“My life is boring and not worth writing about, except for my knowledge of one thing. So this blog will focus on that thing. It is, for lack of a better word, celebrity. I stumbled onto it by a series of chance events. Suffice it to say, I can tell you what it’s like to see your picture on the magazine rack every now and again when you pay for groceries. And that’ll have to suffice. I’d like this to be the sort of account afforded only by anonymity. And it that happens, if my identity were revealed, I’d quickly be selling grapefruits — instead of paying $14 a pop to eat them — on Sunset Blvd.”
Maybe, although the paranoia of exposure seems a little overwritten. But what do I know about being a celebrity? More to the point, do I really care as long as I can pretend that the gory details of Hollywood life are true?
“Recently, though, a producer I’ve worked with and seven Industry buds of his flew their own private jet from LA to Havana for a day of mojitas, Cohibas and sixteen-year-old whores, and, upon their return, were each fined $25,000, for no other reason than their hubris. For the producer, this is Tooth-Fairy money, and a small price to be hailed as a bad ass. I should note that my cleaning lady, who’s small enough to be turned away from the more perilous amusement park rides, could kick his ass.”
I don’t care if it’s fiction as long as it’s amusing.