Bruce Wagner - Dead Stars

the tomgirl gal rushed over, and a few stragglers too, half-smiling not knowing if it was a joke, Heather saying

shouldn’t I tell someone, who should I tell? (half-smiling/half-spooked as Telma backs up in shock & embarrassment then falls on her ass but keeps backing up crab-like) WHO SHOULD I TELL??????!!!!!!!!!

. .

On the long walk back to the car, all Gwen could do was ask her daughter why.

When Telma said she thought it would help get her on the show (tho her logic was torqued & perilous), Gwen’s heart broke again. It broke all day long, every beat like a bone china teacup shattering against a wall.

A golf cart headed toward them, not from the soundstage but from the direction they’d originally come. Gwen saw the shaven head from a distance and knew it was Ryan Murphy. When Gwen told Telma who it was, her face dilated in tiny ecstasies.

He pulled up, smiling.

A tiny girl sat in front, with his asst & a mom in back.

“Sorry we missed you!” said Ryan.

Ryan shook hands with Telma from the cart. He turned to the tiny girl, who had some kind of harelip. The mom seemed to have something going on in that area as well.

“Gwen & Telma Ballendyne? Meet Melanie & Aleisha Hunter. You 2 ‘single ladies’ have a lot in common.” He spoke directly to Telma now. “Aleisha’s a breast cancer survivor. Melanie, how old was she when she was diagnosed?”

“She was two.”

“Two-years-old,” said Ryan, his sensuous lips in pouty incredulity. “I’ve heard of the terrible 2s… but that is ridiculous!”

(Ryan’s relationship with Melanie & Aleisha was such that all seemed completely comfortable with him making ‘light.’)

“She’s 6 now — aren’t you, Aleisha? Our Aleisha happens to be the youngest breast cancer survivor in the world . We’re on our way to introduce her to the cast. Do you two have time to come back for a little lunch?”

Spurts, Illustrated

Jerzy

got lucky & snatcherazzi’d Amanda Seyfried (27) sliding out of a friend’s Tesla at the Brentwood Mart (that rare passenger seat honeyshot! ) — no panties. He thought of photoshopping a kite string because at this time, Harry round the Ovaries was paying a premium for Ragtime pics. HoneyRagtimers! was a new link celebrating what Harry, authentic Mad Men- era-ish madman that he was, still, in conversation, quaintly called the monthlies AKA the red meanies, showcasing rag hags of the week (subheading: “They Got The World On A String!”), a riff on those pukeworthy stars-are-just-like-you-&-me features in the newsstand tabloids — pics of Tobey Maguire pumping his own gas, Demi Lovato scratching her own ass, Lena Headey leaving Ikea, Shailene Woodley leaving Café Gratitude, iCarly jaywalking, Jared Leto drilling for oil in his left nostril — Harry’s banner victoriously proclaimed “They get periods!” Jerzy got eight grand for the Seyfried, a bit higher than usual because on closer inspection the pussyhair revealed itself to have a week’s growth from a recent shave. Harry could be mollified but never satisfied. His latest dreamquarry was Her Anexo-Bulimic Hardbodied Highness Kate (unhairy around the) Middleton. Ever since he saw pix of her bikini bod on a yacht off Ibiza he coveted a royal honeyshot! “ A fella can cream can’t he?”

Jerzy knew how to keep HM happy. What he did was he snapped all the lolitas — the Chloës & the Elles & all the single hailees, the stylists always lagerfelded em up like jonbenets for premières & whatnots in freebie Miu-Miu/Marchesa/Prabal Gurung (Miss Hailee), Stella/Dior (Chloë M), YSL couture (Miss “Sally Draper”—Harry said he’d pay 25,000 for Kiernan Shipka’s honeyshot! ), Rodarte/Philip Lim/D&G/Ferretti/Chanel (Miss Elle), you could usually count on the ensembles being too revealing/sophisticated for their age, young money cash money honeyshot! s were easy pickins — though you could forget about a no-panties pic, the kids always wore panties, they were way too far as yet from that rebellious stage, probably for the best because an all-the-single-hailees pantiless honeyshot! would’ve given Harry an instant coronary.

In the meanwhile, Jerzy had his pumped-up kicks cause no one in their wildest dreams could’ve guessed he was angling for a young harpie’s Hairpie around the Middle honeyshot!. . . there was just no legal market for them. To make matters slightly more conducive to our patient, young money cash honey-seeking underagerazzo, all the clueless single hailees were of course as yet unschooled in the proper methodology, the Emily Postmenstrual etiquette of exiting a leather backseat whilst holding a clutch over Area 51, a maneuver that was the most-favored by publicists, the latter-day equivalent of the primly self-protective Bunny Dip of bygone days. Jerzy knew that H around the M could never post underage honeyshot! s for fear of prosecution — it was written into their secret handshake contract that any on-the-fly prepube portraits went straight to Harry’s private reserve, do not pass goo.

A wine bought young & stored will cost less than to purchase the same wine once it is matured. It can also give great pleasure in anticipation (each time you check your cellar, you will see bottles growing in both taste & value) & when opened has a sense of occasion about it. Imagine the romance when opening a bottle at a dinner party when you mention how long you’ve been saving it & remember where & when you bought it…

The fearless bossman always bossed up & said Get em!

One of the things that kept him on his toes was Harry’s intriguing unpredictability. Last week, Jerzy brought him a treat, no big thing, a little aperitif , just a snatchshot soupçon of Chloë Sevigny, not meant to be anything more than a cordial, a nice port, a nighttime sweet left under a hotel pillow — less prosaically, a retriever bringing his master a dead bird.

Harry erupted : “That’s fucking coals to Newcastle! That’s bringing cunts to an OB/GYN! She is a hooker . Have you seen her blowing Vincent Gallo? That’s a pair to draw to. You oughta go on the internet a little more often, my friend, you’ll get an education. What the fuck was it called? That movie he directed? You can watch the scene on the internet. That phony prick. . . Brown Bunny! Vincent Gallo directed a piece of shit called Brown Bunny , starring his girlfriend. That slimy piece of shit — can you imagine his personal hygience? — she should have sued his skinny ass. But she didn’t, cause she’s a whore. Vincent Gallo: actor, model, director, phoney. I’m telling you, the guy was the James Franco of his time! Go on the internet, go, you’ll see her gobble-gobble. & this ain’t a sex tape, we’re not talking about a Kardashian, we’re talking about something voluntary . & pretentious , which in my book is the worst of sins.

“& don’t ever bring me pictures of that cocksucker’s cunt again!”

. .

His half-sister was crashing with him and Tom-Tom.

She told him never to call her Jerilynn, only Reeyonna or ReeRee, Hey fine with me, sis, remember who you’re talkin to? Jerzy who used to be Jerry Jr. She said he could call her Ree, too, or Yonna or Reezy. Yeah yeah, just don’t call me Al, or maybe it’s ‘You can call me Al,’ or whatever it is. Ree was pregnant and moved out of MoMA’s after MoMA told her about the grand theft art-o, lootin’ the poor kid’s legacy. Looks like l’il homie finally got what he’d been telling her for years: that MoMA’s a douchebag. But he didn’t gloat about it. Funny how nobody ever sees the truth till they get hit in the pocketbook, to borrow an antique phrase of Harry’s.