Warning: This journal is rated R, for restricted audiences. It contains naughty language and adult situations. If you are under 18, do not read without the consent of an adult.
-Chuck Verbatim
11/12/99
[...] Production Day 666: Another fun day at work! Me and Cameron Diaz and Catherine Keener had a thunderous threesome on the roof of Malkovich's trailer. Oh, my bones ache so! Million dollar Idea: put bullet through own head. Lovingly,
[...] I have it all figured out, my friend. It's like jumping on a trampoline. It's like that old sing-song: "jump motherfucker jump motherfucker jump, jump motherfucker jump motherfucker jump."
Best,
Archives:
Week One:
Week Two:
Week Three:
Week Four:
[Ed Note: Readers may have realized a recent arrest of Lloyd Rice's journal entries. Currently, I'm afraid Lloyd is going through what people in Hollywood call "a nervous breakdown", but is more accurately described as "going bat-shit crazy". It seems the sudden notoriety of having his own internet journal, juxtaposed with his continued downward-spiraling bad luck (he got kicked off production on Three Kings exactly six hours into his job, and went to every commercial casting spot for several months to no avail), has proven too much for his fragile frame to bear. He usually mails me a disk every few days (paranoid that internet transactions would be intercepted and used against him, somehow) with his transcribed writings, but a few weeks ago, the postmarks began originating away from Southern California, and then they suddenly stopped coming altogether. I called around trying to track him down; no word, no recent PA work, and I happen to know his roommate kicked him out a few months after BJM, his money and sanity running dangerously low. His screenplay had made a few short rounds, never getting past the first rung of Propaganda script readers (H. floated me a copy, weighing in at 72 pages, and I can safely say it's not going to be a movie anytime soon), and his surfboard is still sitting under the desk at Vince Landay's office. It's kind of sad. I had pretty much given up on him, but he finally called me over the weekend from a payphone in Indiana, where he has taken tenure at a yogurt shop. He assured me he was doing just fine, but then cursed me out for several minutes for being a sell-out, a vampire, and a Japanese businessman. He's writing a novel now, apparently, and "getting laid like crazy". Good for you, Lloyd. Anyway, he got an email account and claims to have both journal entries and "creative writing" for the website, which may or may not get posted depending on their content. With that, I leave you a fragment of his most recent message, which after reading you can decide whether or not you care to return to his page. Thanks.
[...] Ever smelled the woods, Chuck? Probably not, you misguided homeboy. Don't you ever get tired of the perennial honking and knobhobbing? You must, you just won't admit it. It's a dead end; I'm here to tell you it's the end of the road. Turn around and touch the thundergrundle. MAKE SOME FUCKING SENSE. Not to them, to yourself. You don't need the money, you don't need the fame, you need the SMELLS, the smells of America, and Los Angeles doesn't have them. What do they pay you, anyway?
