Jennifer Aniston Meets With Stephen Huvane - Part One

Stephen Huvane sat on one of the two brown distressed leather couches in his fourth floor Wilshire Boulevard office, a corner office, with knee-high to ceiling windows and a late afternoon view of West Los Angeles. The panorama ran left from Century City to Beverly Hills on the right. The couch Stephen sat on had the better view than the couch supporting Jennifer Aniston, who was smoking a cigarette and air tapping the ashes onto a tray the size of toilet seat that sat on the burled oak coffee table separating the two couches. Jennifer was clicking a Bic lighter on and off she held in her right hand, the yellow flame playing off the falling orange California sun. Jennifer Aniston was wearing tight blue jeans, white socks, Nike running shoes and a navy blue tank top with string straps.

“What happened to the gold lighter I gave you,” asked Stephen.

“What do you do with a gold lighter, Stephen? You keep it. You use it. And if I use it, that means I am smoking. And I am trying to quit, remember,” said Jennifer nervously.

“But you’re using that cheap lighter. Bad image. If you are going to smoke, you might as well do it with gold,” said Stephen.

Jennifer shot Stephen a look and then put the cigarette out in the large tray. She then pulled out a pack of Merit Ultra Lights and flipped a new cigarette in her mouth, lighting it with the Bic. She took a long drag and then blew smoke rings into the upper center of Stephen Huvane’s office. Stephen Huvane was the younger brother of Kevin Huvane, the famous and powerful talent agent who was a partner of Creative Artist Management. Kevin Huvane managed the money and contracts of movie stars. Stephen Huvane managed the image of movie stars. Publicists were once considered the lapdogs of Hollywood. They were now the first to call on a celebrity’s emergency list.

“I like smoke rings. Is that a good image,” said Jennifer Aniston.

“Only if you are acting in a movie. But the way I have positioned you, smoking is not a good image in general. You are Jennifer Aniston, the perfect American white girl. Smoking is an imperfection,” said Stephen.

“What about being dumped by Brad Pitt? Is that an imperfection?” asked Jennifer.

“Well, actually, that is a part of the American Girl experience. It is not an image problem if handled correctly, and I think we handled it correctly,” said Stephen.

“OK. OK. So how are we handling this one?” asked Jennifer.

“With Vince Vaughn, I think we say it was a mutual separation,” said Stephen.

“Is lying part of the American Girl experience?” said Jennifer.

“Very much so,” said Stephen in all seriousness.

To Be Continued.

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Kate Moss And Pete Doherty Naked And On Heroin At The Sherlock Holmes Hotel

Kate Moss was naked. She had just stepped out of the white tiled shower that was part of the suite at the Sherlock Holmes Hotel in London, a four-story old wood building that had creaky floors and big puffy mattresses. The bathroom was small, and not the kind of place Kate Moss had grown accustomed. But it was suggested that the Sherlock Holmes was out of the path trodden by celebrities, and so it was unlikely anyone would find her or Pete Doherty. Pete was lying on the bed in his underwear. And Kate had decided to take a shower, the routine she had started to follow after she snorted heroin, a way to cleanse the outside while being savaged by chemicals on the inside. Pete had a Martin cutaway acoustic guitar in his lap, his skinny alabaster legs pocked with red lines and scabs were in the lotus position. Pete was plucking at the low E string in a slow beat, a droning sound that was hitting Pete’s ear as if it were music. Heroin does that. It makes everything seem like magic. Pete saw the back of Kate’s nude body as she stood on the scale while she held eyeglasses on her face so she could read the numbers.

“You’ve been looking a little porky lately,” said Pete.

Kate got off the scale with her tortoise-shell eyeglasses being the only thing hanging on her body if you didn’t include her breasts which, though small, had started to sag like small empty balloons.

“What?” asked Kate.

“I said you’ve been looking a little porky,” said Pete.

“Porky. You think?” said Kate.

