I saw Jessica Simpson at a stoplight this morning. She was driving a silver Mercedes convertible and looked like she'd taken a bath in self-tanner. She definitely had a case of collagen-lips, but not nearly as bad as in this photo. I guess the swelling has gone down.
The 23rd best poker player in the world may still have a few shares of his LA Poker Classic action still up for grabs. Need I tell you how great an investment this is? That thanks to my fellow Murderer I walked away with a bigger payday from that event than some of the guys who made the final two tables despite the fact that I busted in 400-something place? Go get 'em people, while you can. You won't be sorry.
I didn't play at all last night. Just didn't feel like it. Which, of course means I'm jonesing for action this morning. Instead, I read Aaron Sorkin's new behind-the-scenes-at an SNL type of show pilot. It's fucking fantastic. Sorkin writes dialogue like no one else. Rhythmic, witty, spot-on. He's probably my favorite working screenwriter. Showcase has an audition for it next week and I helped him with his Sorkinese as we ran lines. It's all in the pacing.
Then I decided to open the bundle of mail my mom had sent over to my apartment a couple of days ago. Since I've had four L.A. addresses in six years I usually have the important shit sent to Mom & Dad's in Westwood. DMV, insurance, election ballots, tax documents. And Jury Duty summons. Yep, after dodging it for my entire adult life, the L.A. County Superior Court nailed me. Goddamn it. I groaned and called my attorney father, who told me to act really opinionated during the voir dire and to wear a swag hat from one of the more violent films I'd worked on.
"They hate smart people on juries and they REALLY hate industry people, so you'll probably be excused if you play your cards right. Just bring a book and be prepared to wait around a lot."
"Would it be too much if I told them that being a juror would be excellent research for a Grisham-esque thriller I'm developing?"
"Nah, that's overkill."