Tuesday, January 18, 2011


The rogue curator Noel Lawrence
For those who follow my work, you may be familiar with an unsavory “curator” by the name of Noel Lawrence. He edited a book about me in cahoots with an obscure  French rock critic and has often screened “Peep Show” and other movies at museums and cinematheques in Europe. 

Until now, I have suffered this fellow. He was a pest but a persistent one so I occasionally indulged him. I gave him a few crumbs for his book and lent him some very valuable film prints from my private collection. However, Mr. Lawrence has repaid my generosity with calumny and betrayal!

Noel recently asked my permission to screen my films “at a festival in Utah” in January. Naturally, I was very excited to be a part of Robert Redford’s powwow in Park City. Strangely, Noel seemed evasive when I asked about breaking bread with the great thespian. Now I have learned that Mr. Lawrence will be showcasing my work at a doppelganger festival that bears no connection to Slundance but happens at the very same time. 

Even so, I only requested that my hosts provide me with the standard perks of a visiting auteur such as a five-figure appearance fee and a limousine from the Salt Lake City airport. In fact, I even waived the usual “hookers and champagne” clause from my contract. Noel avoided my calls for some time. When my personal assistant finally reached him, he informed me that this “film festival” will not even get me a room at the Motel 6 for my stay. 

Mr. Lawrence, you are a fraud and a cheat.  This offense shall not go unanswered.

Bear in mind I do not advocate a boycott of the screening. In fact, I urge your attendance as this may be your last chance to see these films. I will be confiscating my prints after the screening and locking them up in a secure location that Dick Cheney could only dream of. Instead of preventing this show, I propose to add a special bonus attraction to the festivities.  After Lawrence finishes presenting my films, I will come on stage and personally beat the shit out of this craven curator.

Prepare yourself, Noel! I am at work in my private gymnasium with the soundtrack to Rocky cranked to maximum volume. I am jumping rope, hitting the bag, and taking long steam baths. By the time I arrive in Park City, I shall be in full fettle and ready to kick your ass. In that regard, perhaps I owe backhanded thanks to Lawrence for motivating me to undertake this strenuous physical regimen.

Now you may ask yourself why I would not just use one of my favorite shotguns to dispatch this blackguard. That would not be appropriate. Firearms are for gentlemen in a duel. This rapscallion merits nothing greater than fists and feet. Moreover, he is a wimp. A girl could beat him up and so can an old man like myself. 

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Addendum to Previous Post

Though I still am not at liberty to discuss my role in “the spaghetti incident,” I do want to make one important clarification before tongues inevitably begin to wag. Yes, I puked on the agent’s wife. However, I did not puke on her intentionally as everyone claimed. It simply had been an unfortunate occurrence without any premeditated ill-will. 

Thursday, January 6, 2011


As I watched the tarmac of LAX shrinking beneath the clouds on that fateful day in 1981, many tears salted the first martini of the flight.  The first-class one-way ticket to Geneva was on the house.  So was the Gucci attaché case stuffed with Krugerrands and back issues of Hustler Magazine for bathroom reading. I had even more money waiting for me at the Zurich branch of Credit Suisse. The boys back East hadn’t loaded me on that plane without a golden parachute.

But I was never coming home. Nearly a half-century worth of dreams died that day. All of my life had been writing, shooting, editing, directing, living and breathing the movies. Whether buying bear claws for the grips before dawn, pitching “the best film ever” to a bored junior executive at Universal, or waking up nose down in the shag carpet of an unknown hotel room (though I could tell by the weave that I was at the Chateau Marmont), the beat never stopped.  Life was film and film was life and that was that.

And now it was over. There had been a scandal. Then a cover-up. I became the damage to be controlled.

Thirty years passed in exile and not a day went by without waiting for the call. I knew sooner or later my contributions to the art of cinema would be recognized. Hollywood would someday let me back into its precious fold.

And, finally, vindication.  