Kate walked into the room. It was small, dressed with the same furniture that had been placed there over a hundred years ago. The drawers in all the cabinets were difficult to open. The floor boards must have been a foot wide with quarter inch seams between them. The mirror above one of the two cabinets was large and hanging with a wire cable that was suspended from a large brass hook an inch below where the wall met the ceiling. Indeed, the ceiling itself seemed like it was a mere seven feet from the floor.

Kate touched her naked belly which protruded without much fat.

“I am not porky,” said Kate.

“Your arms. Your legs. Your face. Your hair is starting to fall out,” said Pete.

“You get this way when you do junk. You get mean,” said Kate.

Pete thought about that. Kate had accused him of such before. But Pete was not feeling like he wanted to hurt Kate. He loved Kate skinny or fat. Well, maybe not fat, but a little fat here or there did not bother him. He was merely making an observation. Junk did that to him, he thought. You observe, you comment, you are honest. Pete believed that heroin made him a more honest chap. And one thing Pete had started to observe was that Kate Moss was getting old. The million cigarettes, the drugs, the late nights, the lack of exercise, the alcohol, the pills. The whole regimen had impacted on Kate’s face and body. Kate was in her early thirties but she appeared to be in her early forties. Not in the photographs, though. Pete was astounded at the wonders of photography and lighting and makeup and, he guessed, Photoshop. But Pete saw the Kate Moss that most people did not see. A woman aging fast from daily self-abuse. Pete was not stupid, of course. He was on a daily routine of self-abuse as well. But Pete felt he was not aging as fast as Kate. Maybe it was a guy thing.

“Sorry. You look great. Never better,” said Pete.

“You’re damn straight. I look fucking fantastic,” said Kate as she picked up a cigarette and lit it with a platinum lighter. Kate took a deep breath and smiled.

“Play me a song,” said Kate.

“How bout we fuck,” said Pete.

“You can never get it up on junk,” said Kate. Kate didn’t really want to have sex. She had not had an orgasm in over three years, though she faked it.

“Yeah. Why have sex when being on junk is better than sex,” said Pete as he looked down at the neck of his Martin guitar and plucked the A string.

Kate agreed. Pete’s half-erect penis, which is the only kind of erection Pete was ever able to muster, was nothing like the massively throbbing organ of Johnny Depp. Depp’s penis was a surprise given Depp’s slight frame. But after Johnny Depp dumped Kate, Kate started to lose interest in sex. Drugs were better. And the mess of a man that Pete Doherty had become gave Kate Moss something to do. Take care of a man. It was easier than to take care of herself.

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George Bush Clears His Head With Jack Daniels

The time was 2:32 AM eastern standard time. President George W. Bush could not sleep, so he slipped out of the king bed, leaving Laura sound asleep behind. He walked out of the room in his bare feet wearing navy blue satin pajama pants with a white t-shirt. George was having difficulty making it through the night without waking at least twice. Not to go to the bathroom. Not because of hunger or thirst. It wasn’t anything George could put his finger on. He remembered back to the months immediately following his election against John Kerry. Those were months where he slept through the night and felt strong and clear-headed every morning. That election was a shot in the arm for George, and everything, all his body parts, his sleeping, his eating habits, his sex life with Laura, his relationship with staff and his cabinet, his interest in following sports - it was as if he was back at college on one of those many drinking binges where his youth precluded hangovers and life was filled with possibilities. But that had all passed. In just two years, George’s body chemistry had changed. Little sleep, no sex, eating crappy food, the exercise stopped, the football and baseball fantasy leagues he secretly played were history, he talked with few of his staff, he felt distant from his daughters, his left hip had been stabbing him with a consistent dull pain.

He reached the end of the hallway where a man in a black suit and tie with a walkie talkie was standing. George did not recognize him. Or maybe he did. George did not remember.

“Good evening, sir,” said the man with the walkie talkie.

“Hi,” said George.

“Can I get you anything, sir?” asked the man with the walkie talkie.

“How about a bottle of Coca Cola,” said George.

