Ted Danson in Saving Private Ryan.unburiableJuly 18 2003, 21:54:51 UTC
Some actress wearing a typically short dress saunters into the room as if she's waiting for the walls to melt. I'm pretty sure she's a dead link, but Neil Jordan called me last night to remind me for the third time how pressing it is that I meet her. It's a good thing he only wanted her for a non-speaking performance, too, because as Neil is one of this town's best directors, who could probably even get Corey Haim to come off sympathetic and believable, it still isn't a safe bet to put it in writing that this girls gets to say a goddamned word, because I am willing to put a substantial part of my estate down on the betting table that if she opens her mouth even once, the film ends and people walk out and Neil's film career gets something he doesn't deserve, which is weak praise.
Initially she claimed that she'd been a proof reader for class papers. I rolled my eyes a bit while looking through my rolodex, thumbing through all the cards with new numbers and addresses that Winona Ryder had given me each time she shacked up with some new hot rising country star. so the girl, whose name is, quite benignly, Rachel, deigns to admit she'd been doing it since the 4th grade.
Regularly, under such sqeaking beams in the eaves as this pock-mark ridden young lady's audacity and clearly crackling control of verbal mechanics, I'd have stuck a finger into my mouth to give her the abrupt notice that she was making me sick. But of course I had to keep into account my friend Neil's insistance that she was the looker he needed. I had her stand up and remove half of her clothing, calling in my secretary Belinda to give Rachel the checklist once-over.
Rachel seemed to fit the bill for most of what we were looking for for this film, but I just couldn't burn from my mind her "proof-reading." She even mentioned being a script hand. Like that could happen in six thousand years. I had Belinda put me through to Neil, who was in a helicopter on the way to Spago. We talked it out for a little bit, and after so much of hearing the pilot brag about altitude and wind calibration, I said, "Fairuza Balk," and then I hung up the telephone, telling Belinda to have Neil's number put on block for the next hour until I was sure he'd be out of lunch and on to more pressing issues than bothering me.
Belinda flipped Rachel a few dimes. "There," I told her. "Go home and write some essays for me."
And after that I really did throw up. Some people have the class of cows in a field. Often I'm worried that if enough of them pervade the staunch respectability of this office, that I too will, in some way, be somehow marked by their footprints of failure sinking into the plush carpets of the foyer. It would be quite enough to make me vomit my entire body completely inside out. As Rachel was escorted from the building, I sent word down to the front desk that should she be allowed entrance into the main hall one more time I'd have their jobs shoved straight up their asses and then pulled out to be used as tire irons to cave their heads in, and then while surrounded by an expert team of lawyers who insited nothing could be done about it, laughed it.
Freedom of speech should not entail being able to make an asshole out of yourself in front of me, Rachelcakes.
Initially she claimed that she'd been a proof reader for class papers. I rolled my eyes a bit while looking through my rolodex, thumbing through all the cards with new numbers and addresses that Winona Ryder had given me each time she shacked up with some new hot rising country star. so the girl, whose name is, quite benignly, Rachel, deigns to admit she'd been doing it since the 4th grade.
Regularly, under such sqeaking beams in the eaves as this pock-mark ridden young lady's audacity and clearly crackling control of verbal mechanics, I'd have stuck a finger into my mouth to give her the abrupt notice that she was making me sick. But of course I had to keep into account my friend Neil's insistance that she was the looker he needed. I had her stand up and remove half of her clothing, calling in my secretary Belinda to give Rachel the checklist once-over.
Rachel seemed to fit the bill for most of what we were looking for for this film, but I just couldn't burn from my mind her "proof-reading." She even mentioned being a script hand. Like that could happen in six thousand years. I had Belinda put me through to Neil, who was in a helicopter on the way to Spago. We talked it out for a little bit, and after so much of hearing the pilot brag about altitude and wind calibration, I said, "Fairuza Balk," and then I hung up the telephone, telling Belinda to have Neil's number put on block for the next hour until I was sure he'd be out of lunch and on to more pressing issues than bothering me.
Belinda flipped Rachel a few dimes. "There," I told her. "Go home and write some essays for me."
And after that I really did throw up. Some people have the class of cows in a field. Often I'm worried that if enough of them pervade the staunch respectability of this office, that I too will, in some way, be somehow marked by their footprints of failure sinking into the plush carpets of the foyer. It would be quite enough to make me vomit my entire body completely inside out. As Rachel was escorted from the building, I sent word down to the front desk that should she be allowed entrance into the main hall one more time I'd have their jobs shoved straight up their asses and then pulled out to be used as tire irons to cave their heads in, and then while surrounded by an expert team of lawyers who insited nothing could be done about it, laughed it.
Freedom of speech should not entail being able to make an asshole out of yourself in front of me, Rachelcakes.
Neil Garriscond.
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