It recently came to my attention that the Slamdance Film Festival will be presenting a retrospective of my work. I would like to personally thank Robert Redford for inviting me to once more be a part of the Industry that has shunned me for so long. Further, I want to praise him for overlooking my disgraceful conduct during the notorious “spaghetti incident.” 

Dear readers, I am afraid I cannot go into details on the events that transpired that evening. However, rest assured Redford is quite a mensch to offer his tacit forgiveness. Now, please let me get back to packing. I bought a new flask and thermal socks for Park City!

Friday, December 10, 2010

Wulberry Street

Casino Count Room
Back in the 60s and 70s, the Outfit had a beautiful scam going on. If you wanted to raise money to buy a casino in Las Vegas, the financing had to go through the Central States Teamster Pension Fund. And since the mob had Jimmy Hoffa in their pocket, no one got a loan unless the families got to skim a percentage of the take. Since casinos dealt mostly in cash, we just had to install a few moles in the count rooms to ferry the loot back to our friends in Chicago and New York. The biggest problem was that the money weighed so much. Have you ever lugged around a Samsonite with a quarter-million in low-denomination banknotes? Just the thought of it makes my shoulder cramp. Even so, we never had it so good. It made prohibition look like chump change. 

Unfortunately, the Feds eventually shut down the operation. A lot of guys got clipped and even more got shipped off to the slammer. Scorsese made a great film about the whole thing.

As much money as we made from Las Vegas, I am blown away by the crooks of today. They established a multi-billion dollar racket that not even Meyer Lansky could have dreamed up.

Now, if you’ll indulge me for the next 12 paragraphs or so, I am going to set up a fairly complex analogy that will illuminate the greatest crime of the 21st Century.

The casinos moved east but not to Atlantic City. They classed up the joints and gave them names like NASDAQ and NYSE. Instead of calling the activity “gambling,” it was now referred to as “investing.” The best part was that the casinos no longer needed to lure the suckers to Nevada to lose their money. In fact, they weren’t even allowed inside the casino. Instead, they entrusted “experts” to do it on the gambling floor.

Police Busting a Wire Room circa 1950s
Of course, this is nothing new. We used to have these joints in Chicago called “wire rooms” where gamblers could phone in bets on football games and horse races. You developed a relationship with your bookie just like a savvy investor has one with his broker. But imagine if your bookie demanded a percentage of your paycheck every week to play the horses. You still could choose your bets but you had to gamble no matter what. That’s a 401K. Now imagine if the bookie handled millions of dollars from thousands of people and could bet the money any way he saw fit. Even better, you never had a chance to chew him out on the phone when he lost your dough. That is known as a mutual fund.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. A stock is a unit of ownership in a business entity. That’s so 1974, dude. Today, we’ve got synthetic financial instruments like derivatives, short sales, CDO’s, and God knows what else. There’s even a fund where people can gamble on the box office grosses of movies. 

So far, we’ve established two key elements of my analogy:

1. Casino = Financial Market
2. Gambling = Investing

Of course, had these billion-dollar bookies been working The Strip 40 years ago, every wiseguy would have taken a piece of their Ivy League ass. And when these jerks lost other people’s money, they’d end up in the cement foundation of a parking garage. No one made big money in Vegas without an organization to protect him. In my day, a high roller could have chosen among several sponsors from New York: Gambino, Colombo, Lucchese, Bonanno, or Genovese. Sure, these guys are still around but a new set of families controls the stock rackets: the Goldman group, the Morgan Stanley cartel, and a mean crew of greaseballs formerly known as the Bank of Italy

How do these organizations provide protection? In Vegas, the tools were rather crude. Lead pipes and guns proved messy yet effective. If you fucked with the wrong guy, we’d put you in a hole in the desert. Of course, all that blood was bad for business. So today’s crime families use more subtle means. They employ armies of in-house attorneys that will litigate their enemies into the grave.

