Bruce Wagner - Dead Stars

She had a wishlist of losers and loosers & was checking it twice: A) That punkbitch from Idol ’s very 1st year who “signed” “When I Fall in Love” to his shit for brains deafass parents; B) Chris Golightly (season 9), who was raised by like 10,000 foster families, & ultimately bounced because he was already under contract to some fagboyband; C) Asia’h Epperson (season 7th), she of the annoyingly spelled name whose father’s head got Islam’d in a car wreck right before her audition so she changed the song to “How Do I Live Without You” & later got arrested for assaulting some ho at a ho llywood club (which actually happened to be the night Asia’h & T’om-To’m f’irst m’et); D) Jamielynn (season the 6th), whose dad caught his wife with a lips-to-nuts dick in her mouth, so he agro-capped her then capped himself into below-the-chest paralysis, self-consigning to perma-bedsores, shit-stink rooms & morning hard-ons he probably never would even know he had, for the rest of his disgusto-burden life. And she really wanted to get Chris Medina, the shameless cunt who wheeled his useless, brainfucked wife onstage to blow Steve Tyler, and made Jenny from the Half-Black cry.

Tom-Tom knew it wouldn’t be easy getting all the leave-it-to-diva loosers to agree on what direction they should go viz her Master Plan. Just two weeks ago, a stoned/stoked TT called one of her fellow Idol ejectees to float the idea of a houseful of underdogs, a chronicle of the lives of a merry band of inside-outsiders (she was calling it Bad News Bears in her head, from one of her favorite movies), an odd squad overcoming kicks in the face on the road to Tinseltown triumph. Pitch it to VH1, Starz or TRU, one of those looser channels, they’d fuckin jump at it. Chrystle-Leigh (season 3) right away Debby Downer’d her by opining like some freakin expert on constitutional freakin law how Tom-Tom could never use Bad News Bears as the title without getting permission from the studio that made the movie, which of course… they never would grant, she said, no way . Like that was the point of the phone call, to ask this cunt what she thought of Tom-Tom’s provisional freakin title for her genius freakin show. Tom-Tom said, You know what? No one’s even seen the movie [you CUNT], no one even [fucking] remembers it [CUNT]. Wherein Chrystle-Leigh, Visiting Professor of Cuntology said, Well YOU did plus they don’t care if anyone remembers or not, they won’t let you use it unless you give em money upfront & even then they’re going to ask for ownership . Own this , you fucking diseased hooker. Then of course the cuntologist said ditto to Tom-Tom’s fallback title, Daydream Believers , TT felt like an ass for even bringing it up but she was loaded, she liked the way it sounded, she was excited & just wanted to put it out there. I don’t give a shit what we call it, she rejoindered, which of course wasn’t true, before puckering up: I think it’d be cool if you wanted to be part of the show. Tom-Tom knew she was going to have to kiss some looser ass if she wanted to get things rolling.

Tom-Tom hated to have to align herself or even deal with her fellow loosers, she was more than just one of them , a loser mouseketeer, she was the CREATOR, the one with the VISION that would shower unknown riches down upon them if they were smart enough to latch on and go for it . She was going to do them the insane favor of frickin hand carrying their lame, out-of-work, no name selves from obscurity into the crystal light. She knew what she wanted the show to be, she wanted it to be poignant, but wild and woolly too, with that demented freewheeling super-spontaneous smells-like-Gary Busey spirit, the problem was she knew more about the Looser Syndrome than she cared to, knew she was going to have an uphill battle not because of the show’s concept , which was trippy and dynamic, she was 1000 % certain she could pitch it and sell it for real, no— not that, but rather because she knew all of the loosers had a deluded sense of importance, delusional self-worth came with the looser territory, the irony being they were incapable of seeing the truth (which in the end probably saved them), that they were drowning, and only by the benevolence of the stars (manifesting through Tom-Tom’s dreams and actions) were they being thrown life preservers, in the shape and form of a venue in which they could once again but this time maybe finally succeed at being losers. Tom-Tom knew she needed to be patient and merely consider them as spoiled invalid children, she knew they wouldn’t be able to shut up, they would be combative, they couldn’t help themselves, they were barely in the position to maintain breath in this world let alone bargain with Tom-Tom over the size and color of their fucking floatation vests, which was fine , but she’d rather be dealing with all that when they were already in the house , and filming— Tom-Tom wanted a reality show, fuck out-of-touch reality , at least if you were going to be out of touch be out of touch while the show’s fucking filming , though not too out of touch, because there wasn’t poignance in that and poignance was part of her Vision— not surrealism, she wanted no part of The Surreal Life ’s Asshole World, fuckin Omarosa living in that senile piece of shit Glen Campbell’s old Holly estate, fuckin rickety Jerri Manthey, fuckin Ron Jeremy, fuckin Flavor Flav & mini-me, Tom-Tom wanted the folks at home to laugh at em then for em then with em, cry w/em too, tears were the secret sauce, Tom-Tom the creator/producer wanted to hit viewers in the gut & slap their hearts, wanted them to see themselves in the looser wrecking crew, you know, like all of us are only a fartbeat away from humiliation and defeat, & must then find the strength to pull ourselves up. . Bad News Bears/Daydream Believers/ whatever must present the same suspenseful indomitability of spirit as magnificently evinced by Marky Mark & Christopher Bale in The Fighter , ergo apprehension & delight, and finally, invested emotion , she wanted the preverbial audience at home to be completely in sync with the houseful of loosers as they underwent painful public transformation, their pitiable collective charms finally breaking thru losershells to catharsis & chrysalis luminosity , with that special excitement glow ascribable only to newborn s and wingdusted butterflies taking virginal flight.

