Eat Shit and Live

Yeah it's been a while. What can I say.

I'm so fucking pissed I can't see straight!

I mean you can't just meditate shit like this away. You can't ba-ba-ba, wooo-eeee-oooo, write a little song about it and amaze the few fucking real friends you have left. In short, you can't do jack shit.

But then again, you are not me. And you only have yourself and God to blame for that.

What is it, Mr. Love? you ask. Why so out-of-sorts? What happened?

SHIT happened, that's what happened. Shit happened, and Stamos is DEAD to me! Well, was dead to me--I'll get to that in a minute. But he's on fucking notice, you can take that to the bank and smoke it!

Fucking Johnny boy. He was my golden child, my protege, my go-to guy. The techno-gizmo wizard renaissance man of So Cal. With the world at his feet! I mean this guy was to bongos what Michaelangelo was to ceilings. What that beautiful bastard can do with sweaty palms and rawhide should really be illegal (actually it is, now, in Wyoming and Rhode Island; hey, thanks, fucking Jardine !).

Guess that isn't enough. Guess number one hit singles aren't enough. I guess a supporting role to the Greatest Talent of His Generation in the Greatest Band of All Time is Not Enough.

I mean, ER? Seriously? Did Brando do ER? Does DeNiro do E fucking R?

Backstory:

So I'm in L.A. last week going 'stealth macro' at Chaya, and who walks in but Triple "G"--the Great Grinning Greek himself. If you recall from my last post, this cocksmoker's grin is legend. Put it this way: Stamos plays for keeps. Anything short of victory is unacceptable. See, when your game is good it makes you smile. When your game is great, you grin. He actually reminds me of me (in a semi-, less-talented way). Hence, the Stamosian Grin; hence, why I "Love" him.

Correction: "Loved." Like I said--on fucking notice.

"What's up?" I ask hopefully. "Did another 'original' die? Jardine? Johnston? He Who Shall Remain Nameless? Is it finally payday?" Not that I would wish ill on anybody; it's just that, when someone's been through, like, hardships, suffered for so long, dot dot dot....Plus, dying--while tragic--would inevitably bring a spike in sales, which of course would help the family of the deceased, especially when the deceased doesn't want to make that money honestly by taking the bull by the big pointy things and touring with me, so they get their lawyers involved, etc. Let me tell you: it's a fucking mess. Anyway. "What's the good word, O King of the Bongo?"

"I got it! I got the part!" He's grabbing my forearms like we're girlfriends at junior prom. Fucking guy is so bubbly it's embarrassing--and here we are standing near the orchids in a vegan bistro. I'm wearing a pink/yellow/black silk Hawaiian; his greasy groping feta tubthumpers are making me wish I wore long sleeves.

I'm less than thrilled. "Settle down, settle down. Part? What part? I thought we talked about this! I thought you were taking a break."

"Yeah but this is ER," he gushes, saying the show's name like he's a Hasid whispering the secret name of Yahweh to some lamb on the chopping block.

I'm like, "So? What about the band?"

"This is national tv, man! Prestige show. 'Must-see-TV,' all that! My agent is stoked. I mean this is where Clooney got his start!"

I set him straight: "Clooney 'got his start' because his aunt was famous, his dad was on TV, somebody-blew-somebody, presto, he's on TV. What. About. The. Band?"

"Come on, man! Things have been so up and down for me since my show went off the air. I mean I've had a few good projects since that fell through, but--"

"Yeah, and you know why they fell through, John? Do you? Do you really want to know why Jake in Progress didn't hit? Huh? I'll tell you why: You took your eye off the ball."

I leaned in closer. "You forgot about the music, man."

Somewhere a widdle bitty balloon popped, a clown cried, and a tear rolled down a kitten's cheek. Now Stamos is all flustered. "What? What are you talking about? Look, this is about my life, man. My career. My choices. This is what I do. This isn't about the music, or the band, or--"

"Ohhh, it's NOT about the music? NOT about the band?" Heads are definitely turning, and not just because two of the most famous people in L.A. are going toe-to-toe. "Are you hearing yourself? I mean, is this you? 'Cause I'm not even sure I know who I'm talking to here!"

"Mike, listen--"

"'Not about the band. Not about the music.' Well. I mean what the fuck, man. How could you even...Hey, you know what?"

"Mike, come on, it's just--"

"No. You know what?"

"What?"

"Who the fuck do you think you are? Who the fuck do you think you are? Do you know who you are fucking with?"

Now he's stopped his lame-ass pleading and he's only trying to calm me down, but I'm just getting started. "No, no, no. I listened to you, fucking prancing around with glee after stabbing me in the back; now you listen to me, asshole. Before your mom shat you out of her stinking gyros-hole, I was on the road singing number one hits in front of millions of people. I put in the time. I worked it! I gave my blood for it. And guess what? I'm still out there singing number one hits, only now it's in front of billions of people! And it's 'NOT about the band'? 'NOT' about the music? Well, fuck you, man. You want to talk about exposure? You want to talk about prestige? You want to talk about the fucking millions of dollars I pull in? It's called "Kokomo," bitch!!! And you--of ALL people--should know that."

There was a pause; he tried again. "'Kokomo' was great, but--"

"Don't you say its name! Don't you even say it's fucking name!" I spit. "I will sue that name right the fuck out of your mouth!"

People--potential ticket buyers--are starting to look a little nervous. I dial it back two notches.

"So basically as far as I'm concerned, you'll be hearing from my lawyers tomorrow morning. Oh, and congratulations on the big ER part! I hope you don't let all that, er, 'prestige' go to your head."

I pull out a few c-notes, toss them at the hostess. "This prick's lunch is on me," I tell her. "Hell--it always was 'on me'--wasn't it, Johnnyboy?" Put on my shades and jet downtown to the law offices.

I get around, motherfucker. Better believe it.

Fast forward to the present: My people talk to his people, a deal is reached. This is Hollywood, they speak the language of the liquid asset. Nothing more liquid than cash, the only thing of which I have in more abundance is talent. So you see where this is leading. Too bad, so sad, no full season showcase for Stamos! He gets just two shows during sweeps week, I get Bona-fide Bongo Backup in perpetuity.

How did he take it? Listen, actors will kill their own mothers to get face time in prime time, even if it's on a show that's jumped the shark so often there's a colonoscope crammed up Noah Wyle's ass looking for the Fonz. So you know Stamos is loving it, but really, who cares what he's loving? He's on fucking notice with Mr. Love. That is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. Trust me, he fucking knows it.

That's "Love," baby. You brought it on yourself.