Blow by Blow

Pete Doherty vs. the Mirror

Why, they look as healthy as crack-addicted horses!

[As you may well be aware, Mssr. Doherty has financed various drug purchases via the sale of compromising photos. Of course, said photos are usually sold by a “manager” or “engineer,” rather than by Doherty himself. This is due to the fact that Doherty is rarely in any condition to negotiate prices or purchase drugs without losing half the stash on the stumble home. 
The following incident bears all the hallmarks of a Pete Doherty “Hail Mary” pass, but with the tragic twist of “Pistol” Pete himself trying to operate as his own middleman.
All names other than Pete Doherty’s and Kate Moss’ have been changed to protect our inside source.]

Mort: Mirror Tipline, this is Mort.

Pete: Morty! Petey here. I just emailed some photos to you. Think you might find them interesting.

Mort: I might at that. Let me pull them up.

[Some appropriately clicky and keyboardy noises.]

Mort: Hmmm. [Pause.] What am I looking at?

Petey: [Tries, but fails pathetically to suppress a giggle.] It’s Kate! She’s getting all schnookered on nose candy and all and sundry.

Mort: [Another pause.] Well. Hmmm. [Clicking.] Let me tell you what I see: looks like a thumb… part of someone’s thigh… maybe an upper arm… no track marks, though… I’m going with thigh… some bedding catching on fire… Whoa! Looks like a shot of “Little Petey” here! That might be worth something… a monogrammed mirror with a powdery, white “substance” on it… that might have some value as well…

Petey: Wot? Are you having me on?

Mort: That’s what I’ve got. I’d say we’re looking at about 200 pounds for the whole lot.

Petey: Shite. I was hoping to do a bit better—

[Puts hand over earpiece in a completely-off attempt at privacy; speaks to someone off-camera.*]

*So to speak.

Petey: Oy, Kate. I’ll fix another for ye. Let me just get the lights up again.

[Sound of something falling and shattering.]

Petey: Bollocks. [Pause.] Back in ‘ere, Katey. I’ve think I’ve got a handle on the pictomajig now.

Mort: Petey? She knows you’re taking pictures?

Petey: Yeh, Mort. She’d like to be described as “willowy.”

Mort: The fuck does that mean?

Petey: Oy, Kate! What the fuck does “willowy” mean?

[Inaudible from off-camera.]

Petey: “Healthy enough.”

Mort: Ha! Any preference for you?

Petey: I’m no good at parsing. What do you suggest?

Mort: “Loutish.” “Deplorable.” “Gangrenous.”

Petey: Oooh! Let’s go with the last one. Sounds pirate-y!

Mort: Fine, fine. I’ll send a man over to drop of the check in about an hour.

Petey: Could you have him swing by Jimmy the Sleeve? He’s got a bag of… um… er… well… [longish pause] … drugs for me.

Mort: Absolutely not.

Petey: Oh, c’mon Morty! I don’t want to have to make two trips.

Mort: You’re not even making one now.

Petey: Fine. I’ll be here.

Mort: That’s a lad. Cheers! 



Martin Scorsese vs. Hollywood
March 6, 2010, 9:16 pm
Filed under: Hollywood | Tags: , ,

The most talented eyebrows in Hollywood.


[Martin Scorsese (whom we’ll call “Marty” so we can pretend to be on a first-name basis with him) is looking for some help “punching up” his latest script. The calls begin to roll in. Let’s listen.] 

Marty: Hello?
David Mamet: Marty. It looks like you pretty much have “fuck” nailed down. I’m not sure what I could add. Perhaps a few “cunts?”
Marty: That’s exactly what Mike Leigh said. I’ll consider it.

