GuysterRules (guysterrules) wrote,

A daddy and a comic out of control, and I just sit there watching.

The first thing out of Jamie Spears’s mouth was, “I’m an alcoholic.” He gave a throaty Bubba chuckle to punctuate it before saying, “I’ve got nothin’ to hide.” I kept waiting for him to mention that he was “recovering,” yet that didn’t happen. He came in to pitch a show with his employer, Phil Maloof, the youngest of the dynasty and by all accounts, the Fredo of the bunch--a spoiled brat slumped in his chair with the look of a child who just got his toy taken from him.

I sat there looking at the red-faced hillbilly whose daughter has become a public nuisance, whose grandchildren have all but been abandoned, and here he is talking about how this petulant little shit of a fuck that he works for likes his fried chicken and wouldn’t that make for a great series.

No. It wouldn’t, Jamie, and please pick your daughter up from rehab, buy her a pretty wig, and act like a fucking parent.

That was the worst pitch in the past few weeks. The best one was Joaquin coming in with his producing partner with a breathtaking series that spotlighted humanity’s bravest and most extraordinary people. At the end of the meeting, he hugged me. I stood stock still afraid to hug back, afraid that I’d never let go, and security would need to be called.
* * * *
When I looked out the front bedroom window, I saw Scott outside of the gate flapping his arms in a movement so rapid that they suggested a desire for flight. I ran downstairs to find out what was wrong.

“I can’t find my fucking keys! How could I fucking drive here and not have the fucking car keys?” He had that look of defeat and exasperation I’d seen from him a thousand times before, and I followed him to his car that had the doors already wide open like wings.

I bent down to reach under the seat, over the dash, behind the passenger seat, in the glove compartment, anyplace that could accidentally hide keys. I stood up and shrugged. He started hollering again, his hands waving around in an angry mime. That’s when I saw them.

‘They’re in your hand.”

He looked at the dangling car key as if it were burning his hand, and the one to the house that I’d given him, too, and his shoulders slumped. He protested that it had to have been some valet parker’s fault, but all I saw was Scott with his keys gripped in his hand.

And that’s what it’s like living with Scott.

He left on Thursday after staying with me for three weeks as he worked out a stand-up set from scratch prepping for a headline gig in New York. We didn’t fight, much, and he’ll move to Los Angeles into my guesthouse next month. My current tenant gave his notice at just the right time to have Scott slide in with his cat, Uday, in tow.

My boys are going to have to change their bad attitude about cats. I think one good swipe should do it.

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