Facts of the matter.unburiableMay 27 2005, 09:56:46 UTC
Prompted by what I can only describe as a situation that needs a life lesson quicker than the amount of time it takes to order and actually finally receive a perfectly prepared Great White Shark filet, I say, “Now Ashton, watch and listen very closely.”
Removing my right hand from a glass of wine, I push it out over the table with my index and middle fingers raised. This is how I signal waiters and it works every time because these people are trained to discover each and every day that life has passed them by. And so I proceed to demonstrate my point to Ashton Kutcher, who I am presently dining with under the pretense of running through the script of a follow-up to Peter Yates’ lauded 1979 film Breaking Away, titled Breaking Away 2. Speaking to Ashton is like talking to a wall, almost; the glaring difference being that walls are usually clean-shaven.
I am here to make sure that he understands this is not to be a game, this movie, and that not only will it make or break his career, but I want him to clearly understand and comprehend my meaning when I say that if he sours the image of this film with his hype instead of doing it justice with an Oscar-prone performance, I will personally have my driver stomp his legs in right in front of the valet boy.
A passing waiter catches my raised fingers and knows that I wish to speak with him.
“Yes, sir?” he asks, enunciated and jovial.
“Tell me, waiter. Why are you doing this?’
The expression waxing over the waiter’s face is not unlike the one stalling the curtain call of any form of intelligent thought deciphered from watching Ashton unblinkingly fail to resemble a respectable example of Hollywood.
The waiter falters for a moment, so I repeat myself. “Why are you doing this,” I ask.
“Why am I doing what, sir?”
“This.”
“Um, this job?”
I look over at Ashton, who I am fairly sure has no clue what to think. And although this disappoints me, I feel suddenly very tired and so to run back through anything for the sake of this ‘actor’ seems like a horrible waste of even the waiter’s time. But I continue anyway. “No, why are you doing this?”
“I’m afraid I’m not understanding your question, sir. Why am I doing what? Waiting tables, talking to you?”
“Okay, yes.”
“Waiting tables?”
Impatiently trying to find some small sort of detection of the situation on Ashton’s face, “Yes.”
“Well, it’s my job, sir. And I need the money to pay for school.”
“I didn’t ask about your life, waiter. I asked why you are doing this. And so, because it’s your job, you say?”
The waiter is noticeably feeling insulted. This is not my intention, but also, and more importantly, none of my concern. He says to me, depleted, “Yes.”
“Well,” I continue. “If it weren’t you doing this, then who would it be?”
Handsome refrain.unburiableMay 27 2005, 09:57:19 UTC
I stare now at Ashton, who is paying attention but barely keeping up. “Exactly.” Then, once again facing the waiter, “And that, my friend, the waiter, is what your predecessor said before he moved on.”
Abruptly, I wave the sad-faced boy off. And I lean in to Ashton. “Now listen to me good, Ashton. Don’t be this ‘some other guy’, okay? Because that, as you will find out if you’re on the ground, in the gutter, thinking about your shitty life, is bullshit. It is for the birds, it is not now, it is not ever. Don’t be some other guy.”
Kutcher finally gets it. He’s grinning. His teeth look like kissing targets for an entire swine herd of rich, pointless suburban girls, and even though that’s a plus, it’s not what I am counting on him for in this particular situation.
“So Ashton. What I am saying is, don’t fucking blow it. You’re been given a rare chance. A starring role in the follow-up to Breaking Away 2. This whole thing with Demi has gotten you far.”
His face is getting red. “What do you mean this Demi thing? This is not a ‘thing’, Neil, I’m in love with Demi.”
Taking my time to swallow a mouthful of wine I feel is generally more valuable than the disinclined fake gentleman before me, I utter, “Oh, is that right?” Well, Ashton Kutcher, when was the perfect little glorious moment you decided you were in love; was it after you saw The Seventh Sign? Or her daring take on silver screen trash in G.I. Jane? Or maybe, perhaps when she was the only attendee to the premiere of The Butterfly Effect who actually was so logic-impaired as to think you were a legitimately good actor in that fucking waste of money and time?”
Ashton reaches forward and tries to take a swing at me. But I dip back in my chair and his mismanaged weight throws the table out. Down into a bowl of soup goes his face, which I feel looks somewhat cinematic. He raises his face from the soup, pushing the broken table down for good, sending the soup bowl clattering across the floor and smashing into pieces.
Raising his finger at me, he shouts, “Fuck you, Neil Garriscond!”
Still clutching the bottle of wine and my glass, I pour myself more, sip it. “Just don’t ruin my film, young man. I’m only having you on as a favor to Bruce Willis, who is quite embarrassed at having lost his wife to someone with a track record like yours. He wants you to do good in this film so he can feel like you’re at least worth Demi. I, for one, do not feel you are. And this, coming from a man who wonders what the fuck Bruce is still crying over when he says he misses that worthless overpaid walking human hooker.”
Before he can respond I swing the bottle his way and it lands in his belly, doubling the teen-pop star over. “And by the way, Kutcher. Chimes McGavern is replacing Dennis Quaid in the role of Mike. Quaid will still have a bit part in the film, however, as your character’s old high school buddy turned car mechanic. You’d better learn the lyrics to ‘Cutter Cars’ before the first shoot, or he’s going to do you more harm than this little stunt has done you. And for the record, you are no longer welcome here at Estradi’s. I will see to it that your privileges here are winsomely revoked.”
