn't mentioned the part about how badly he and Don want to go to the Sudan to shoot some rogue footage for the movie, but he thinks he'll mention that to Ari later. Probably after they come back.
Ari would have a stroke in the middle of Miller Gold if he found out George was taking Don, Ryan and Shia to Darfur.
"And then you can have live footage."
George stops messing with the Aquaman paperweight on Ari's desk and looks up sharply. Ari's sitting in front of him with a huge grin on his face and his fingers steepled together. George knows that grin; it's been responsible for the downfall of small countries, large studios and more than one previously unsinkable A-lister.
Never cross a short Jewish man with a bad temper.
"Who can have live footage of what?" George asks a bit slowly. He can feel Ari leading him somewhere, he's just not sure where, and only a fool would follow Ari blindly into the raging fires of hell.
"G Money, baby, here I am offering you the chance of a lifetime and you're playing coy." George just raises an eyebrow. "I hope you're not going to play this hard to get with Anderson."
"Anderson?" George parrots blankly.
Ari sighs and rubs his head. "Did you finish that whole basket by yourself? You were supposed to liquor up Don so he'll sign with me finally! What the shit, George?! I know you've been putting whiskey in your coffee, again; it's the only reason for you to be acting like Amy Wino."
George rolls his eyes. "No, Ari. Unlike our child, I'm not in AA."
"WHAT?!" George takes a step back as Ari's chair crashes against the glass floor-to-ceiling wall when he jumps up suddenly.
George has seen Ari upset before. He's seen Ari trash entire hotel rooms and terrorize dozens of agency employees with one glare. Ari once caused an agent from CAA to have a stroke to the middle of contract negotiations, but by the look of utter horror on Ari's face right now, he might be the one about to have a stroke. George winces. Why does he always have to be the one to break the bad news to Ari?
"Shia. AA." George offers up succinctly. "You have seen the photos, right?"
Ari closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Yes, I have seen them; they were part of the deal with Walgreens. I thought you meant there was a real problem. DON'T FUCKING YANK MY BALLS LIKE THAT, GEORGE!"
It's George's turn to be irritated. "Well, it might've fucking helped if you told me," he snaps when Ari looks at him. "He said it was for his Night Crimes role, I was worried."
Ari shakes his head and laughs. "You didn't want to have a kid with the Ass Bandit, but you've got one anyway."
George Clooney does not sulk, he does on occasion scowl and act displeased. "Fuck you, Ari."
"I'd like to give it to you," Ari says, turning slightly to wriggle his ass in George's face, "but the missus would never forgive me. How about you fuck Anderson, and we call it even?"
It's George's turn to be perturbed. "You keep talking about Anderson, do you mean Anderson Cooper?"
Ari looks pained. "Did you get hit by the Alzheimer's Bus at the valet? Did you hear anything I said earlier?"
"No."
Ari sighs loudly. "George, baby, why do you do me like this? You've got to stop thinking about Brad's limp dick and start aiming higher than the kiddie pool. Anderson Cooper is New York royalty, and apparently, he likes it on his back and hard."
"Not this again," George groans.
But Ari is on a tear. "Manhattan's Favorite Shirt-Lifter has agreed to shoot some footage for Night Crimes the next time he goes to the Sudan, if you'll have dinner with him."
George blinks. "Oh, okay."
It's Ari's turn to blink owlishly. "Really?"
"If it'll help the movie, then I'll do it."
Ari doesn't need to know about George's own trip to Darfur agenda. George can leave that for later.
Ari smiles broadly and pumps his fist in the air. "That's what I'm talking about! Today we win an Oscar, and tomorrow, you and Coop can be America's Favorite Fudge Packers!"
George rolls his eyes. "Don’t put the cart before the horse, Ari."
Katherine Hepburn once said that she didn't think men and women should live together, that it was clearly better for them to live next door and visit on occasion. George agrees. Men and women, men and men, women and women. The world would be a lot better if everybody got to have their own space all the time.
Brad didn't agree, but Brad sucks.
It's a little before three o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon when George walks through the door of Katsu-ya in Studio City. George prefers to conduct his business when everyone else is at work and the stalkerazzi aren't expecting him to be having furtive lunch dates. Not that this meeting is a lunch date, it's work, and that's why they're having lunch and not dinner. George doesn't want anyone to get the wrong idea, least of all Anderson. This is obviously why George pauses in the doorway when he sees Anderson sitting in the back corner of the restaurant, flipping through a copy of what's probably The New York Times.
With that white hair and that jaw line and those arms it can't be anybody else. George watches a lot of 360 Daily.
The hostess bows to George and before she can ask about his reservation, he gestures towards Anderson. "I'm with him."
Right. George is with Anderson Cooper, but not with Anderson Cooper. This is what comes of your friends constantly trying to match-make. George's loafers pad quietly across the tiling until he's right at the corner of the table.
"Mr. Clooney," Anderson says with a smile, folding his paper and standing up before George can get a word out.
Anderson is tall. Maybe an inch taller than George, and if he notices George's rather obvious appraisal of his body he doesn't show it. Dark blue is a good color for Anderson. The jeans are even better.
George shakes Anderson's hand firmly. "I think you can call me George," he says with a smile.
Anderson's eyes are bright and his mouth twists into a small grin. "Well, I wouldn't want to presume," he says, gesturing for George to sit down. "Your agent said I had to be on my best behavior."
"Ari says a lot of things," George apologizes as they take their seats. "It's kind of what he does. Right before he starts racking up the body count."
Anderson chuckles and something sparks in the back of George's brain. "He's your trained attack dog I take it."
"Something like that."
"So, it's not true that you're in a bigamous marriage with he and his wife?"
George's laugh erupts from him like a volcano that's been dormant. "No, I assure you that I am very much not married. To anyone."
"I'm sure millions of your fans are thrilled to hear that," Anderson says with easy humor.
George leans across the table conspiratorially. In a low voice he confides, " My fans want me to be president; I'm not sure they're the best people to ask."
Anderson looks up at George from underneath sandy brown eyelashes and winks. "I've heard your friends are a little biased, too."
George pulls back and his mouth twists into a wry smile as he beckons the waitress over. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he says as he takes the proffered menus and gives one to Anderson.
When the waitress asks them for their drink orders, George cocks his head to the side. "Do you like sake, Mr. Cooper?"
Anderson smiles back. "I like most things, Mr. Clooney."
In Los Angeles, even when you don't know someone you know all about them, so even though George has never met Anderson Cooper personally, he knows all about him right down to the Dolce & Gabbana briefs he favors.
George has had reports from Matt about how smart Anderson is, and from Don about how personable he is. Ari loves that he comes from money, and Ari's assistant, Lloyd, says that Anderson is the best dressed gay in the USA, excepting George because George is more international than anything else.
Plus, George appeared on Anderson's show to talk about the crisis in Darfur when Anderson was over in Africa, so even though they’re strangers they're still connected.
