After my close call with John Tesh and Kenny G, I needed to
regroup, meet back up with Christy, and get back on the trail of
the Big 4 TV networks.
Because of the low light and unfriendly ambiance, we decided to
rendezvous at the Moustache Café. Over Bailey’s and
coffees and those World Famous chocolate soufflés, Christy, my
common-law-wife-turned-Pilates-bodyguard, filled me in on the leads
she found during her weekend at a Palm Springs health spa.
“I got a deep tissue massage right next to Sarah Michelle
Gellar Prinze Jr.,” she said. “She told me she’s
been approached to star in the Jessica Lynch story by both NBC and
CBS.”
“You mean that rescued POW from Iraq?” I asked,
nearly dropping my soufflé spoon. “Holy jeez, that Inner
Circle doesn’t wait for the bodies to cool down before
sinking its teeth in, does it?”
“Well she’s not going to do it,” Christy told
me. “She’s already signed on to do the Elizabeth Smart
story. I think it’s tentatively titled “˜Survivor: Salt
Lake City.'”
As we talked, I saw him from the corner of my eye. The eye patch
under the sunglasses, the cheap, tweed sports coat and the wrinkled
copy of Variety under his arm told me we were being watched by a
recently injured and extremely angry John Tesh.
I decided a diversion was necessary.
Yelling at the top of my lungs, I announced to the crowd in my
best belligerent voice, “Well, you know FOX is working on a
reality show based on the lives of both Elizabeth Smart and Jessica
Lynch ““ it’s called “˜Help! I’ve Been Veiled
and Molested by Bearded Men, Get Me Out of Here!'”
Tesh had only begun to pull the knife from his folded copy of
Variety when I knew it was time to act. In a flash, both of our
half-empty soufflé cups were hurtling toward his face ““
and as anyone who’s dined at Moustache’s knows, those
cups are served at over 5,000 degrees Fahrenheit.
Tesh burst into flames instantly. While he was busy waving his
arms through the crowded restaurant, I ran up and drop-kicked him
over a table and through the front window, Hollywood-style.
Sly and Ahnuld would be proud.
Oddly enough, most of the clientele barely noticed the
hullabaloo. However, Christy and I took the back exit.
“Tesh sounds a lot better when he’s on fire,”
Christy noted.
We decided we needed to stay at a safe house until things died
down ““ or at least until Tesh stopped smoldering. I got a
hold of my old war buddy, known only as the Anarchist, and in
minutes, we were at his doorstep. After administering the Double
Secret Knock, we were let in.
A couple nerve-calming beers later, I laid out my findings. I
announced to Christy and the Anarchist that last week, while
watching “What a Girl Wants” and drunkenly posing as
Colin Farrell, I finally managed to pierce the Inner Circle.
So, I told them how the whole SARS epidemic in Hong Kong was
Rupert Murdoch’s revenge against all the black market
bootlegging of movies and music.
Christy looked shocked, but the Anarchist registered no
surprise.
“Those foul bastards have gone too far,” he said. He
stalked into his closet, which was easy because the door was off
its hinges. From inside I heard him growl, “It’s time
we use my Secret Weapon!”
If you see Cobb around Westwood (he’ll be the one in
sunglasses carrying only a machete, dice and a can of Pabst),
please let us know via e-mail at ccobb@media.ucla.edu.