“Certainly,” said the man.

“And those little airline bottles with whiskey. They have that in the kitchen. In one of the cabinets. You know about that?” said George.

“I did not know that, sir,” said the man.

“Yeah, well, they have them. Can you find two of them. Whiskey. Two little bottles of Jack Daniels. Pour both of them into a bottle of Coke. Of course make room for it in the bottle, and bring it to me,” said George.

“I’ll have to radio for it, sir. I cannot leave my post,” said the man.

“What’s your name?” asked George.

“Timothy, sir,” said the man.

“Timothy, look, I know you answer to the Service and not me. But can you radio for a someone to come up here and hold your post for you while you run this errand for me,” said George.

“Yes. I can do that,” said Timothy.

“I tell you what. Why don’t you grab a few bottles for yourself. We can sit down and shoot the breeze. I need to calm down so I can get some sleep,” said George.

“I am not supposed to do that, sir,” said Timothy.

“Yes, yes, I know, I know. But then just bring a few extra bottles with you. We’ll discuss protocol when we chat. OK?” said George.

Timothy paused briefly, then raised his walkie talkie and pressed the button on the side of the handset.

“This is Alpha One West. Send up a temp replacement. Request of of Alpha One,” said Timothy.

“Roger, roger,” said the voice on the handset.

“Thanks, Timothy. I feel better already,” said George. George sat on the chair in the hallway, waiting for the replacement and for Timothy to do his errand. He could have a few drinks. The Presidential pressure was enormous, and he made it almost six years in the hardest job of the world without touching a drop of alcohol. One drink was not going to kill him. But not sleeping was going to kill him. The Jack Daniels would help him sleep. It would help him forget about the state of things, and he could avoid the dreams. It was those damn dreams that kept waking him. That was it. Whiskey kills dreams. And that’s what he needed to do. It was the only way to be the leader of the free world. No dreams.

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Henry Ford Is Raised From The Dead

The Ford family was against the idea. The medical profession did not think it could be done. But the Governor of Michigan signed into law the exhumation order which had the gravediggers remove Henry Ford’s body from his grave at the Ford Cemetery in Detroit. The casket was shipped to the Chemistry Department of the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor where something very secret was performed on the body of Henry Ford. The Board of Directors of the Ford Motor Company were in one of the lecture halls in the same building waiting nervously, including Henry Ford’s grandson, who was the current CEO of the Ford Motor Company.

When Henry Ford walked into the lecture hall, he appeared almost green and very frail. His hair was grey and he walked with the help of two assistants. They brought him to the podium which was off to the side. Mr. Ford grabbed the side lips of the podium to steady himself. One of the assistants positioned the microphone near Henry Ford’s mouth. The audience was in shock. How could this be? They were told that Henry Ford could be raised from the dead for only an hour, and that during that time he could probably muster some kind of speech. But the chemists and biologists who had worked on the body were as startled as the audience at how vital the old man was. Afterall, he had died back in 1947 at the age of 83, almost sixty years ago.

Old Henry Ford tapped the mike and it made a loud clack throughout the lecture hall. The Ford family, including all the cousins and great grandchildren, as well as the Board members, were all there. The old man smiled at the thundering clack he made with the tap on the mike. The audience jumped from the noise.

Henry Ford, with his dry cracked lips that had the color of eggplant, leaned into the micorphone. His voice was raspy but bellowed with a deep pitch, stronger than one would expect from a man temporarily raised from the dead. “I am told I do not have much time. So let me keep this short and sweet. You people are idiots. Every goddamn one of you. You have no guts. You have no foresight. You have no vision. You have taken this great company that I built with every bead of sweat in my body and turned it into shit. You have let events control the company rather than the company control events. Why the fuck do my cars still run on gasoline? You are still using the internal combustion engine? That piece of shit is a hundred years old. Do you have a research and development department? Or do you assholes have stock in the oil companies? What? Oh, are you scared of the oil companies? Or are you just fucking lazy? And why the fuck did you turdheads bend over every three years and let the UAW ram anything they wanted up your asses? Don’t get me wrong. I don’t blame my workers. But you know what you jerks taught them? You taught them if they asked for it, you would give it to them. So as far as I am concerned, the UAW was smart. The UAW took care of their members. But you half-brains just sat on your fat asses and let the dividend checks come in without thinking of the future. So I am here to tell you to all go to hell. I am ashamed of what you did to this great company. I am ashamed that you people come from the same gene pool as me.”