George raises an eyebrow and orders without actually looking at the menu. "Sake for two, please. And two large Sapporos. And the blowfish."
Anderson rests his elbows on the table and cups his chin in one hand. "I didn't hear you were this bossy."
"Oh, no, that's for me," George laughs. "You have to place your own order."
The waitress turns to Anderson expectantly and Anderson shakes his head. "I'll have what he's having."
"That's what I like to hear," George says, handing off his menu.
"So," Anderson begins after the waitress is gone.
"So," George parrots.
"I understand you're making a movie about Darfur."
George nods. "I understand you're willing to shoot some footage for me."
Anderson nods back. "You've done a lot of work to raise awareness; I'm impressed. Most people don't put their ass where their mouth is."
"Yeah," George sighs. "I know."
"Especially when their ass is as nice as yours," Anderson offers easily.
George raises an eyebrow as the waitress comes back with two bowls of miso, four bottles of beer and a large container of cold sake. He's used to people pursing him; he's also used to casually turning them down. It would be perfectly easy for George to allude to his ass not being available, but he's not really sure he wants to do that with Anderson.
At least not yet.
"I'm glad you think so," George replies flippantly.
Eating a meal with someone can tell you a lot about a person, and sushi more so than almost any other food. Whether the person eats their sushi with their fingers or a fork or chopsticks. Whether they pick up their bowl of miso or flail around looking for a spoon. George really shouldn't expect anything less than impeccable manners from Anderson Cooper, which is why he just smiles when Anderson picks up the container of sake and pours George's cup first.
"I'm not used to being served my alcohol by a prize-winning journalist," George says, moving the subject along. "What made you say yes to Ari?"
"He made me an offer I couldn't refuse," Anderson says raising his cup in toast; George raises his cup in turn. The sake is like cold rubbing alcohol down his throat, but in a few more cups it will taste much better. In the meantime, that's what the beer is for.
George pours Anderson the first glass of beer and slides it across the table. "Do you want to tell me about this offer, or is it a secret? I know how Ari is about his secrets."
"It's not really a secret," Anderson says, taking a long sip of his beer. "He said he would donate his fee for Night Crimes to the Save Darfur campaign if I agreed to do this for you."
George pauses with his beer half way to his mouth. "Ari said he would do what?"
It's Anderson's turn to study George carefully. "I get the feeling this is the first you've heard of this."
George doesn't even know what to say. Ari would never give away money. Ever. He would sooner castrate himself. George can't imagine what on earth would possess Ari, but Anderson's waiting for George to say something, anything, and George is at a loss.
The longer George is silent the more the look on Anderson's face changes. It goes from amusement to curiosity and then to something softer.
And then the proverbial penny drops and George needs another drink
Ari did this for him.
Jesus Christ.
Ari Gold has been representing George since before George was on ER. George was the best man at Ari's wedding to Mrs. Ari; he is the godfather to Ari's first child. Mrs. Ari has actually given George his own key to their house, so that she can stop coming home and finding George loitering around the front yard. Not that George loiters. George Clooney is one the biggest stars in the entire world. When George sneezes, babies cry. George doesn't have to loiter.
For all intents and purposes though, Ari and George are married, but the rest of the world doesn't need to know that. George has been legally married once, he doesn't need to go through that sort of horror again.
George doesn't mean to drive directly to MGA after lunch with Anderson, it just sort of happens. He means to go home and see what's left from his drinking party with Don, Ryan and Shia, but instead he finds himself in the elevator with several trembling junior assistants and one little girl who looks like she's 11 going on 25.
When the elevator stops on Ari's floor, Lloyd is waiting at the door. "George!" he says with an enormous grin and a blinding fuchsia and white polka dot tie. George can't help but smile back, because despite working for Ari for more than three years, Lloyd has one of the most positive outlooks of anyone George knows. Even on a bad day, which, when you work with Ari, can be every day of your life.
Lloyd must be on Prozac. And Xanax.
"Lloyd," George nods as Lloyd falls into step beside him. "He's in, right? Because if he's not, I'm going to be forced to amuse myself until he is."
"You know he's still scraping glue off of his desk," Lloyd says conspiratorially.
The last time George was left in Ari's office unsupervised, he glued all of Ari's drawers shut and super-glued all of his art upside down. Lloyd didn't say one word about it, he just went to the supply room and got George enough Elmer's to seal up every tectonic plate that runs through the United States.
George winks at Lloyd, "I won’t tell if you wont."
"G-MONEY, BABY!"
Ari is halfway across the office, en route to intercepting George and Lloyd, and George just fixes him with a raised eyebrow. "Ari," he warns, and just like that Ari freezes and his face falls.
"Whatever it is, I didn't do it," Ari protests. "I swear! The body was wrapped in ham hocks -- and you know how Jews feel about ham!" Ari sighs when George claps a hand down on his shoulder and steers him back into his office.
George doesn't speak again until the door is closed behind them. Glass walls mean everyone can see them, but not necessarily hear them.
George can actually feel Ari's shoulder twitching underneath his hand. "What's this I hear about you giving your 10% from Night Crimes to the Save Darfur campaign?" George asks mildly.
Ari's scowls. "That pasty bitch couldn't keep his cocksucking mouth shut for five minutes?! What the shit is that?!"
George doesn't have to pretend to be amused. "I know the only good cause you believe in is your dick, Ari, so what on earth possessed you?"
Ari's nostrils flare. "I don’t want you going to Darfur, again. Your ass is as pale as one of those Slovakian chicks they smuggle in storage containers; they'll shoot you from 500 yards."
"And you don’t think they'll shoot Anderson?"
"That's what the fucking money is for! Hazard pay!"
"So, you didn't just donate two million dollars to bribe Anderson to take me out on a date?"
Ari's eyes go wide. "You actually went? Holy fuck! Did you tap that ass? Tell me you tapped that ass! Oh thank fuck, I was afraid you were heading for the monastery any day. Hallelujah or whatever the gentiles say!"
George doesn't mean to laugh, but he can't help it. "No, Ari. Nobody tapped anybody else's ass."
"Goddamnit, George," Ari whines. "Why the fuck did I buy you Anderson Cooper's Grade-A flat ass then? I could've gotten you much cheaper ass and had change left over to get my dick sucked and buy you your own nation to save!"
"So you do admit that you did pay to get me a date," George snaps. "Ari, I can get my own fucking dates, thank you very much."
"No, not 'thank you very much!'" Ari barks back, shocking both of them.
George blinks.
"Look," Ari's tone drops several decibels. "I know you've been unhappy since Brad did that same shit that Brad always fucking does."
"Ari."
Ari sighs and rubs his forehead. "I just - we - we want you to be happy. And Anderson, you know, he comes approved. Matty likes him. And Don does too. And he's smart."
At George's incredulous look, Ari rolls his eyes. "I watch 360 Daily too."