Tom-Tom knew she’d win, in the end, & bend the loosers to her will.

. .

She did her homework, heartened by what she learned.

Ooh Baby Baby It’s A Wild World Films was run by Brando Brainard. BB was a party boy cum producer, bankrolled by his father. She thought it commendable he’d resisted 24/7 agency gangbang invites, all clamoring to rep. He used his dad’s lawyers instead. When asked about that, Brainard said on http://www.a-billion-dollars-is-cool/interview/brando-brainard.html that he took his lead from Spielberg, who apocryphally operated without an agent for years.

Apparently (with the emphasis on parent ), there was a lot of money there. Brando kept similar company cause it’s lonely at the top. He hung with the son and daughter of Larry Ellison, the $50 billion oracular man. David & Megan Ellison each had their own company, Skydance Prods and Annapurna Pictures respectively. The boy was 28 and raised $350 million the year before; the chick was 25, rode horses & Harleys and worked out of a $14 million home bought with a loan from Daddy’s Octopus Holdings (“octopus” sounded about right). It sucked not to be the Ellison kids. The key difference between them and Brando was that while Brando Brainard’s father, or his money anyway, was the gorilla in the room nobody seemed to be able to find the gorilla. Bertram Brainard was a recluse, an inventor with over a thousand patents to his name from medical devices to ideas . Tom-Tom thought it was very cool that a person could patent an idea . She crawled the websighs, servered the Clouds, & surf Safari’d, resulting in the provocatively useless knowledge that Brainard Senior was the wiz who came up with the 3-number security code on the back of credit cards. Which wouldn’t have been notable in itself, had it not been for the part about the information highway robbery allowing him to collect royalties on his innovative capitalistic tool for 15 years after the established copyright. Tom-Tom dragged, doubleclicked, triple beam surfed & snorted in an attempt to find out what royalties, and from who . As it turned out, the money gratefully poured forth from slaphappy banks & merchants who saved trillions in fraud. (She couldn’t find a $ amount re Warlock Brainard’s remuneration.) Another one of his frightening ideas was the concept of/technology behind those scary-cheap 7Eleven-type plastic bags made in Myanmar by dying 6-year-olds, bags so thin they just met the technical definition of “bag”—it’s hard to open them even if you’re at the right end, that’s because of their molecular structure, each time you tussle you’re almost certain the cashier handed you a defective single sheet. Finally you peel it back, & unless you triple-bag it, the freak plastic’s built-in genetic design code virtually commands it to tear open just as you’re getting in the car. The bags somehow left one feeling disempowered, even spiritually bereft, yet were now in 83 % of national convenient marts, shaving hundreds of millies off the stronger still-crap bags being used before. www.wikicorpsleak.comsaid Brainard’s attorneys were warlock geniuses themselves, as inspired & militant in finding arcane ways to trademark ideas as were the legendary tax-dodge lobbyist shysters hired by G.E…. Brainard’s men were pioneers of idea patenting, a relatively new area originally perceived by many as likely having the ½life of an ostrich blink. So far, no lawmakers had overturned it.