Removing my right hand from a glass of wine, I push it out over the table with my index and middle fingers raised. This is how I signal waiters and it works every time because these people are trained to discover each and every day that life has passed them by. And so I proceed to demonstrate my point to Ashton Kutcher, who I am presently dining with under the pretense of running through the script of a follow-up to Peter Yates’ lauded 1979 film Breaking Away, titled Breaking Away 2. Speaking to Ashton is like talking to a wall, almost; the glaring difference being that walls are usually clean-shaven.
I am here to make sure that he understands this is not to be a game, this movie, and that not only will it make or break his career, but I want him to clearly understand and comprehend my meaning when I say that if he sours the image of this film with his hype instead of doing it justice with an Oscar-prone performance, I will personally have my driver stomp his legs in right in front of the valet boy.
A passing waiter catches my raised fingers and knows that I wish to speak with him.
“Yes, sir?” he asks, enunciated and jovial.
“Tell me, waiter. Why are you doing this?’
The expression waxing over the waiter’s face is not unlike the one stalling the curtain call of any form of intelligent thought deciphered from watching Ashton unblinkingly fail to resemble a respectable example of Hollywood.
The waiter falters for a moment, so I repeat myself. “Why are you doing this,” I ask.
“Why am I doing what, sir?”
“This.”
“Um, this job?”
I look over at Ashton, who I am fairly sure has no clue what to think. And although this disappoints me, I feel suddenly very tired and so to run back through anything for the sake of this ‘actor’ seems like a horrible waste of even the waiter’s time. But I continue anyway. “No, why are you doing this?”
“I’m afraid I’m not understanding your question, sir. Why am I doing what? Waiting tables, talking to you?”
“Okay, yes.”
“Waiting tables?”
Impatiently trying to find some small sort of detection of the situation on Ashton’s face, “Yes.”
“Well, it’s my job, sir. And I need the money to pay for school.”
“I didn’t ask about your life, waiter. I asked why you are doing this. And so, because it’s your job, you say?”
The waiter is noticeably feeling insulted. This is not my intention, but also, and more importantly, none of my concern. He says to me, depleted, “Yes.”
“Well,” I continue. “If it weren’t you doing this, then who would it be?”
“Somebody else, sir.”
“Somebody else? Who?”
“Anybody, sir. Some other guy.”
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Abruptly, I wave the sad-faced boy off. And I lean in to Ashton. “Now listen to me good, Ashton. Don’t be this ‘some other guy’, okay? Because that, as you will find out if you’re on the ground, in the gutter, thinking about your shitty life, is bullshit. It is for the birds, it is not now, it is not ever. Don’t be some other guy.”
Kutcher finally gets it. He’s grinning. His teeth look like kissing targets for an entire swine herd of rich, pointless suburban girls, and even though that’s a plus, it’s not what I am counting on him for in this particular situation.
“So Ashton. What I am saying is, don’t fucking blow it. You’re been given a rare chance. A starring role in the follow-up to Breaking Away 2. This whole thing with Demi has gotten you far.”
His face is getting red. “What do you mean this Demi thing? This is not a ‘thing’, Neil, I’m in love with Demi.”
Taking my time to swallow a mouthful of wine I feel is generally more valuable than the disinclined fake gentleman before me, I utter, “Oh, is that right?” Well, Ashton Kutcher, when was the perfect little glorious moment you decided you were in love; was it after you saw The Seventh Sign? Or her daring take on silver screen trash in G.I. Jane? Or maybe, perhaps when she was the only attendee to the premiere of The Butterfly Effect who actually was so logic-impaired as to think you were a legitimately good actor in that fucking waste of money and time?”
Ashton reaches forward and tries to take a swing at me. But I dip back in my chair and his mismanaged weight throws the table out. Down into a bowl of soup goes his face, which I feel looks somewhat cinematic. He raises his face from the soup, pushing the broken table down for good, sending the soup bowl clattering across the floor and smashing into pieces.
Raising his finger at me, he shouts, “Fuck you, Neil Garriscond!”
Still clutching the bottle of wine and my glass, I pour myself more, sip it. “Just don’t ruin my film, young man. I’m only having you on as a favor to Bruce Willis, who is quite embarrassed at having lost his wife to someone with a track record like yours. He wants you to do good in this film so he can feel like you’re at least worth Demi. I, for one, do not feel you are. And this, coming from a man who wonders what the fuck Bruce is still crying over when he says he misses that worthless overpaid walking human hooker.”
Before he can respond I swing the bottle his way and it lands in his belly, doubling the teen-pop star over. “And by the way, Kutcher. Chimes McGavern is replacing Dennis Quaid in the role of Mike. Quaid will still have a bit part in the film, however, as your character’s old high school buddy turned car mechanic. You’d better learn the lyrics to ‘Cutter Cars’ before the first shoot, or he’s going to do you more harm than this little stunt has done you. And for the record, you are no longer welcome here at Estradi’s. I will see to it that your privileges here are winsomely revoked.”
My helicopter is waiting on the roof.
Neil Garriscond.
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