Everyone’s out of town. No one’s working. This town? It’s over. Done-zo. All out of gas and running on treads. I’m ready to step up—step out. This is my moment. Nothing’s getting in my way. We gotta a fuckin’ convoy running through the night. ‘Cuz we’ve got a convoy ain’t nothing getting in our way. Yeah we’ve got a convoy, ready now for the light.
I don’t work well on vacation. Apparently you’re not supposed to work at all when you’re on vacation, which is news to me, because I always see people reading on the beach. Why? Who’s their messenger? Who’s telling them to read Colleen Hoover? Remember, I’ve been through this many times, many generations: J. K. Rowling, Danielle Steele, Stephen King, Judith Krantz, William Goldman, Joseph Wambaugh, Harold Robbins, Alistair MacLean, Horace McCoy—would you like me to go on? None of you know who these people are. Okay, some. A few. But, you know, none of you heard Goethe read from his unfinished Dr. Faustus in the late 1780s. I did. Learn.
I told all of this to Mr. Tarantino, who I was told loved history and was a big reader. This may be true, but he wasn’t interested in my firsthand account of Goethe. Like, the Goethe. Did he understand who I was talking about? I realized maybe he hadn’t read Goethe—even Elective Affinities, which Francis Ford Coppola nearly made in the early-1980s as a 10-hour 3D extravaganza. But Wambaugh? As soon as I mentioned The Choirboys, it was if I pressed play on the 2023 episode of Tarantino’s Video Archives Podcast. He repeated what he said verbatim, while Mr. Fincher and Mr. Pitt walked away. They’d been here before, but it was all new to me.
I interrupted Mr. Tarantino to ask what he thought of President Trump’s recent movie missive. Would our movie be at risk? “Of course not,” he said, “We’re shooting in Los Angeles. Besides, I haven’t been paying attention. It’ll be fine. It’ll all work out. Don’t worry, Benny.” We’re on a nickname basis now. I still don’t dare tell him about my family’s history with John Boehner and Guantanamo Bay—he might get the idea to write a movie about it (it would make a pretty sick movie to be honest). Mr. Fincher still calls me by my full name. Mr. Pitt and I were friendly, but he’s found a new emotional support animal. This time it’s a parrot. Seriously? Talk about a lack of imagination. Fine, go off and be a cliche. Live your “truth.” I’ll be over here making art.
The Continuing Adventures of Cliff Booth is a Los Angeles production. We may shoot some stuff in Texas, Nevada, or Arizona, but it’s an American production, through and through. The most recent phone number I have for the President hasn’t worked in a while, but I’m still trying to get him to visit the set. I doubt my three bosses would mind—business is business. Things might get tetchy if the President demands a cameo, which he absolutely will, so perhaps we’ll have to settle for a beer summit. The last time we talked, President Trump asked me about Mr. Tarantino’s 10-movie rule. “What’s wrong with him?” He was completely confused. “He’s a brilliant filmmaker. Makes some of the best movies. Why would he stop? I’m 20 years older than him and I’m, like, the President. You know, it’s, kind of like, a really hard job. And I’m doing fine. Is he getting tired? Is he on drugs? Is he on the ‘fat shot’? He doesn’t look that thick to me.”
I haven’t told Mr. Tarantino about my conversation with the President; maybe I should wait until we’ve shot enough footage that I can’t be replaced. I might have to wait the rest of the summer, the rest of the year… this is killing me. I just want to flex and homies trying to stunt. Federal tax incentives? Give me a fucking incentive not to break my NDA. You know, HBO and Nathan Fielder are having problems with that now. It could happen here… it could happen to you… Guantanamo Bay is open all year round…
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