George can't help his derisive snort and Ari throws up his hands. "Look," he concedes, "my only real purpose in life, apart from banging the wife and keeping the kids out of jail, is to make sure you're happy and not full of bullet holes in the Sudan. If Anderson Cooper can do that, then I'll fucking mortgage the house and pre-lube my ass, okay?"
George could say a lot of things, but he won't. "Fine," he concedes. "I won't take Shia, Ryan and Don to Darfur with me; we'll shoot somewhere else. Maybe the Cote d'Ivoire. But I'm going with Anderson to Darfur, Ari. Suck it up.'
"THE HELL YOU ARE!" Ari howls.
George just smiles. "Consider it our first date."
Being single is not a crime. At least not one you can go to jail for. Although sometimes you might wish were you in jail; it's bound to save you from well-meaning friends and contemplating hits on your exes.
People who live on the East Coast don't tend to have a lot of consideration for people who live on the West Coast. At least as far as the time difference goes. It's almost like if they're awake then everybody else has to be awake too. This seems to apply regardless of where in the world they are. This is the only reason George can think of for people calling him at three in the morning.
"Buh?" is George's brilliant greeting.
"George? It's Anderson Cooper," the voice says.
George sighs into the darkness and looks back over at his alarm clock. "Anderson, it's 3:16 in the morning. Where are you that you think it's a good time for a phone call."
"I'm covering the political mess in Kenya."
George blinks. "You're just saying that to get me excited."
"Me being in Kenya gets you excited? Mr. Clooney, you seem to have a lot of kinks that haven't made it into the pages of People yet."
"You read about me in People magazine?"
Anderson laughs. "It's kind of hard not to when the Sexiest Man Alive is on the cover every three weeks."
"Keep laughing and you can call me anytime." George doesn't even realize he's flirting until the words come out. Anderson seems to have this ability to put George at ease without any effort whatsoever. It's been a long time since George has had that with anybody he finds attractive. He pretty much gave up after Brad.
"Do you always answer your phone at three in the morning if you don't know who it is?"
"I thought you might be calling me about bail money for my kid again. That happens sometimes."
Anderson is quiet for a brief second. "You have a kid? Why do I feel like this isn't common knowledge."
George reaches over and turns on the lamp on his night table. "I've just adopted him recently. If you can adopt people at 21."
"Did you say he was 21?"
George snorts. "Yeah, I did."
Anderson's laugh is dry and clear. He must be on a satellite phone. "I don't think they call it adoption when they're 21. At least not where I come from."
"Mr. Cooper, if you're implying that I'm somebody's Sugar Daddy, I'm going to be deeply offended."
"And we wouldn't want that."
"It's Shia LaBeouf," George explains. "He was in my last film, which apparently, made him gay for his co-star. Then he got dumped for an 18 year-old cheerleader, which is apparently also my fault, but I can only assume that I've been brainwashed by his mom."
"And his mom would be…"
"Ari."
"You and Ari Gold are raising a child together?"
"Kind of. I want to take him with us to Darfur. Him and Don and Ryan."
Anderson laughs again. "That's a lot of chaperones for a first date."
"I like to do things big, didn't you get that memo?"
"I must've left it in my other flak jacket."
"Flak jacket? Really? Don't mention that to Ari."
"And you wonder why people think you're married."
"I've been married before," George points out. "It didn't work out. I'm not really interested in trying again."
"I don't suppose you'll change your mind one day?" Anderson's prying, but George doesn't mind much. His defenses aren't awake at this hour anyway.
"I didn't want kids," George sighs. "That didn't seem to stop Shia from happening."
"So, there's hope for you yet?"
George smiles to himself. "According to the Jehovah's Witnesses, there's always hope. If you're saved."
"And you're going to save me?" Anderson mocks.
"I have to save myself first, but I'll put you on the list."
"You're very kind."
George laughs. "I know."
For eighteen years George raised Max, his pot-bellied pig, and some people may not consider that the same as raising a fully blown, crayon-the-walls and shit-in-the-bathtub little person, but George does. He was a dad long before Matt and Brad started spreading their seed. Max was just a piglet when George adopted him, and George is the one who bottle fed him and took him to the vet and walked him when he was constipated. Max was there before Mark and Brad and Cristine and Sarah and Matt and Ari; Max was first. And then Max died, and George isn't going to go through that again. He's just not. He doesn't care what anyone else says.
George is driving through the hills a few days later when it occurs to him that he is not charmed by Anderson Cooper. He's really not. He's charmed by Ira Glass on The American Life; he loves NPR on Sunday morning, but Anderson is -- George doesn't know what Anderson is.
Anderson is smart and dresses immaculately and is almost as political as George is. Anderson's pedigree is impeccable and he'd look amazing on George's arm, but George isn't interested. He doesn't need Anderson Cooper complicating his life. Maybe he could use a friend, but not a boyfriend. Maybe a consort.
Anderson Cooper, consort to George Clooney.
The thought alone is enough to almost cause George to rear-end the Hummer in front of him, which would be a real experience considering he's driving his Smart Car today.
This is about when his Bluetooth beeps and "Call from Shia LaBeouf" flashes on the dashboard. George chuckles to himself as he turns down the radio. " Are you in jail again?"
There's a pause, Shia must be smoking. "No," Shia scoffs as though it's not a real possibility.
"Okay, then you may proceed," George says magnanimously.
"Is Ryan gay?" Shia blurts out, and George's foot slips right off the gas pedal. He glances quickly in the rearview mirror to make sure he's not about to be rear-ended.
"Is who what now?"
"George." Shia is wheedling.
Jesus, how can anyone have multiple children? George can't even deal with one.
"Uhhh," George hedges. "I think you'd have to bring that up with Ryan. Why? Is he acting inappropriately?"
"I wish," Shia huffs.
George's laugh is like a loud bark. "Ryan is Ryan as far as I can tell," he says unhelpfully.
"That's what I keep hearing. "
"He's very talented," George offers.
"Is that code for 'he's bugfuck crazy?'"
"Could be."
"I heard crazy people are really good in bed."
George refuses to think of Angelina and Brad.
"I couldn't really vouch for that one way or the other," George hedges.
"So, what you're saying is that he'd make me crazy and ruin me."
"I thought Milo had already ruined you."
"Milo's an ass."
"He did help you get an Oscar-nomination for The Frayed Edge."
"He might as well have given me herpes," Shia bitches. "Nobody is ever going to think of me again without thinking of him, too."
George does not almost drive off of Mulholland Drive, but it's close. "I'm sure that can be arranged if you really want," he says after a few harrowing moments.
Shia snorts. "If it's all the same to you, I'll pass."
"I understand how you feel," George offers. "Brad was an asshole too."
"Brad's confused."
"Brad's an asshole," George corrects.
Shia makes a noncommittal noise. "Are you seeing Anderson Cooper?"
And again, George almost drives off the road. "What? Who told you that lie?"
"Ari."
"Slander. I'm calling my attorney."
"So that would be a 'yes'?"
