Ghosts in Brian County, repeating their worst mistakes over and over again.
Negligent writing became a sore spot on the schedule, which in itself had already turned into so much of a mess that it seemed almost ridiculous to avoid the standard awful daily reflection, which was as absent as the expression on a mirror’s face that is locked in a tiny dark closet. Nobody wanted to say anything about it either, but everybody
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I think I was sitting maybe two tables down from Ted Danson, though at the time I had no clue that it was him. Not that I'd have done much even if I did know it was him, but you know, I've had it in for Ted for a long, long time. I was on the set of his television show 'Cheers' once, but it wasn't much fun at all. They were filming the episode wherein the wall between the bar and the pool room got bricked up. I was working the sound for that episode, and afterward I had a few drinks with Woody Harrelson, George Wendt and two girls Woody met in a bar the previous evening.
The two girls kept trying to get into Woody's pants all night, which made me feel quite uncomfortable. George was really drunk, so I don't believe he even noticed. He was also doing a lot of cocaine, and excused himself at one point because I think his nose was bleeding.
None of that stuff, however, made me feel as uncofortable as when you where getting the shit kicked out of you, Louis. There were thickset men in black suits guarding the back exit who kept staring at me and I got the feeling things would have turned very ugly if I hadn't darted out before Garriscond even left. I caught a quick taxi to my friend Stanley's motel room, where he was getting laid, so I stayed outside and read from an encyclopedia until the hooker left.
The back of her hot pink skirt became a growing violet bloodstain as she stood at the curb trying to hail a taxi; the way it formed looked like a Rorshach test. I felt sort of bad for her, in a way, but life isn't something you can hang onto with both hands all the time. She was lucky she still had the fingers to hail her car with, and in my heart I hoped she knew that. But hookers don't really think of things like that, do they? They keep at it and keep at it until they're dead. Or missing a leg. Back in Whitechapel, during the late 1800s, girls were getting a glimpse of the big picture, but they still didn't give it the ultimate final thought until it was too late. An uncle of mine once claimed he knew who Jack the Ripper was, but my uncle was a fucking jerk, so I never quite stuck around to hear his theory.
The encyclopedia entry I was reading described a generous outline of Al Capone's life. He was a truly frightening man. My grandfather Chutzie had been a business acquaintance of Capone's, though nothing illegal even came of their partnership. What they had between them was actually a completely legal affair under contractual agreements that my grandfather tailored Capone's suits. Chutzie had also done suits for Bugsy Seigal and even John Sheen.
Anyway, I have to go. Stanley's getting grouchy because his knuckles are still bleeding.
Please send someone for me,
Souther.
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