"Janet Morris - Crusaders In Hell" - читать интересную книгу автора (Morris Janet E)

When I started out, it was only on weekends. The bucks were good and I hate
Sundays, anyway. Everything is closed and TV is mostly golf (barfo-matic) and
political shit. The big surprise to me was that the folks who did dirty movies
are nice. They are kind (if not real - bright), and considering they screw for
a living, they are decent, honest people.
I had a few fairly rare attributes, which I don't think is really necessary to
go into here, but suffice it to say, pretty soon they wanted me full-time. So,
what the hell. First I did five days. Then, seven. It's easy work and all, but
when push comes to flog, it's demeaning.
So when that- rag, The L.A. Express, published my daily diary in weekly
installments, my shone didn't stop ringing. They called me the new Nathanael
West, whoever he is. All I did was tell the truth, pretty much. I was tired of
being a sex object! Plus which, my real sex life was beginning to drag. And I
was getting bored with in-and-out, in-and-out-an endless routine only broken
up by pompously dramatic blow jobs from girls with the mentality of an
after-dinner mint.
So I took an early retirement and went to work for this guy, a real Hollywood
operator, who I met at the Farmers market. He wore a pinky ring and had a
hotcomb plugged into the lighter of his midnight-blue Eldo. He bragged that
he'd been on every Writer's Guild strike-list since 1967.
He'd read in the trade papers about some movie about to be made that sounded
good. Like one about an earthquake or soldier ants that take over Dayton.
Then, he'd go to one of the typing services, the ones that specialize in
scripts, and he'd bribe some 100 word-per-minute dork typist and he'd come
home, with a copy. Here's where I came in.
I rewrote them, scene for scene, changing all the names and places and
dialogue. Where it would say "thousands of people are killed," I'd change it
to "five people are killed." And where some poofter writer would be describing
the hero as Clint Eastwood, I'd change it to Brad Dilhnan or George Maharis.
Then, my boss would take and sell it under the table to some TV company for
ten grand and they'd try to make it. We averaged three of these a week. Slick,
huh?
But it got grueling, even though I learned to type fast. So, as my sex life
got back to normal, I began to look around again for something new. That was
when I got into network television.
I had some things on The Mod Squad, Starsky and Hutch, and a few
movies-of-the-week. I did the pilot for "Manimal," even though I lost the
credit in a screwjob arbitration. They fucked the show up. My script was
incredible.
Anyway, these days, I sell a little coke, although the business is not exactly
growth anymore. Not like it used to be. Before Jane Fonda's belly muscles and
that workout tape, before torn and Perrier got hip. But it still keeps me in
enough bucks so I don't have to steal scripts or do wet loops anymore. Those
days were the pits, I mean it. You look at those hunkie guys hunched over and
covered with baby oil, blowing weir rocks all over the place, you probably
think they re just country . boys with a double-digit I.Q. and no dream. But
hey, one of them was me. So now you know you were wrong.
My life turned a comer into daylight the night I met Robin Lamoureaux.
I'd seen her, sure. Who hadn't? Three Emmys for Nighttime, she was so great,
it gives me goose bumps to think about it. Remember her on the Donahue show