"No!"
"I like Anderson; he's smart. Well, he is on his show. I'd rather you date Jon Stewart, but he's married and I know how you are about those confused straight guys."
George needs to pull over before he dies in a fiery crash. Why is there no shoulder on Mulholland? "Is this your way of saying you aren't threatened by your future surrogate step dad?
"Could be. He's kind of hot though."
George snorts. "He's too old for you, Short Stuff. Besides, I thought you were interested in Ryan."
"I'm keeping my options open. Like my old man."
"Have you talked to your mom about this?"
"Yeah, I did talk to Ari, but he started to cry when I asked about fucking Ryan and it was all downhill from there."
George waits a beat. "Yeah, that sounds like Ari."
On to PART II
RPF/RPS/Entourage/CRACK!
You don't have to have read Make Sure They See My Face to understand this, but it probably helps.
hackthis Productions Present:
Something to Talk About
featuring George Clooney
Ari Gold
Don Cheadle
Ryan Gosling
Shia LaBeouf
and Anderson Cooper
With Matt Damon. And some other folks.
It all starts with the gift basket George Clooney finds on his doorstep one morning. Why does it start there? Well, because it does.
Judging by the very large voodoo doll with Brad Pitt's face on it and the fifty pins stuck in the doll's nether regions with little tags like 'Sterility', 'Crabs', 'Impotence' and 'Whiskey Dick' taped on them, someone in George's life is concerned that George is upset about Brad knocking up Angie Jolie again, but George isn't upset.
He's not anything at all.
It helps that this basket has George's agent, Ari Gold, written all over it. Literally. At least someone still thinks George is worth fighting for, which is a great comfort, because when George bends down to pick up the basket, his back does this twinging thing (thanks Syriana, for all those good times) and then he can't stand back up.
George isn't real old, but apparently he's getting kind of old, which sucks. This is a perfect time for George to have a seat in his doorway for a bit. It's a nice day, the birds are singing, and according to his Crackberry, Matt Damon is calling.
"It my favorite Baby Daddy," George offers by way of greeting. He smiles at Matt's derisive snort.
"I'm feeling a lot of love coming my way," Matt says in a droll tone.
"I'm old and my back just gave out," George says matter-of-factly. "I have love for anybody who's not me at the moment."
"Jesus Christ, do you want me to call Ari?"
George exhales. "I don't think so, but what does it say about me that my emergency contact is my agent?"
Matt doesn't miss a beat. "It says that you're smart, because if your emergency contact was someone like me you'd be dead."
"I told you not to move to Miami," George complains. "What does Miami have that you can't get in L.A., besides gorgeous beaches, 1000% humidity and Little Havana?"
Matt says something about wives and children, but George is mostly thinking about drugs. In particular, he wonders how many Vicodin are left in the bathroom from his last work-related incident. Why is the bathroom so far away anyway?
"Seriously, are you okay?" Matt's concern is touching, and for a moment, George thinks about how good life was for the three seconds that they were dating. He can't remember why it didn't work out with he and Matty. Oh, because Matt wanted kids too. Why doesn't anyone just want a dog these days? Or a nice pot-bellied pig?
"Why couldn't we just get a dog?" George asks after a moment.
Matt is understandably confused, but he rallies admirably. "Because dogs shed all over the floor and you didn't want to have to take it for a walk three times a day. Did you hit your head when your body started its revolution?"
"No, I was just wondering about us." George isn't maudlin. He's contemplative. There's a big difference.
Matt exhales loudly. "Okay, I'm calling Don, you're acting weirder than normal. Did Lloyd switch your coffee again?"
"No, don’t do that, Don'll actually worry or something. Call someone else. Call-"
"Shia." Matt finishes. "I'll call your kid, and you two can commiserate over how much men suck."
It's George's turn to snort. "You can leave the kid out of it. I'm not suicidal just yet. At least not while they still make Xanax and Anderson Cooper's on CNN."
George can just see Matt shaking his head 3000 miles away.
"Speaking of Anderson," Matt segues seamlessly.
George cuts him off. They've already had this conversation. George has, in fact, had this conversation with everyone from his personal assistant to his driver to his mom. His mom loves Anderson. "Did you see Milo leaving Shia to run off with the jailbait coming?" George interrupts. "Because I didn't."
"Milo's an idiot." Matt's tone is mild, but George can feel the irritation. Or maybe that's just him. George hates it when people screw up a good thing out of fear; he's been there before. It's aggravating, and it makes something flare in his back. Oh wait, no; that's just his spine clearing itself up.
"Okay, I'm better now," he says, getting to his feet slowly.
"You sure?" Matt is the worrier; it's what he does.
George uses the doorframe as support and takes a deep breath to make sure he's actually as good as he's now pretending he is. He kicks at the basket, causing something inside to clank loudly, probably wine. He pushes at the basket with his foot, banging it over the doorstop and sliding it along the floor into the house. "Yeah, I'm sure. Go play with your blob, I'll call you later about Night Crimes. That's why you called, right?
"Right," Matt says belatedly. "Yeah."
"Good, because if you were calling to talk about babies, I'd have to see about getting you sterilized."
"You’re a harsh godfather, Clooney."
George snorts. "So I've heard."
Once upon a time George Clooney was a single B-List star on a primetime TV show, and then he left ER and started working in feature films. For a while George dated an underwear model, but that didn't really work out so well, because Mark Wahlberg was just a little too unrefined. So, George broke it off with Mark and began seeing Brad Pitt, and it was a good life.
When Brad got married, George didn't mind. In fact, that made things even better, because George had a married boyfriend, who he could make lots of movies with and have lots of really hot, filthy sex, and then send him home to someone else. And then Brad and George picked Matt Damon to be their third, and that was okay too. George adored Matt -- he adores Matty. Plus, Brad was a lot for George and Jen to handle on their own. And things were great. George had Matt and Brad, and Ari to wipe his ass, and maybe he got greedy. Maybe George got too complacent, because he woke up one morning and Brad had left him for Mother Theresa 2.0, and then the next day Matt had run off with an Argentinean bartender, and George was on his own for the first time in a long time. It's been a steep learning curve.
Actually, the story doesn't start with the gift basket on George's front doorstep; it starts with George standing in his backyard on a balmy Friday afternoon, making hamburgers for the stars of his next directorial adventure, Night Crimes.
See, the thing is, George makes movies. Yes, that's sometimes obscured other things, like being People's Sexiest Man Alive for two nonconsecutive years, but George didn't know that job came with a scepter, a crown and a sash. There was a nice novelty factor attached to that job, but it didn't make him happy. Amused, yes; happy, not so much so.
Movies make George happy.
George doesn't need expensive cars and clothes and fancy homes or fifteen hundred ankle-biters drooling on his furniture to give him a purpose. Making movies about things that are important gives George purpose. Making a movie about the crisis in Darfur is George's purpose in life right now. He's already done his documentary, but that's just not enough. He and Don Cheadle have traveled the world trying to tell people what the hell is going on, but nobody's listening. Nobody cares.
