My divine quest to bring la revolucion to network television was
at an impasse.
The trail I had followed last week connecting Colin Farrell to
the Big Four’s infamous “Inner Circle” went cold.
Things were beginning to look less and less hopeful.
So, in order to boost morale, I sent my yoga-starved ninja vixen
of a common-law wife Christy to an all-expenses-paid weekend at
some New Age health spa in Palm Springs while I stayed in Westwood
to look for clues.
This meant going to Whole Foods on Gayley, buying a sixer of
Anchorsteam and smuggling it into the Mann Bruin to see Amanda
Bynes’ new period drama.
The movie had already started, and the only other folks in the
place were a smattering of teen and ‘tween girls, sad
refugees of the fallen Dynasty of Britney.
“That cow’s career is over,” I muttered to
myself, cracking a beer and toasting the idea. “Next stop,
Hustler Magazine.”
I cackled for a minute until one of the girls turned around,
looked at me and started crying.
I felt an insistent tap on my shoulder.
And I knew I was busted, but I decided I wasn’t going down
without a fight. I was about to pull my shiv from my shoe when a
voice behind me spoke.
“It’s about time,” it said.
“You’re late.”
Hmmm. I decided to play along.
“I needed to eat, man,” I said, holding a beer,
“Want one?”
“No! And don’t look at me!” he whispered.
“This is supposed to be totally Cloak &
Dagger.”
“Right, right. So, what is it this week?”
A manila envelope slid in between my seat and the one next to
me.
“Grab it,” he said. “But don’t open it
“¦ yet.”
Pay dirt, I thought. This was the mother-load. I was so in the
Inner Circle now.
“These are the specs for Mr. Murdoch’s latest plan.
An update on all the figures, casualties, et cetera on The
Project.”
“Ah, yes, The Project.”
“Memorize everything in there and dispose of
it.”
“Totally, man. Totally. By the way, which The Project is
this, exactly?”
He paused for a moment, and I thought I was going to be found
out.
“Man, Farrell, you are one funny guy. You Irish folks are
pretty hilarious when you’re not drunk.”
“Yeah, er, laddie, I reckon.”
“Project SARS is well underway,” he continued.
“The disease has its grip on Hong Kong. The bootleg movie
capital of the world will soon collapse under the weight of its own
snot, sneezes and phlegm, and Darth Murdoch will once again reign
supreme without any competition sleazier than him.”
The voice let out a maniacal laugh that caused a group of girls
to flee the scene, and I knew it was the time to act. I swung my
half-empty bottle behind me and hit him right between the eyes.
“My face!” he yelped, “my beautiful,
photogenic face!”
It was John Tesh.
He was out of commission, but I immediately noticed his partner,
who looked a lot like Kenny G, bolt toward us with fervor.
I slipped through a side exit and jumped in a dumpster, just in
time to hear G run past.
The plot was thickening, but it looked like I was getting closer
than ever. Just then a bum knocked me on the back of the head with
an empty pizza box.
“Give me five dollars!” he said.
I handed him a leftover hamburger from the stand on Gayley, but
he looked at it in disgust.
“I don’t eat meat,” he said. “I’m
a vegetarian! Respect my views. I have a voice too!”
Indeed. So I pulled out my new wallet.
E-mail Cobb with anything you know about network television at
ccobb@media.ucla.edu.