That’s How It Works

One day, when I was 19 years old, I was in the middle of a photo shoot for a Miramax film when I was suddenly told it was time to leave. I was wearing a little black dress, showing a lot of cleavage, lying seductively on my side and looking slyly at the camera. The part I had played in the movie, Guinevere, could not have been more removed from this pose. My character was an awkward girl, bumbling, in fact, who wore sweatshirts and jeans, and had little sense of her sexual power. But this was how they were going to sell the movie, and at a certain point, I was tired of being a problem, which is how a female actor is invariably treated whenever she points out that she is being objectified or not respected.

I was pulled out of the photo shoot abruptly. The publicist stories-we-tell---sp-and-mp-snowmansaid that we needed to be in Harvey Weinstein’s office in 20 minutes.

“Are we done here?” I asked. “No” was the answer. “But Harvey wants you there now.”

In the taxi, the publicist looked at me and said: “I’m going in with you. And I’m not leaving your side.” I knew everything I needed to know in that moment, and I was grateful.

When I got there, Mr. Weinstein wasted no time. He told me, in front of the publicist and a co-worker beside him, that a famous star, a few years my senior, had once sat across from him in the chair I was in now. Because of his “very close relationship” with this actress, she had gone on to play leading roles and win awards. If he and I had that kind of “close relationship,” I could have a similar career. “That’s how it works,” I remember him telling me. The implication wasn’t subtle. I replied that I wasn’t very ambitious or interested in acting, which was true. He then asked me about my political activism and went on to recast himself as a left-wing activist, which was among the funniest things I’d ever heard.



Lost In The Mail

My Harvey story is different, mostly because of timing. I was in one of the first films that Weinstein produced. I accepted a supporting role in a small movie based on Loser Takes All, the short novel by Graham Greene. I was twenty years old. The idea of playing a supporting role in a small British movie appealed to me after having just made a big splash in the John Hughes movies. Plus, I was an enormous fan of Greene’s writing. When we began filming, in France, I was gallery-1445357085-gettyimages-111614916warned about the producer, but I had never heard of him and had no reason to fear him.

Thankfully, I wasn’t cajoled into a taxi, nor did I have to turn down giving or getting a massage. I was lucky. Or perhaps it was because, at that moment in time, I was the one with more power. The English Patient, Weinstein’s first Best Picture winner, was still a few years away. The worst I had to contend with was performing new pages that Harvey had someone else write, which were not in the script; my co-star, Robert Lindsay, and I had signed off to do a film adapted and directed by one person, and then were essentially asked to turn our backs on him and film scenes that were not what we had agreed to. We hadn’t even finished filming, and the movie was already being taken away from the director.

After that, the film was completely taken away, recut, and retitled. Weinstein named it Strike It Rich, because he insisted that Americans couldn’t stand to have the word “loser” in a title. He also changed the poster: he had my head stuck onto another body, dressed in a form-fitting, nineteen-fifties-pinup-style dress, with a hand reaching out to accept a diamond, like Marilyn Monroe in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. I wouldn’t have posed for a picture like that, since it had nothing to do with the character I portrayed; it struck me as ridiculous false advertising. (I was always a little mystified that Harvey had a reputation as a great tastemaker when he seemed so noticeably lacking in taste himself. But he did have a knack for hiring people who had it, and I figured that’s what passes for taste in Hollywood.) In any case, the film tanked. I had a percentage of the gross, and, as it turned out, you still make money if you have a gross percentage. I found this out about a year later, when my lawyer called to tell me that I had been denied the percentage owed to me. She asked if it was O.K. if she went after the Weinsteins. I ended up suing them for the money, which I got, and I never worked with Harvey or the company again.


Humans Transitioning Into New Life Forms


Mongo Pee-Friend Vlad Tells Americans To Sit Down And Shut Up

Vlad The Impaler, God Emperor For Life of Russia, and Mongo’s great good pee-friend, has told the Americans they must respectfully worship Mongo, or else they will be put in a Camp.

“Mongo was elected by the American people. And at least for this reason it is necessary to show respect for him, even if you do not agree with some of his positions,” the Russian leader said.

“Inside the country, disrespect is shown for him. This is a regrettable 28617-2916-1498putin rides trump_anegative component of the US political system,” Vlad said.

In Vlad’s opinion, “one can argue but one can’t show disrespect, even not for him personally but for those people who voted for him.”

“I believe that the president of the United States does not need any advice because one has to possess certain talent and go through this trial to be elected, even without having the experience of such big administrative work. He has done this,” the Russian leader said.

“He won honestly,” Vlad added, as the room erupted in giggles.

Vlad suggested that those who do not bend the knee to Mongo must “eat polonium pancakes or be shot in the elevator, as happens in my country. At the very least, they will be whipped in the streets.”

Mongo got a little woody, informed of Vlad’s words, and rushed to the twit machine, there to twitler that Vlad is “so nice. He could not have been nicer. He was so nice and so everything. He is a nicer person than I am. You have to give him credit that what he’s doing for that country in terms of their world prestige is very strong. I believe Vlad will continue to re-build the Russian Empire. He’s done an amazing job of taking the mantle. You look at what he’s doing. And so smart. When you see the riots in a country because they’re hurting the Russians: ‘okay, we’ll go and take it over.’ And he really goes step by step by step, and you have to give him a lot of credit. Russia is like, I mean they’re really hot stuff. In all fairness to Vlad, you’re saying he killed people—I haven’t seen that. I don’t know that he has. Have you been able to prove that? He hasn’t been convicted of anything. I’ve always had a good instinct about Vlad. I have received a gift from Vlad—an award and a beautiful letter. We got along great, by the way. Vlad said good things about me. He said, ‘he’s a leader and there’s no question about it, he’s a genius.’ If he says great things about me, I’m going to say great things about him. I’ve already said, he is really very much of a leader. We’re going to have a great relationship with Vlad and Russia. He is my new best friend.”