That's always the problem. Nothing is ever enough.
Nobody ever cares enough.
"Hey, dad!" Shia LaBeouf's hollering is more than enough to jar George out of his reverie. Dad? Dad?! "Stop thinking about the fifty ways to castrate my ex and make sure you're not burning the food."
George scowls at his newest protégé even as he double checks to make sure the hamburgers aren't burned. They're a little crispy, but Shia will live. As will Don and Ryan Gosling.
George takes this set of burgers off of the grill and drops on four more, raising an eyebrow as Shia wanders out of the kitchen and onto the patio with a large glass of something brown in his hand.
"Short Stuff, are you supposed to be drinking that much in AA?" George asks, right before he snatches the glass out of Shia's hand and downs it in one.
"It's for the role!" Shia protests, trying to get his glass back. "You said my guy gets a drinking problem from all the war trauma! I need to see what that's like." George is much taller than Shia. It's just mean of him to hold the glass out of Shia's reach. Yes, George is a mean dad.
"It's method acting!" Shia makes another jump for his glass. "Viggo would approve."
"Yeah, but Viggo's not coming along on this ride, so you know, be careful with that," George warns, ignoring the laughter coming from somewhere behind Shia.
"You know, for a confirmed bachelor, you sure sound like a parent," Don Cheadle mocks from the doorway.
"Like I would wipe Shia's snotty nose," George gripes, winking at his pseudo-son. "You make a kid gay one time, and suddenly you're responsible for bailing him out of jail and paying his way through college. I'm telling you, I don't know how you do it, Don."
Don laughs, taking a long drag of the beer in his hand before he drops down on a stool near the grill. "You know, you keep protesting this much and I'm going to have to make a call to Ari."
"It's for his own good," George explains. "He's too young to appreciate alcohol that good; his palate isn't developed enough. It's better left to the old folks."
"Does an old soul count for the old folks?" another person calls from the doorway. George's mouth twists into a smirk as Ryan Gosling slumps against kitchen doorframe and toasts him with a large glass in one hand and bottle of whiskey in the other.
"That whiskey is as old as you are," Don answers, "so, show it some respect."
"Sir, yes, sir," Ryan mock salutes, crossing the patio to drop onto a stool besides Don.
George hasn't spent a great deal of time around Ryan Gosling just yet, but George is a big fan of his work, and that roundtable they did a few weeks ago was hysterical. Well, except for that part where Ryan turned out to be a fan of Angie. George thought he was going to have a rage blackout after that revelation, but for the most part everything is good.
Plus, Don and Ryan go back and Don and George go way back, so if Ryan turns out to be a self-important, navel gazing asshole… yeah, he won't be that different from anybody else George has worked with.
"Are you gonna feed us, or are you gonna spend all day thinking about the Hell Spawn?" Shia pipes up. George blindly reaches out and manages to smack Shia in the back of his head.
"Stop giving me an ulcer and bring the rest of Ari's basket out here." George smiles broadly as Shia trots back into the house with a maximum amount of bitching and grumbling.
Oh crap, maybe he really is becoming a parent.
Theoretically, as director, George can call up his cast and tell them how to high to jump whenever he wants, or in this case, how much to drink. George really didn't need to be left alone with the Sedation Basket Ari sent him; today's male bonding is just the proverbial icing on the cake.
"George, are you real hungry?"
George blinks up at Don. "Why? I could be. Are you watching your girlish figure?"
"Nah, but you made, like, sixteen hamburgers, so I'm wondering if Brad's bringing over the Rainbow Tribe too."
George looks at Don and then down at the grill in consternation. He can only shake his head. He hates Brad sometimes. "You know how I like to over-prepare," he offers wryly.
"So, you're not mad at Brad's super sperm or anything?"
George raises an eyebrow at Don, cutting a glance to Ryan. "Family business in front of the kids, Don?"
"Would you feel happier if I put Matt on speakerphone and we staged another intervention?"
George ponders this for a moment. "Maybe."
"Where do you want this?" Shia asks, waddling through the door holding the basket up for George's approval.
"Over Brad Pitt's head in little pieces," Ryan assesses perfectly.
George nods. "Yeah, pretty much."
Don just chuckles. "You sure you don't want Anderson's number again? It's not like you two don't have a lot in common. At least talk to him about the movie."
"You guys need to just bury that horse. Just because two men are gay doesn't mean they should sleep together," George gripes.
"That's not what you told me and Milo," Shia protests.
George snorts. "Yeah, but don't tell Ari that."
Once upon another time, George arranged for Viggo Mortensen to direct a movie in Canada. The movie was called The Frayed Edge and it starred Shia LaBeouf, Milo Ventimiglia, John Barrowman and Kerry Washington. It was a good movie. And it won an award or two.
During the filming, Brad and Angie had some problems and Brad tried to skulk back into George's life -- but for a change, George wasn't interested. Everyone's got a breaking point. It turns out four kids is George's breaking point.
George is single for a lot of reasons, but mostly because it's so much fucking easier than putting up with someone else's shit. Other people are stupid and callous and vote for the wrong candidate in the primaries. Other people want to bring children into a world that sucks and is already full to the brim with kids who are being neglected, exploited and ignored. The world is full of children who need a home and you don’t even have to go to another continent to find them. You can walk down the street or call the county. If Brad really gave a good goddamn, he could go to the Riverside SPCA and adopt a fucking dog or six. But no, Brad didn't want to do that. He wanted to go off with the magic vagina and ruin the best thing George ever had. Fine.
Fuck Brad Pitt.
Night Crimes isn't a happy movie. It's a war movie. It's a thinking movie. Night Crimes is about the things that people do when the sun goes down that they don't dare to do in the daylight. It's about the things that desperate people will do in the light of day when they just don't care anymore.
Or as George's agent, Ari Gold likes to call it, "It's that fucking depressing, sad-ass Oscar bitch that's going to buy me another five years of marriage and another ten years running this pile of shit town."
Rather shockingly, Ari is excited about Night Crimes -- or maybe he's just excited at the lack of Viggo Mortensen-directed, Canadian gay romances. George hasn't mentioned the part about how badly he and Don want to go to the Sudan to shoot some rogue footage for the movie, but he thinks he'll mention that to Ari later. Probably after they come back.
Ari would have a stroke in the middle of Miller Gold if he found out George was taking Don, Ryan and Shia to Darfur.
"And then you can have live footage."
George stops messing with the Aquaman paperweight on Ari's desk and looks up sharply. Ari's sitting in front of him with a huge grin on his face and his fingers steepled together. George knows that grin; it's been responsible for the downfall of small countries, large studios and more than one previously unsinkable A-lister.
Never cross a short Jewish man with a bad temper.
"Who can have live footage of what?" George asks a bit slowly. He can feel Ari leading him somewhere, he's just not sure where, and only a fool would follow Ari blindly into the raging fires of hell.
