Haven’t read Chapters 1, 2, 3, and 4?
Go back and read them now or this
won’t make one damn bit of sense.
Some things you never want to see. A child disappointed at
Christmas, a Squirrel getting it's head crushed by a semi, James
Brolin wearing a leather cap, vest and chaps, his rig snugged up
in a leather sack about the size of a marbles bag.
It's not that Brolin looks bad as a leather Daddy, which he
really does. It's what the site of his pale, wrinkled carcass
all gussied up in shiny black skins like a naughty pony standing
in front of a stretch limo means. Shit. Some people call AAA
when they total their wheels. Oprah calls Streisand.
O rounded up our sad little crew and herded us toward the Limo.
Meredith made up for her silence by breathing like a Squid
trying to eat Jell-O through a straw. Celine chirruped little
nonsense syllables now and then, like a parakeet having a
seizure, or maybe she was thinking out loud in French Canadian.
"Say Brolin, Nice to see you," I small talked, "Damn shame about
your Reagan pic. Didn't see it myself, I think paying for
ShowTime is like paying for sex, except I like sex, but that's
just me." He didn't say anything, didn't even look at me.
Getting into the stretch, I saw the back of his Chaps were
seatless. I'm not what you'd call a Brolin fan, but I guess if
you knew his work you might say his face had aged gracefully.
The same argument could not be made for his ass. Not that I ever
saw his ass in it's youth. I just assume it looked a whole lot
better than it did now. I mean, it must have, unless he had
Progeria of the Ass.
"Ey!" Celine spasmed, "I know you! You are ze James Bro-LIN! I
am ze ‘uge fan, Nec Pas? Amytiville ‘or-air? MAGNIFIQUE! You
play ze fa-ZAIR? To Dana Car-VEY? In ze tres brillyant film ze
Mastair of ze Dis-guy-ZEZ? You know? TUR-TEL! TUR-TEL!"
Brolin was as silent as the tomb. You wouldn't have known he was
alive if not for the tell tale motion of his hands on the wheel
and the horrible sound his Ass made peeling off the leather seat
when he shifted.
"Ay, Misouier Le Bro-lin, why you make to be ze Sho-fair, eh?
You are fay-MUS, you don' need the ‘ow you say, moon-lie-ting,
an even if you are between ze jobs, you are mar-reed to Ze-
"Shut it." Hissed O.
"But, his wife, she is Ze-"
"Shut your damn croissant hole or I'll open this door, drag you
across my lap and sand your face off on the pavement."
Celine shut up. Meredith either sobbed once or tried to swallow
a live Halibut; it was hard to tell with the dome light off.
Brolin's ass peeled off the seat again. He had to be
uncomfortable. Poor bastard probably hadn't been comfortable
since Marcus Welby went off the air. I guess when you've been on
the most prolonged downhill career slide in Hollywood History,
marrying... Her... seems like a way out. Of course a man might
have considered eating the business end of a twelve gauge first.
"O..." I started.
"You shut it too, jokeboy."
"Hmmm, let me think about that," I mused. "No. No, I don't think
I will 'shut it' thanks. I might have shut it before your little
self-affirmation by comparison, Canuck, Clear Channel Cooze
croaked Walters. I might have shut it after you took one look at
20-20's pinnate head and fainted like a Japanese schoolgirl at a
Bay City Roller's concert. I might even have shut it after you
snoozed out at the wheel and almost KILLED US ALL, but now that
you've decided to ice the cake by delivering us GIFT WRAPPED to
the single most EVIL person on the PLANET, a woman who makes
Hannibal Lecter look like a fucking GIRL SCOUT with SOCIAL
"I SAID I'D FIX THIS, DIDN'T I?" Oprah bellowed. "Well how the
hell you gonna fix something as big as deep sixing Barbara
Walters? You got a fix for that, Mr. Comedian? No? How ‘bout
you, Titanic? You the one made horseradish dip out of her brain
with your goddamn Jellybean! You gonna patch up THAT
misunderstanding, you demented Canadian stick figure?"
"Lidden, Obrah," Meredith started, but Oprah shot out a hand,
grabbed her broken nose and twisted once left, once right, and
the former legitimate journalist passed right out.
"No," She continued as if there had been no interruption. "No.
You can't fix it. Only a big connection can fix a mess like
this. You two sorry ass mugs got connections like that? Don't
make me laugh."
What could I say? She had me. Truth was, Oprah was the biggest
gun I knew. Truth was, Liza could have beat the crap out of
Streisand one handed, but that was a lot of barbiturates,
bourbon and face lifts under the bridge and if Judy's Daughter
still had the neurons that remembered me, it wouldn't be fondly.
"Hey, Brolin, ol' buddy, ol' pal," I said, leaning up over the
seat, catching a whiff of something that smelled like old spice
and dead animals, "I gotta bleed the weasel. What say we pull
over at the next rest stop and we stretch our legs, huh?"
He didn't say anything, just kept driving.
"Say," I tried, "I heard on Access Hollywood right before you
got married you put your nuts in a blind trust. That true?"
"So, uh, your mom told me your real Dad is Ernest Borgnine, but
that was just pillow talk and she was pretty drunk. Ever met
Zippo. Not even an Ass peel.
Nothing to do but sit back, enjoy the ride and wait to meet
Streisand. I thought back to the time in High school I drank
that gallon jug of Robitussin, ditched the senior field trip and
hid out in the "Small World" ride at Disney.
This was worse.
To be continued?