Years ago, when my husband George and I first met and were in the throws of infatuation, I attended a swanky dinner party with a group of attractive film publicists who seemed to my inexperienced eyes to be glamour and sophistication incarnate. Looking back now, they were really a fraternity of gossipy, professional starfuckers. For those of you not familiar with Hollywood jargon, a starfucker is:
starfucker (plural starfuckers)(slang, vulgar) One who obsessively seeks sex or association with stars, or celebrities.
These are the same tiresome, Hollywood jerks who despite having absolutely no personal relationship with anyone of consequence, might casually say something pretentious like "I thought Kate was absurdly over-the-top in THE READER but I positively adored Angie in CHANGELING - now there's an Academy Award performance!"
During the course of the dinner, one of these obnoxious publicists asked me if I had a boyfriend. As George and I had only been dating a couple of weeks, I wasn't certain he qualified, but as there were no other 'potentials' on the docket, I responded I had. When pressed by the group as to my new boyfriend's profession, desperate to join their starfucker fraternity I responded proudly, "I believe he's an Assistant Director." Suddenly, the table's side conversations came to a screeching halt, and the entire table turned to look at me with the disdain one reserves for a dinner companion who farts or hocks up phlegm at the table. An uncomfortable moment passed, before one of the publicists took pity on me and said in a kindly voice, "You know dear, no self respecting boy fucks below-the-line. But if one 'goes' in that direction, one certainly doesn't admit to it." The assembled guests giggled and nodded their approval. As I had no clue what below-the-line meant, I glanced around the table and joined them in giggling stupidly.
George explained to me that in budgeting a motion picture or television production, below-the-line costs include the salaries of the non-starring cast members and the technical crew, as well as use of the film studio and its technical equipment, travel, location, and catering costs, etc.The distinction originates from the early studio days when the budget top-sheet would literally have a line separating the above-the-line and below-the-line costs. Like an Indian aristocrat who violates that country's strict caste system, I was dating an UNTOUCHABLE without even knowing it!
Poor George, who at the time was managing his aspiring starfucker boyfriend, was also managing one of Hollywood's most tempestuous and volatile actors, James Woods. While extremely gifted, Mr. Woods has always had a reputation for being 'demanding' (Hollywood double-speak for total douche bag) with his directors, fellow actors and below-the-line crew. During the course of this particular production, George the charismatic 'can-do' AD had successfully appeased Mr. Woods with his professionalism and cheery demeanour. Like the proverbial calm before the storm, this bit of good luck was not to last. One unfortunate day, George made the mistake of bringing Mr. Woods to the set a couple of hours prematurely. Irate, Mr. Woods who at the time had taken up smoking cigars, purposely threw his lit cigar at George's face burning him slightly. Not satisfied with disfiguring my below-the-line, untouchable boyfriend, Mr. Woods stormed out of the trailer and DEMANDED! DEMANDED! that George be fired on the spot! Fearing a lawsuit or at the very least a disability claim, a kindly producer 'suggested' Mr. Woods apologize to George. Mr. Woods muttered his apology while SLUMDOG George held an ice pack to his singed face. For the remainder of the show, the official war between George and Mr. Woods had ended, but hostilities remained and George would neither forgive nor forget the battering he received at the hands of James Woods.
Bathed in the glorious Beverly Hills morning light, I took my place on the lounge next to Mr. Woods' dog and closed my eyes. A few minutes passed and I was beginning to drift off to sleep again when I suddenly realized that Mr. Woods' dog had risen from his sitting position and had taken to nuzzling my crotch.
Startled, I instinctively placed my hand over my privates fearing that the dog's nuzzling might turn to something more sinister. While neither glancing nor acknowledging me in any way, Mr. Woods said to his valet, "The dog looks hungry, you better get some hamburger."
(To Be Continued)