"G Money, baby, here I am offering you the chance of a lifetime and you're playing coy." George just raises an eyebrow. "I hope you're not going to play this hard to get with Anderson."
"Anderson?" George parrots blankly.
Ari sighs and rubs his head. "Did you finish that whole basket by yourself? You were supposed to liquor up Don so he'll sign with me finally! What the shit, George?! I know you've been putting whiskey in your coffee, again; it's the only reason for you to be acting like Amy Wino."
George rolls his eyes. "No, Ari. Unlike our child, I'm not in AA."
"WHAT?!" George takes a step back as Ari's chair crashes against the glass floor-to-ceiling wall when he jumps up suddenly.
George has seen Ari upset before. He's seen Ari trash entire hotel rooms and terrorize dozens of agency employees with one glare. Ari once caused an agent from CAA to have a stroke to the middle of contract negotiations, but by the look of utter horror on Ari's face right now, he might be the one about to have a stroke. George winces. Why does he always have to be the one to break the bad news to Ari?
"Shia. AA." George offers up succinctly. "You have seen the photos, right?"
Ari closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Yes, I have seen them; they were part of the deal with Walgreens. I thought you meant there was a real problem. DON'T FUCKING YANK MY BALLS LIKE THAT, GEORGE!"
It's George's turn to be irritated. "Well, it might've fucking helped if you told me," he snaps when Ari looks at him. "He said it was for his Night Crimes role, I was worried."
Ari shakes his head and laughs. "You didn't want to have a kid with the Ass Bandit, but you've got one anyway."
George Clooney does not sulk, he does on occasion scowl and act displeased. "Fuck you, Ari."
"I'd like to give it to you," Ari says, turning slightly to wriggle his ass in George's face, "but the missus would never forgive me. How about you fuck Anderson, and we call it even?"
It's George's turn to be perturbed. "You keep talking about Anderson, do you mean Anderson Cooper?"
Ari looks pained. "Did you get hit by the Alzheimer's Bus at the valet? Did you hear anything I said earlier?"
"No."
Ari sighs loudly. "George, baby, why do you do me like this? You've got to stop thinking about Brad's limp dick and start aiming higher than the kiddie pool. Anderson Cooper is New York royalty, and apparently, he likes it on his back and hard."
"Not this again," George groans.
But Ari is on a tear. "Manhattan's Favorite Shirt-Lifter has agreed to shoot some footage for Night Crimes the next time he goes to the Sudan, if you'll have dinner with him."
George blinks. "Oh, okay."
It's Ari's turn to blink owlishly. "Really?"
"If it'll help the movie, then I'll do it."
Ari doesn't need to know about George's own trip to Darfur agenda. George can leave that for later.
Ari smiles broadly and pumps his fist in the air. "That's what I'm talking about! Today we win an Oscar, and tomorrow, you and Coop can be America's Favorite Fudge Packers!"
George rolls his eyes. "Don’t put the cart before the horse, Ari."
Katherine Hepburn once said that she didn't think men and women should live together, that it was clearly better for them to live next door and visit on occasion. George agrees. Men and women, men and men, women and women. The world would be a lot better if everybody got to have their own space all the time.
Brad didn't agree, but Brad sucks.
It's a little before three o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon when George walks through the door of Katsu-ya in Studio City. George prefers to conduct his business when everyone else is at work and the stalkerazzi aren't expecting him to be having furtive lunch dates. Not that this meeting is a lunch date, it's work, and that's why they're having lunch and not dinner. George doesn't want anyone to get the wrong idea, least of all Anderson. This is obviously why George pauses in the doorway when he sees Anderson sitting in the back corner of the restaurant, flipping through a copy of what's probably The New York Times.
With that white hair and that jaw line and those arms it can't be anybody else. George watches a lot of 360 Daily.
The hostess bows to George and before she can ask about his reservation, he gestures towards Anderson. "I'm with him."
Right. George is with Anderson Cooper, but not with Anderson Cooper. This is what comes of your friends constantly trying to match-make. George's loafers pad quietly across the tiling until he's right at the corner of the table.
"Mr. Clooney," Anderson says with a smile, folding his paper and standing up before George can get a word out.
Anderson is tall. Maybe an inch taller than George, and if he notices George's rather obvious appraisal of his body he doesn't show it. Dark blue is a good color for Anderson. The jeans are even better.
George shakes Anderson's hand firmly. "I think you can call me George," he says with a smile.
Anderson's eyes are bright and his mouth twists into a small grin. "Well, I wouldn't want to presume," he says, gesturing for George to sit down. "Your agent said I had to be on my best behavior."
"Ari says a lot of things," George apologizes as they take their seats. "It's kind of what he does. Right before he starts racking up the body count."
Anderson chuckles and something sparks in the back of George's brain. "He's your trained attack dog I take it."
"Something like that."
"So, it's not true that you're in a bigamous marriage with he and his wife?"
George's laugh erupts from him like a volcano that's been dormant. "No, I assure you that I am very much not married. To anyone."
"I'm sure millions of your fans are thrilled to hear that," Anderson says with easy humor.
George leans across the table conspiratorially. In a low voice he confides, " My fans want me to be president; I'm not sure they're the best people to ask."
Anderson looks up at George from underneath sandy brown eyelashes and winks. "I've heard your friends are a little biased, too."
George pulls back and his mouth twists into a wry smile as he beckons the waitress over. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he says as he takes the proffered menus and gives one to Anderson.
When the waitress asks them for their drink orders, George cocks his head to the side. "Do you like sake, Mr. Cooper?"
Anderson smiles back. "I like most things, Mr. Clooney."
In Los Angeles, even when you don't know someone you know all about them, so even though George has never met Anderson Cooper personally, he knows all about him right down to the Dolce & Gabbana briefs he favors.
George has had reports from Matt about how smart Anderson is, and from Don about how personable he is. Ari loves that he comes from money, and Ari's assistant, Lloyd, says that Anderson is the best dressed gay in the USA, excepting George because George is more international than anything else.
Plus, George appeared on Anderson's show to talk about the crisis in Darfur when Anderson was over in Africa, so even though they’re strangers they're still connected.
George raises an eyebrow and orders without actually looking at the menu. "Sake for two, please. And two large Sapporos. And the blowfish."
Anderson rests his elbows on the table and cups his chin in one hand. "I didn't hear you were this bossy."
"Oh, no, that's for me," George laughs. "You have to place your own order."
The waitress turns to Anderson expectantly and Anderson shakes his head. "I'll have what he's having."
"That's what I like to hear," George says, handing off his menu.
"So," Anderson begins after the waitress is gone.
"So," George parrots.
"I understand you're making a movie about Darfur."
George nods. "I understand you're willing to shoot some footage for me."
Anderson nods back. "You've done a lot of work to raise awareness; I'm impressed. Most people don't put their ass where their mouth is."
