Who Stole the Funny? : A Novel of Hollywood Read Online Free PDF

mantra that cannot
    be repeated—or overstated,
    Stephanie Pooley bared her
    teeth.
    or overclarified—enough. So:
    Young, good! Old, bad!)
    “That’s the point,” Dick
    smirked. “Hear me out. If
    we go in with the M.O. that
    J.T. and J.T. alone is our man, the studio will have to take us seriously. They can’t say we’re not playing ball. We are! We’ve got a replacement! And his name is J.T. Baker, folks! Now—they’ve got to 2 8
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    shut down the show! They’ll die when they hear his fucking name!
    I mean this guy is . . . an artist! He’s . . . got vision ! Vision, for chrissake! He’s got passion! He cares! Can you imagine the nightmare?!
    Believe me, it’s a foolproof plan!”
    Dick was practically bouncing in his chair. “The studio will
    recommend to the network that the show be shut down for the
    week, you can find some other schmuck to direct, and you’ll get some rest and have your people do another pass on the eighty-page script. That way, the studio must—they have to pick up the tab for the week. Not you guys, or your production company!”
    He could tell the Pooleys, with their steamy pile of ambition
    and taste for delicious manipulation, liked this idea.
    “Now think, guys,” Dick continued. “How is the studio going
    to get J.T. Baker here in time for tomorrow’s production meet-
    ing? We’re putting them in a no-win position! And—he lives in
    Bum-fuck Someplace where there are real people and stuff that’s
    . . . real and stuff. In other words: he’s ‘rural’! They’ll shit! We’ve got a rural guy directing an urban show. Fuck! They’ll never say yes. Oh! And oh! Get this: Even though I represent him, I also represent you, too! So . . . I’ll tell him I can’t get involved in his salary reduction ! We’ll offer him . . . director’s scale! Odds are, he’ll throw a hissy fit and never get on a plane. It clears you guys on even another level!”
    “We’re not fucking actors. You don’t have to explain things,”
    Marcus said. “But you’re sure this will work? This J.T. Baker
    thing?”
    “Foolproof,” Dick Beaglebum beamed.
    “Brilliant ,” Stephanie Pooley said.
    “Genius ,” Marcus Pooley agreed.
    Not the end of the conversation, but who wants to hear more?
    End of Meeting.
    J.T. Baker
    By now, J.T. Baker’s name was speeding through Hollywood like
    a derivative idea. Joseph Thomas Baker. It took thirty seconds at Ellis Island to chop down the Bäcker family tree and plant the
    seedling thereafter to be known as Baker . No matter; family and enemies just called him J.T.
    J.T. was a straightforward guy or a hair-triggered time bomb,
    depending on who was talking. He had the fury of ten men—ten
    very self-righteous men. He believed in truth, justice, and the American way. Unfortunately, he wasn’t related to Superman, nor did he live in the 1950s, and the letters J.T. just didn’t look as good on a sky blue T-shirt as the well-known S . He was taught at a very young age that he could never be good enough. Therefore, J.T.
    grew into a tortured perfectionist (not the romantic kind; the real kind. Basically a pain in the ass to live with).
    If a curious outsider were to Google J.T. Baker, they would
    learn that he was a Teen Star (precocious baggage), a Broadway
    Star (pedigree baggage), a Film Star (has-been baggage), and a
    Recording Almost-Star (laughingstock baggage). And then when
    his time was over and desperation set in, J.T. reinvented himself and became a Writer (cynical baggage), an Executive (impe-
    rious baggage), a Producer (my-son’s-a-producer baggage, and
    exactly-what-does-a-producer-do? baggage), a Musician (take
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    one-step-back-and-go-directly-to-jail baggage), and finally, for the past fifteen years, a very successful Television Sitcom Director (I’m-finally-the-big-kahuna-completely-in-control baggage).
    Not to mention that he sometimes sold his old wardrobe on