Reel Suite - May 28, 2008
Hey everybody. I gotta make this quick because I'm writing this week's blog from Mia Cybercafe at Jan van Galenstraat 190 in Amsterdam and I only have enough money for ten minutes. Plus there's a skinny, tattooed guy wearing eye makeup staring at me.
I cannot possibly tell you in this short time how I came to be in this city at this time. As you know, last week I was at the Cannes Film Festival. After my hotel room was robbed, things went downhill for me. Left with no more films to see, I found myself on a drinking binge. Wearing only my Hall and Oates t-shirt, I crawled from bar to bar. I threw barstools through windows. Puked on a Belgian publicist. I got into a fight with some gay guys and they busted me up good. Split lip and black eye.
I ended up in a fetal position on a cobblestone street Sunday night, and was helped to my feet by a glowering, swarthy man, smoking a Camel and holding a festival award. He introduced himself as Nuri Bilge Ceylan, a Turkish man who I came to understand won Best Director for something called "Three Monkeys", which I assume is about monkeys. He said he was on cloud nine, absolutely bristling with energy, and he asked me to take a "spirited ride with him, to anywhere and everywhere, a journey of self-discovery!" My mother always taught me never to turn down a ride from a Turk. It offends them deeply. So I accepted.
He drove at top speed through provincial French towns and villages, smoking like a refinery, popping amphetamines and shouting about Turkish persecution, familial disclocation and Eva Longoria. Oh, what he would do to Eva Longoria. Through the dreamlike haze of smoke, all I could see was his close-cropped spiky hair, his wild, deep-set eyes and jutting, purposeful chin. He said something about my bush being a "keeler". He said, "Your bush has keeled so many! Your bush is a lowlife keeler!" I have no idea what the hell he was talking about. I don't have a bush. Then he made me drive while he had intercourse with a hooker in the passenger seat, whom he dumped at the Netherlands border, screaming something about the truth of existence.
In Amsterdam, we smoked joint after joint, knocked over bike riders and climbed steeples, from which we hocked loogies. But his loogies were better, because they were in Turkish. The last I saw him, he was swimming the length of a canal, weeping, crying out for someone named Hatice.
And so I find myself here at the Mia Cybercafe. Skinny tattooed guy asked me how much I wanted for my t-shirt. I sold it to him for 6 Euros. Now I am shirtless. And his friends are chanting, "Manboobs, manboobs..."
Umm, let's see. I understand "Indy 4" took in $151 mil domestic and $311 global. Net looks to be considerable. I sold the foreign rights to Manka Highbrow's "The Reticence of Butterflies" for a buck and a half on a street corner in Grasse.
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I remember hocking loogies from atop a church steeple, but I do not remember you.
Kurt, when you get back, we'll have to talk about that "Reticence of Butterflies" deal you made.