"Yeah," George sighs. "I know."
"Especially when their ass is as nice as yours," Anderson offers easily.
George raises an eyebrow as the waitress comes back with two bowls of miso, four bottles of beer and a large container of cold sake. He's used to people pursing him; he's also used to casually turning them down. It would be perfectly easy for George to allude to his ass not being available, but he's not really sure he wants to do that with Anderson.
At least not yet.
"I'm glad you think so," George replies flippantly.
Eating a meal with someone can tell you a lot about a person, and sushi more so than almost any other food. Whether the person eats their sushi with their fingers or a fork or chopsticks. Whether they pick up their bowl of miso or flail around looking for a spoon. George really shouldn't expect anything less than impeccable manners from Anderson Cooper, which is why he just smiles when Anderson picks up the container of sake and pours George's cup first.
"I'm not used to being served my alcohol by a prize-winning journalist," George says, moving the subject along. "What made you say yes to Ari?"
"He made me an offer I couldn't refuse," Anderson says raising his cup in toast; George raises his cup in turn. The sake is like cold rubbing alcohol down his throat, but in a few more cups it will taste much better. In the meantime, that's what the beer is for.
George pours Anderson the first glass of beer and slides it across the table. "Do you want to tell me about this offer, or is it a secret? I know how Ari is about his secrets."
"It's not really a secret," Anderson says, taking a long sip of his beer. "He said he would donate his fee for Night Crimes to the Save Darfur campaign if I agreed to do this for you."
George pauses with his beer half way to his mouth. "Ari said he would do what?"
It's Anderson's turn to study George carefully. "I get the feeling this is the first you've heard of this."
George doesn't even know what to say. Ari would never give away money. Ever. He would sooner castrate himself. George can't imagine what on earth would possess Ari, but Anderson's waiting for George to say something, anything, and George is at a loss.
The longer George is silent the more the look on Anderson's face changes. It goes from amusement to curiosity and then to something softer.
And then the proverbial penny drops and George needs another drink
Ari did this for him.
Jesus Christ.
Ari Gold has been representing George since before George was on ER. George was the best man at Ari's wedding to Mrs. Ari; he is the godfather to Ari's first child. Mrs. Ari has actually given George his own key to their house, so that she can stop coming home and finding George loitering around the front yard. Not that George loiters. George Clooney is one the biggest stars in the entire world. When George sneezes, babies cry. George doesn't have to loiter.
For all intents and purposes though, Ari and George are married, but the rest of the world doesn't need to know that. George has been legally married once, he doesn't need to go through that sort of horror again.
George doesn't mean to drive directly to MGA after lunch with Anderson, it just sort of happens. He means to go home and see what's left from his drinking party with Don, Ryan and Shia, but instead he finds himself in the elevator with several trembling junior assistants and one little girl who looks like she's 11 going on 25.
When the elevator stops on Ari's floor, Lloyd is waiting at the door. "George!" he says with an enormous grin and a blinding fuchsia and white polka dot tie. George can't help but smile back, because despite working for Ari for more than three years, Lloyd has one of the most positive outlooks of anyone George knows. Even on a bad day, which, when you work with Ari, can be every day of your life.
Lloyd must be on Prozac. And Xanax.
"Lloyd," George nods as Lloyd falls into step beside him. "He's in, right? Because if he's not, I'm going to be forced to amuse myself until he is."
"You know he's still scraping glue off of his desk," Lloyd says conspiratorially.
The last time George was left in Ari's office unsupervised, he glued all of Ari's drawers shut and super-glued all of his art upside down. Lloyd didn't say one word about it, he just went to the supply room and got George enough Elmer's to seal up every tectonic plate that runs through the United States.
George winks at Lloyd, "I won’t tell if you wont."
"G-MONEY, BABY!"
Ari is halfway across the office, en route to intercepting George and Lloyd, and George just fixes him with a raised eyebrow. "Ari," he warns, and just like that Ari freezes and his face falls.
"Whatever it is, I didn't do it," Ari protests. "I swear! The body was wrapped in ham hocks -- and you know how Jews feel about ham!" Ari sighs when George claps a hand down on his shoulder and steers him back into his office.
George doesn't speak again until the door is closed behind them. Glass walls mean everyone can see them, but not necessarily hear them.
George can actually feel Ari's shoulder twitching underneath his hand. "What's this I hear about you giving your 10% from Night Crimes to the Save Darfur campaign?" George asks mildly.
Ari's scowls. "That pasty bitch couldn't keep his cocksucking mouth shut for five minutes?! What the shit is that?!"
George doesn't have to pretend to be amused. "I know the only good cause you believe in is your dick, Ari, so what on earth possessed you?"
Ari's nostrils flare. "I don’t want you going to Darfur, again. Your ass is as pale as one of those Slovakian chicks they smuggle in storage containers; they'll shoot you from 500 yards."
"And you don’t think they'll shoot Anderson?"
"That's what the fucking money is for! Hazard pay!"
"So, you didn't just donate two million dollars to bribe Anderson to take me out on a date?"
Ari's eyes go wide. "You actually went? Holy fuck! Did you tap that ass? Tell me you tapped that ass! Oh thank fuck, I was afraid you were heading for the monastery any day. Hallelujah or whatever the gentiles say!"
George doesn't mean to laugh, but he can't help it. "No, Ari. Nobody tapped anybody else's ass."
"Goddamnit, George," Ari whines. "Why the fuck did I buy you Anderson Cooper's Grade-A flat ass then? I could've gotten you much cheaper ass and had change left over to get my dick sucked and buy you your own nation to save!"
"So you do admit that you did pay to get me a date," George snaps. "Ari, I can get my own fucking dates, thank you very much."
"No, not 'thank you very much!'" Ari barks back, shocking both of them.
George blinks.
"Look," Ari's tone drops several decibels. "I know you've been unhappy since Brad did that same shit that Brad always fucking does."
"Ari."
Ari sighs and rubs his forehead. "I just - we - we want you to be happy. And Anderson, you know, he comes approved. Matty likes him. And Don does too. And he's smart."
At George's incredulous look, Ari rolls his eyes. "I watch 360 Daily too."
George can't help his derisive snort and Ari throws up his hands. "Look," he concedes, "my only real purpose in life, apart from banging the wife and keeping the kids out of jail, is to make sure you're happy and not full of bullet holes in the Sudan. If Anderson Cooper can do that, then I'll fucking mortgage the house and pre-lube my ass, okay?"
George could say a lot of things, but he won't. "Fine," he concedes. "I won't take Shia, Ryan and Don to Darfur with me; we'll shoot somewhere else. Maybe the Cote d'Ivoire. But I'm going with Anderson to Darfur, Ari. Suck it up.'
"THE HELL YOU ARE!" Ari howls.
George just smiles. "Consider it our first date."
Being single is not a crime. At least not one you can go to jail for. Although sometimes you might wish were you in jail; it's bound to save you from well-meaning friends and contemplating hits on your exes.
