Blind Item #11 - Preface - A Dancing Boy Blind Item
Here's a little secret sneak preview (as in for your eyes only) of the preface to the first dancing boy feature. (It's in the form of a book, as I said, and the preface - which appears in the front matter - explains how I came to write/tell the story. All of the dialog will be signed [ALS], rather than spoken, and in one case - because I'm unable to move/use my hands at a certain point - will be in morse code. See: certain bad actors have taken to eavesdropping on my privileged communications, first with my shrink - the long time radio and tv personality, and subsequently with my attorney/the actress in all this. Also: it precedes the introduction - about the public, private, and secret life of Hollywood [which is v/o] - and to have spoken parts would undermine the build up.)
The set up is as follows. My psychiatrist, exasperated after hearing the same stories over and over, finally suggests or really insists that I go public with them, and of course advises me to get a lawyer first (the NDA with the studio, and everything/everything else). So, I do, and she shows up in town from LA with someone else - this, well, okay, Henry Thomas. (It has to do with the secret global elite stuff too.)
It's in prose form here, and is a rough cut, but I'm sharing in part because of what will follow. Imagine what will happen next. That will be filmed actually happening: a real life detox, in other words.
So, at my house in the woods. I get there to find not just her but them both.
“What's he doing here?”
“Making pizza?”
“I knew I was hiring a lawyer. I didn't realize I was hiring a personal chef too.”
“The order is concerned for your safety.”
“Is that the reason for the dog?”
“He has a different job.”
“Let me guess: actor? Here Cujo, here Lassey. Oh wait, I guess he can't hear me.”
“He works in law enforcement. We found the drugs – all of them.”
“They must have been planted. See?” I signed, showing her my arms.
“Now show us your toes.”
“I'd rather not. They're hardly my best feature.”
“That's an order probey,” the other one said.
I sat down on the sofa, and lifted my left foot.
“Will you ever grow up?” she signed, untying my shoe, and taking it off, followed by my sock. They both examined my toes, and in between them.
“Yep,” he said. “I think that's all we need.”
“And you didn't even share this with your shrink.”
“He told you that?”
“No, but you just did.”
“I'm not going back to rehab.”
“You're right. Rehab is coming to you.”
With that, a car pulled into the driveway...
Also to appear in this sequence, hiding in the closet? A certain millennial tv actress, trying to stage a comeback. What is she doing there? It seems there's been some kind of relationship between us (which may or may not lead to something else, but if it does - the one that takes roughly 3/4 of a year to play out, I mean - it may just make it into certain publications). Also there to chain me to a desk so that I finish writing this thing? The Oscar-winning writer/director closely associated with my producer.
The set up is as follows. My psychiatrist, exasperated after hearing the same stories over and over, finally suggests or really insists that I go public with them, and of course advises me to get a lawyer first (the NDA with the studio, and everything/everything else). So, I do, and she shows up in town from LA with someone else - this, well, okay, Henry Thomas. (It has to do with the secret global elite stuff too.)
It's in prose form here, and is a rough cut, but I'm sharing in part because of what will follow. Imagine what will happen next. That will be filmed actually happening: a real life detox, in other words.
So, at my house in the woods. I get there to find not just her but them both.
“What's he doing here?”
“Making pizza?”
“I knew I was hiring a lawyer. I didn't realize I was hiring a personal chef too.”
“The order is concerned for your safety.”
“Is that the reason for the dog?”
“He has a different job.”
“Let me guess: actor? Here Cujo, here Lassey. Oh wait, I guess he can't hear me.”
“He works in law enforcement. We found the drugs – all of them.”
“They must have been planted. See?” I signed, showing her my arms.
“Now show us your toes.”
“I'd rather not. They're hardly my best feature.”
“That's an order probey,” the other one said.
I sat down on the sofa, and lifted my left foot.
“Will you ever grow up?” she signed, untying my shoe, and taking it off, followed by my sock. They both examined my toes, and in between them.
“Yep,” he said. “I think that's all we need.”
“And you didn't even share this with your shrink.”
“He told you that?”
“No, but you just did.”
“I'm not going back to rehab.”
“You're right. Rehab is coming to you.”
With that, a car pulled into the driveway...
Also to appear in this sequence, hiding in the closet? A certain millennial tv actress, trying to stage a comeback. What is she doing there? It seems there's been some kind of relationship between us (which may or may not lead to something else, but if it does - the one that takes roughly 3/4 of a year to play out, I mean - it may just make it into certain publications). Also there to chain me to a desk so that I finish writing this thing? The Oscar-winning writer/director closely associated with my producer.