Order Man Tells Dead Negroes To Shut Their Yaps

Order Man is a retired serial killer Mongo initially tasked with killing brown people down along the nation’s southern border. He was then brought in as chief of staff, in a desperate attempt to impose some semblance of order in the Whiter House, back in the days when the likes of Rabies Man were running amok in the place, biting the desks and raping the sofa cushions.

In recent days Order Man has been shamelessly deployed as a human shield, in a craven gambit to protect Mongo from the consequences of his chundering lies about his predecessors’ record of contacting the relatives of US troops killed overseas. Order Man was quickly compelled to take even 29906170001_5616084654001_5616086113001-vsmore incoming, as widows and orphans across the land began clogging the tubes with tales of how Mongo is too busy masturbating like a monkey on the twit machine to give them a ring about the dead soldiers in their lives. One man said Mongo did call him, and even promised him a $25,000 bribe to shut up about his dead son, but the money was never sent; the Whiter House was forced to admit that Mongo had spent the money instead on remote-controlled butt plugs for Lolita.

Then Congressmember Frederica Wilson stated she was in the car when Mongo placed a call to the family of a soldier killed in Niger, and that Mongo was—surprise, surprise—callous and unfeeling, and couldn’t be bothered even to say the name of the dead soldier, or of the man’s widow, to whom Mongo was speaking. Mongo immediately whipped out his micropenis and pounded out a string of twitlering lies about the encounter, denying all. Then the man’s family members confirmed Wilson’s account, and so there was nothing to be done but place a giant Kunta Kinte slave collar around Order Man’s neck and drag him by a chain onto a stage to there take all the grenades, for Mongo.

The 400 pound guy on the bed stepped aside so Order Man could tell the press assembled that Mongo “called and expressed his condolences in the best way that he could.” Order Man added that “if ‘the best way that he could’ included ten minutes of screaming about Kneeling Negroes in the NFL, and an inquiry as to where the family likes best to get their fried chicken, well, that’s what people were electing, when they cast their vote for Mongo.”

Order Man said that was why he was “absolutely stunned” that Congressmember Wilson first listened in on the call, and then went to the press to talk about it. “Because if the election of Mongo means anything,” he pointed out, “it means the Americans are absolutely not interested in anything any Negress has to say. The election of Mongo was an explicit, complete, total rejection of Negritude, in its entirety. The only job of Negroes today is to go get killed overseas wherever rich white people want them to die, and, at home, to be shot by white police officers whenever those officers want to test-fire their guns. They are to keep their mouths shut at all times—and that goes double for their Negresses. The Negresses can do that shrieking and wailing over the coffins, like they do, but they are not to talk back to their betters, by which I mean any white person anywhere.”


Go Look At Uranus

If you are one of the ever-dwindling number of Americans who can look up at the sky and actually see the stars, you should go out now and look at Uranus.

All night Uranus will be visible to the naked eye, or at least to a naked eye pressed to binoculars.

At a magnitude of 5.68, Uranus shines no more brilliantly than the sky’s faintest stars. Given a dark sky free of light pollution, you might see omicron-pisciumUranus with the eye alone—but only if you know right where to look for this distant world in front of the rather faint constellation, Pisces.

In astrology, Pisces is the sign of psychedelics, REM sleep, quantum colored glasses, absolute refusal to accept that Mongo is actually in the world, and general deep weirdness. Thus it is right and meet that there one may perceive Uranus.

When I was in the school I had a criminal fake news teacher who insisted that Uranus was pronounced yer-uh-nuss. But we children were not deceived: we knew it was truly pronounced yer-anus. And that the criminal fake news teacher refused to acknowledge this because she was afraid if she correctly pronounced the word aloud, we children in the school would titter. And so what if we did? There is nothing wrong with tittering. And an anus is actually pretty titter-worthy. Except when, as now, it is the president.

Uranus is named after the guy who was married to Gaia, who is the earth. The word is derived from a proto-Greek word that means “to rain,” and is here probably referencing ejaculate, as the same root-word elsewhere wandered off to make a word meaning “to urinate.” If you are the guy married to the earth, you would want to have some ejaculate, so together you two could make some uranus_14other planets and moons and such.

Uranus is also the son of Gaia, because those old Greeks, they knew quantum.

Uranus was castrated and his genitals were thrown into the sea, where they churned up the foam that became Aphrodite. Today Aphrodite governs one of the two folds present in the male human brain—the porn fold. The other fold, the sports fold, is governed by Vince Lombardi.

The Science Men do not know a lot about what goes on there on the planet Uranus, because it doesn’t talk much, and it is shrouded in a “gaseous envelope”—which is also something that is occasionally emitted by your anus. It has a magnetic field that no one understands, and is cooler than the other planets, for No Known Reason. If you went there you would want to wear a jacket, because it is -371 degrees there, or colder even than Minnesota. It does have seasons, but doesn’t want to discuss them. The geography of Uranus is dominated by natural features known as dingleberries. These were named after Dr. Bernard Phillips Dingleberry, who first observed them, by placing his head up his ass. There is a lot of ammonia on Uranus, so it would smell like a catbox, if they had smelling in space. Uranus has 27 moons, all of which are named after characters from the works of William Shakespeare and Alexander Pope. These men liked anus jokes, too. From A Midsummer Night’s Dream are named the moons Titania, Oberon, and Puck. But there is from Dream no moon named for Bottom. Which is ridiculous. For this is, after all, Uranus.

So go out and look at it. You may then have a most rare vision.

Send In The Owls

When I Worked

October 2017
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