People who live on the East Coast don't tend to have a lot of consideration for people who live on the West Coast. At least as far as the time difference goes. It's almost like if they're awake then everybody else has to be awake too. This seems to apply regardless of where in the world they are. This is the only reason George can think of for people calling him at three in the morning.
"Buh?" is George's brilliant greeting.
"George? It's Anderson Cooper," the voice says.
George sighs into the darkness and looks back over at his alarm clock. "Anderson, it's 3:16 in the morning. Where are you that you think it's a good time for a phone call."
"I'm covering the political mess in Kenya."
George blinks. "You're just saying that to get me excited."
"Me being in Kenya gets you excited? Mr. Clooney, you seem to have a lot of kinks that haven't made it into the pages of People yet."
"You read about me in People magazine?"
Anderson laughs. "It's kind of hard not to when the Sexiest Man Alive is on the cover every three weeks."
"Keep laughing and you can call me anytime." George doesn't even realize he's flirting until the words come out. Anderson seems to have this ability to put George at ease without any effort whatsoever. It's been a long time since George has had that with anybody he finds attractive. He pretty much gave up after Brad.
"Do you always answer your phone at three in the morning if you don't know who it is?"
"I thought you might be calling me about bail money for my kid again. That happens sometimes."
Anderson is quiet for a brief second. "You have a kid? Why do I feel like this isn't common knowledge."
George reaches over and turns on the lamp on his night table. "I've just adopted him recently. If you can adopt people at 21."
"Did you say he was 21?"
George snorts. "Yeah, I did."
Anderson's laugh is dry and clear. He must be on a satellite phone. "I don't think they call it adoption when they're 21. At least not where I come from."
"Mr. Cooper, if you're implying that I'm somebody's Sugar Daddy, I'm going to be deeply offended."
"And we wouldn't want that."
"It's Shia LaBeouf," George explains. "He was in my last film, which apparently, made him gay for his co-star. Then he got dumped for an 18 year-old cheerleader, which is apparently also my fault, but I can only assume that I've been brainwashed by his mom."
"And his mom would be…"
"Ari."
"You and Ari Gold are raising a child together?"
"Kind of. I want to take him with us to Darfur. Him and Don and Ryan."
Anderson laughs again. "That's a lot of chaperones for a first date."
"I like to do things big, didn't you get that memo?"
"I must've left it in my other flak jacket."
"Flak jacket? Really? Don't mention that to Ari."
"And you wonder why people think you're married."
"I've been married before," George points out. "It didn't work out. I'm not really interested in trying again."
"I don't suppose you'll change your mind one day?" Anderson's prying, but George doesn't mind much. His defenses aren't awake at this hour anyway.
"I didn't want kids," George sighs. "That didn't seem to stop Shia from happening."
"So, there's hope for you yet?"
George smiles to himself. "According to the Jehovah's Witnesses, there's always hope. If you're saved."
"And you're going to save me?" Anderson mocks.
"I have to save myself first, but I'll put you on the list."
"You're very kind."
George laughs. "I know."
For eighteen years George raised Max, his pot-bellied pig, and some people may not consider that the same as raising a fully blown, crayon-the-walls and shit-in-the-bathtub little person, but George does. He was a dad long before Matt and Brad started spreading their seed. Max was just a piglet when George adopted him, and George is the one who bottle fed him and took him to the vet and walked him when he was constipated. Max was there before Mark and Brad and Cristine and Sarah and Matt and Ari; Max was first. And then Max died, and George isn't going to go through that again. He's just not. He doesn't care what anyone else says.
George is driving through the hills a few days later when it occurs to him that he is not charmed by Anderson Cooper. He's really not. He's charmed by Ira Glass on The American Life; he loves NPR on Sunday morning, but Anderson is -- George doesn't know what Anderson is.
Anderson is smart and dresses immaculately and is almost as political as George is. Anderson's pedigree is impeccable and he'd look amazing on George's arm, but George isn't interested. He doesn't need Anderson Cooper complicating his life. Maybe he could use a friend, but not a boyfriend. Maybe a consort.
Anderson Cooper, consort to George Clooney.
The thought alone is enough to almost cause George to rear-end the Hummer in front of him, which would be a real experience considering he's driving his Smart Car today.
This is about when his Bluetooth beeps and "Call from Shia LaBeouf" flashes on the dashboard. George chuckles to himself as he turns down the radio. " Are you in jail again?"
There's a pause, Shia must be smoking. "No," Shia scoffs as though it's not a real possibility.
"Okay, then you may proceed," George says magnanimously.
"Is Ryan gay?" Shia blurts out, and George's foot slips right off the gas pedal. He glances quickly in the rearview mirror to make sure he's not about to be rear-ended.
"Is who what now?"
"George." Shia is wheedling.
Jesus, how can anyone have multiple children? George can't even deal with one.
"Uhhh," George hedges. "I think you'd have to bring that up with Ryan. Why? Is he acting inappropriately?"
"I wish," Shia huffs.
George's laugh is like a loud bark. "Ryan is Ryan as far as I can tell," he says unhelpfully.
"That's what I keep hearing. "
"He's very talented," George offers.
"Is that code for 'he's bugfuck crazy?'"
"Could be."
"I heard crazy people are really good in bed."
George refuses to think of Angelina and Brad.
"I couldn't really vouch for that one way or the other," George hedges.
"So, what you're saying is that he'd make me crazy and ruin me."
"I thought Milo had already ruined you."
"Milo's an ass."
"He did help you get an Oscar-nomination for The Frayed Edge."
"He might as well have given me herpes," Shia bitches. "Nobody is ever going to think of me again without thinking of him, too."
George does not almost drive off of Mulholland Drive, but it's close. "I'm sure that can be arranged if you really want," he says after a few harrowing moments.
Shia snorts. "If it's all the same to you, I'll pass."
"I understand how you feel," George offers. "Brad was an asshole too."
"Brad's confused."
"Brad's an asshole," George corrects.
Shia makes a noncommittal noise. "Are you seeing Anderson Cooper?"
And again, George almost drives off the road. "What? Who told you that lie?"
"Ari."
"Slander. I'm calling my attorney."
"So that would be a 'yes'?"
"No!"
"I like Anderson; he's smart. Well, he is on his show. I'd rather you date Jon Stewart, but he's married and I know how you are about those confused straight guys."
George needs to pull over before he dies in a fiery crash. Why is there no shoulder on Mulholland? "Is this your way of saying you aren't threatened by your future surrogate step dad?
"Could be. He's kind of hot though."
George snorts. "He's too old for you, Short Stuff. Besides, I thought you were interested in Ryan."
"I'm keeping my options open. Like my old man."
"Have you talked to your mom about this?"
"Yeah, I did talk to Ari, but he started to cry when I asked about fucking Ryan and it was all downhill from there."
George waits a beat. "Yeah, that sounds like Ari."
On to PART II