At that moment Henry Ford started to cough. The assistants came over to help. Henry Ford pushed them away, holding his index finger up with a gesture that he had one more thing to say.

“Maybe you have one last shot at saving this great company. Maybe. But you are going to have to break some balls and piss a lot of people off and spend a lot of money to do it. Good luck. And try to make me smile when I am lying in my casket. Because recently all I’ve been doing is getting pissed off.”

With that, he turned and walked out slowly with the aide of the two assistants. Everyone in the lecture hall was silent. As silent as a Ford assembyline.

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Britney Spears Hears About Her Blood Test

Britney Spears wore a flowered skirt with wedge shoes. She sat on a nondescript metal chair with a vinyl seat. Britney was alone in a white room with a medical examination table and acountertop replete with medical supplies. The window had venetian blinds that created horizontal slits of the white hot Los Angeles light. Britney held a T-Mobile Sidekick cell phone in her right hand and a pack of Marlboro cigarettes in her left hand. She was tapping the Marlboro pack on her left knee that crossed over her right leg. Britney’s left foot was air tapping with the same beat as theMarlboros. The door opened and in walked Dr. Harriet Schwimmer.

“How are we doing?” asked Dr. Schwimmer.

“We are doing fine,” said Britney Spears.

“Well, not so much. I have your blood and urine tests results here,” said Dr. Schwimmer.

“And there is a problem?” asked Britney.

“Your liver. It is showing signs of fatty tissue,” said Dr. Schwimmer.

“I am starting to aggressively diet,” said Britney.

“Caloric intake is not the issue. It’s the alcohol. The drugs. Or it may be something else,” said Dr. Schwimmer.

“Like what?” asked Britney.

“Well, may I suggest that we clean up our act for a month or two to see if the blood work goes back to normal. And you might want to give up tobacco, Britney,” said Dr.Schwimmer.

“I never heard of cigarettes being bad for the liver,” said Britney.

“They aren’t. But it was not a good thing that you smoked while you were pregnant,” said Dr. Schwimmer.

“Let’s stay on topic. My liver. What did the urine test show?” asked Britney.

“Your kidneys are stressed. Your urine is very dark. You are either dehydrating or your kidneys are struggling. Again, I suggest we change the life style issues before we start down a road of tests,” said Dr.Schwimmer.

“I’m barely drinking. And I don;t really take drugs, OK. So now I am worried,” said Britney.

“Britney, when we took your blood you were drunk. You drove here during the day with a blood alcohol level that was above the legal limit for driving. Focus on that. It was during the day, and you drove to your doctor’s office for a medical checkup and you were drunk,” said Dr.Schwimmer.

“I was not,” said Britney.

“And the file says you were here for a 1:30 PM appointment,” said Dr. Schwimmer.

“I had lunch. It was like a business lunch. I may have had a drink or two,” said Britney.

“And you stink of tobacco. When was the last time you bathed?” asked Dr. Schwimmer.

“What? What is this? Are you my mother?” said Britney as she stood.

“It is typical for alcoholics and drug addicts to eschew personal hygiene,” said Dr. Schwimmer.

“Eschew? I don;t even know what that means? Is that a medical term?’ asked Britney.

“No…”

“Screw this. I don’t need to listen to this stupid lecture. If you think you can have a medical practice here in Beverly Hills and get away with this shit, you’re fucked up. We celebrities don’t take this crap from just any old doctor. So just, so just stick those blood tests up your ass,” said Britney as she opened the door and walked out.

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