sound. I prefer to think of Unseemly as missing nothing. Unseemly is not so much a movie minus sound as a piano recital plus miraculous light show.”
“The proud father! But tell me what it’s about.”
That question, always that question, that question of what something is—about. So I told her what my movie is about, and I gave her the long version, including how I built the hidden camera and how I set my ambushes. Then came the awkward moment. It always comes.
She said, “It sounds like the kind of thing I’d never see on HBO.”
And I said, “Yes, well, a dignified life does, after all, involve very little television.”
And she said, “We all have our weaknesses.”
And I said, “I suppose so.”
There we were, she looking at me as though I had insulted her, and I baffled as to what I had said wrong. Something in my expression makes people believe that I am not—nice. Something in how I look at the remains of their buffet breakfasts.
Franny finishes her ketchupy strawberries, and out comes her accordion folder, and out comes her contract, and out comes the truth. Her client is not interested in buying all the rights to the movie, only the rights to the music. He is not even interested in buying all the rights to the music, only the right to use certain samples—in hip-hop. In other words, she wants me to sell Unseemly for scrap. She explains the terms to me, and I—.
Hope is the most private emotion. I won’t bore you or embarrass myself by relaying all that I had hoped. But I had hoped, without telling anyone, for so much. Despite all the backwater film festivals and despite all the debt—I had hoped for so much. And now Unseemly’s run was nearly through, and—there it was: Franny Clement represented a record label that represented a singer who wanted to sample my music. That was what my hopes had been reduced to. I told her I would look the contract over, but—I knew I was in no position to refuse. How could I refuse? My personal credit card debt from the movie being another res that I am in media of.
We said goodbye, and I slogged over to the No. 6 train with the contract in my attaché case, in order to go uptown, where David Fowler could help me assess my quadrennial half-pint of success.
PUPPY JONES recounts his trip to the Sundance Film Festival (early August 2000):
Mr. Maynard Gogarty! The man changed my philosophy.
I was living in Venice at the time, Venice Beach, California, and I had my little thing going on as Deejay Peejay. At the time. And some friends had some friends who had a condominium in Park City, Utah, and they told me they would give me five hundred dollars, plus tip, plus drinks, plus a bed, if I would spin at their Sundance party. Five hundred dollars was equal to my rent in Venice. At the time. They told me, “You can get a ride to Park City with Bez, the half-Asian bisexual.” You see what I’m saying.
I’m saying fourteen hours in a Mercedes from Venice Beach, California, to Park City, Utah, with a half-Asian bisexual actress named Bez Bekamilui. Dreadlocks, industry talk, daddy is in real estate, boyfriend is in Sydney, Australia. Complaining about being celibate because her boyfriend is in Sydney, Australia. You see what I’m saying. We left at seven in the morning. She did her yoga, she didn’t shower, she got in her car, she picked me up in Venice with the equipment I rented, and we drove to Utah. Fourteen hours, smelling her unshowered bisexual hooch-naynay yoga sweat. My feet up on the equipment I rented because there’s not enough room in her trunk. Bez talking about pornography, eating her McDonald’s french fries. Dipping the McDonald’s french fries in the Thousand Island dressing, telling me it reminds her of come. You see what I’m saying. I’m saying Jones is still smelling her hooch-naynay over the smell of the french fries.
We get to the condo in Park City, Utah, which turns out to be nowhere near Park City, Utah. It’s late at night, and they assign me to a loft bed. A loft bed in the living room. This is the bed that the families put the eight-year-old in when they rent the condo for skiing. Puppy Jones in the baby bed, Bez Bekamilui in a bedroom all by herself. No respect for the deejay. You see what I’m saying.
The next morning at nine A.M., Bez comes into the living room to do her yoga and her chanting, and she wakes Jones up. Rest of the condo sleeps through it, but Jones wakes up. Half-Asian bisexual yoga going on six feet underneath Jones? Half-Asian bisexual ass in the air, with the incense burning? Who’s Jones making coffee for? But Bez sez: “I don’t drink coffee, I brought my own yerba maté. I’m into the maté latte.”
Bez sez she’s going to see all the short films that morning after her mate latte. Who’s following behind her? Who’s following behind her like a good little puppy dog? That’s all I’m saying. All I’m saying is at twelve noon, Jones and Bez go sit in the dark together. Where they see a short film by a Mr. Maynard Gogarty.
Mr. Maynard Gogarty: director, cinematographer, pianist, destroyer of worlds. Here is a man who is doing the work! In the theater, in the dark, Bez expropriates Jones’s box of jujubes, puts it between her legs. A jumbo box of jujubes is right up in there next to the hooch-naynay, and Jones doesn’t even notice. I don’t even notice, because I am being shown Unseemly, by Mr. Maynard Gogarty. And when the movie is over, there is some Q and there is some A.
Bez wants to leave, but I tell her, “No, I want to hear the man.” So we hear some Q, we hear some A, and I sez to Bez, “The man is a genius.”
And Bez sez, “He’s just full of himself. He was insulting the other directors, and they knew it. It was rude.”
Bez did not want to hear the message. Mr. Maynard Gogarty’s movie was addressed to her soul, but her soul was not ready for the work! But Jones’s soul? Ready for the work! I’ll fi nish off the story for you about Sundance. I do my Deejay Peejay thing at the party. A little of this, little of that, home at four A.M., five hundred dollars in my pocket. Plus drinks. Plus tip. Minus the cost of the cab to take me and the equipment back to the condo, because Bez never came to the party to get me.
But next morning, nine A.M., there she is with her yoga and her chanting, burning the incense and waking me up. Who’s out of his cradle in the treetops, making coffee and maté latte?
“Sorry I didn’t see you last night, Bez. Want some maté latte?”
And she tells me, “Yeah, sorry. I wanted to come to your party, but I was tired. Also, I met this guy last night? Who needs a ride back to L.A. today? So do you think you could find another way back to Venice?”
On a normal morning, what would Jones have said? Because Jones is such a puppy dog? “Okay, Bez. I’ll find another way back to Venice. Just like I found another way back to the condo last night. I’ll just ignore that you’ve been swinging your hooch-naynay in my face for three days and that you promised to take me back to California.”
But this is not a normal morning. This is New Year’s Day. Year One, Post-Gogarty. Seeing the man’s film and listening to the man’s A when the man got a Q, it changed my philosophy. So when Bez sez, “Do you think you could find another way back to Venice,” I say, “No, Bez, no, I do not. You were supposed to take me back, you shall take me back. You shall inform the other dude of your mistake, and you shall take me back.”
Do I even need to tell you that she took me back? Do I even need to tell you that she is not being faithful to the boyfriend in Sydney, Australia?
DAVID FOWLER delivers his sockdolager (early August 2000):