Marty: Hello?
Quentin Taratino: Marty? Quentin. Look. Here’s the shot: camera pans low across the blacktop. Music comes up. Something funky and sexy from the ’70s. Shit-hot chick steps out of a muscle car. I’m talking brick shithouse in Blowup hot. Short shorts. Fro? Maybe. Camera starts a slow pan up, lingering on her luscious toes with red nails in some black sandals—

Marty: Hello?
Steven King: I’ve got “fuckadoodledoo,” “fuckarooni,” “fuckashimsham,” “fuckabobanna”—
Marty: You realize nobody has ever talked like that, right? Never. Ever.
Steven King: Well. Then obviously you’ve never been to Maine. Why, my boyhood friends used to ride our bikes—

Marty: Hello?
Guy Ritchie: Here’s what I’ve got: camera pans low across the blacktop. Music comes up. Something funky and sexy from the ’70s. Shit-hot chick steps out of a muscle car. I’m talking brick shithouse in Blowup hot. Short shorts. Fro? Maybe. Camera starts a slow pan up, lingering on her luscious toes with red nails in some black sandals—
Marty: Quentin, I already turned you down.
Guy Ritchie: This is Guy Ritchie.
Marty: Bullshit. Work on your accent, Quentin. It’s terrible.

Marty: Hello?
Mel Gibson: Shit’s coming loose here, Marty. I really need a drink.
Marty: I’m not your sponsor, Mel. Joy Behar is. I don’t know why you keep calling me.
Mel Gibson: [Drunken gurgling.]
Marty: Mel. Mel. Have another.
Mel Gibson: Really?
Marty: The fuck do I care.

Marty: Hello?
David Hasselhoff: Marty, I really need a drink.

Marty: Hello?
Michael Mann: Marty, I think you should shoot in pure digital. Film’s going the way of the CD. Day for night, that’s the key.
Marty: Mike, I’m looking for help with the script, not the cinematography.
Michael Mann: Sell your film stock, Marty. Day for night!
Marty: You sound like Lars von Trier. “Day for night.” “Masking tape for walls.” “Imagination through abuse.” I’ve got Tony Scott telling me to shoot in 8mm, project it on a wall and film the projection. This I don’t need.

Marty: Hello?
Gregg Araki: I think we change the leads to bisexual and the rest writes itself. The dynamic shifts to the road-relationship—
Marty: Who’s “we?” And how the fuck did you get a copy of the script?

Marty: Hello?
David Lynch: I got the script, Marty. I think it’s swell. Great job.
Marty: [slowly] OK… Thanks, David.
[Long silence.]
Marty: You still there?
David Lynch: I’m still here, Marty.
[Longer silence.]
Marty: Was there anything else?
David Lynch: No, Marty. I’m just listening…
[Slightly shorter long silence.]
Marty: I’m going to hang up, ok?
David Lynch: That’d be fine. 

[Sudden buildup of industrial noise, fading into television static. A muffled “hello?” Indistinguishable dialogue. Marty’s desk light begins to flicker wildly. Fade to black.] 


John Cage & Phillip Glass vs. Music As We Know It

Cage works tirelessly to remove any musical notes from his instrument.

[From a New Yorker magazine review.]

Fans of musique concrete, minimalism and feeling superior were treated to a long-awaited reunion of these longtime co-conspirators.

The two showed that they haven’t lost a step over the years as they delighted fans and confused roadies during their opening pieces Soundcheck #1 and Soundcheck #2 (Slight Return).

During the course of the 2-hour+ concert, attendees were treated to various improvisational pieces. Untitled #4: The Night Clerk saw Glass take on the personas of an Elvis impersonator, a foreign dignitary and other roles suggested by audience members while Cage played a harried hotel clerk that could only speak in three-word sentences.

Another improv piece, Blueprint for Entropy, featured Cage leaving the stage to return a few personal calls while Glass visited with his stage manager in the vacant (of course!) orchestra pit.

Cage and Glass closed out the night with a pair of encores. The first was an 11-minute sheet metal and glockenspiel cover of Aerosmith’s shitty classic Love in an Elevator.

They followed this unexpected moment with a piece the entire crowd had waited for all night: 4’33”.

As Cage and Glass disinterestedly left the stage, a 12-foot tall LED clock lowered slowly from the rafters, counting back from 4:33. Thunderous applause soon gave way to rhythmic clapping as the audience punctuated each passing second. The crowd was on their feet as the final 10 seconds counted down, shouting each sequential number like overenthusiastic, tuxedoed NASA technicians.


Glass plots his next move, while perfecting his latest affectation.