However, you’ve still got to handle the Feds. The banksters have the SEC. We dealt with the FBI.  More important, politicians could enact harsher laws to disrupt all of our illicit activities. So how did we get away with our thing? Well, back in the old days, we would use something known as a bribe. We gave them to politicians in order to get something we wanted. For instance, they could stop a DA or a police chief from interfering with the skim. The only problem is that bribes are illegal. In fact, Roy Williams (president of the Teamsters after Hoffa got whacked) went to jail because he offered one to Senator Cannon near the end of our Vegas heyday.
Goldman Sachs Board Meeting

Fortunately, the banksters developed a legal sort of bribe known as a “campaign contribution.” For instance, Goldman Sachs was the second largest donor to Obama’s  2008 presidential run with a grand payoff of $994,795. 

Now, let’s try to figure out the difference between a political contribution and a bribe. With a bribe, the politician can spend the money any way he sees fit, be it a plasma screen TV or a Maserati. On the other hand, a campaign contribution is more limited in scope. The money enables someone to acquire a powerful and prestigious position in government. Further, the politician needs this money every few years to keep the job. In both cases, I am giving you something of value. Do you imagine that I do not expect anything in return?

The best part is that I don’t even need to disclose my identity since the Supreme Court’s Citizens United ruling in 2010. As a result, I can use my money as leverage in case you do not give me what I want. There’s a wonderful organization known as the U.S. Chamber of Commerce where I can secretly funnel as much money as I want to fund your opponent and kick you out of office. 

So what did the banksters get for their campaign contributions? TARP comes to mind. A former lobbyist for Goldman got appointed as Tim Geithner’s chief of staff. In case you’re not familiar with what a chief of staff does, he’s basically a gatekeeper that decides who can see his boss. So if you want an audience with the Secretary of the Treasury to discuss, say, corrupt business practices at Goldman Sachs, you’ve got to convince their former lobbyist to set the meet. Good luck, buddy! And as for the SEC, they are too busy watching porn to conduct serious investigations. I only wish the FBI had the Internet back then. We’d still be skimming casinos.

Okay, let’s take a deep breath and put together two more pieces of the puzzle: 

3. Mob Family = “Too Big To Fail” Investment Banking Firm
4. Bribe = Campaign Contribution

Now here’s my favorite part. Do you remember all of that money that drained out of your pension plan? Do you think it all just vanished in a puff of smoke? Obviously, there are many complex economic factors that determine the value of stocks and other financial instruments. Alan Greenspan and Larry Summers probably understand this crap but I do not. However, I have a pretty strong suspicion where at least part of your money went.

Whether or not a casino made or lost money in a given month, we always could skim part of the cash that flowed through the count room. Similarly, the widespread turbulence of the markets seems to have little effect on the enormous bonuses paid out to investment bankers every Christmas. Interesting.

Let me paint a pretty picture for you. This is the story of Joe Sixpack and Lloyd Blankfein. Joe is an electrician in Utica. He dutifully puts his money into a pension fund. When the fund goes up, Lloyd takes his cut. And when the fund goes down, Lloyd keeps his cut. Joe loses his life savings and bags groceries at Wal-Mart. Lloyd uses his yearly bonus to buy another mansion in Westport. You can read the full story here

So now let’s hammer the final nail in the coffin:

5. Wall Street Bonuses = Las Vegas Casino Skim

Things haven’t changed much except that the crap games on Mulberry Street moved downtown. And they became too big to get busted. Shutting down the casinos would bring down the entire world financial system. 

I am in awe.  

I am also amused at the complacency of you schumucks out there. While I’m waiting for pornographic videotapes to rewind on my VCR, I sometimes tune in to this Fox News Channel you’ve got. Americans are real pissed off these days. But instead of going after the guys who stole their money, they elect a bunch of Republicans who are even bigger banker-lovers than the Democrats  

Let’s get something straight here. I don’t give a fuck about social justice. If you morons want to keep electing conservative Republicans for the next hundred years, that’s fine with me. I’ve got no beef with the banksters. I invest in gold and real estate. Always made money. I only worry about politicians who want to set up extradition treaties with foreign countries where I travel. That would be a bummer. Otherwise, knock yourself out.  

I don’t know much about ethics. However, I do understand power and force. You can’t go against a guy like John Gotti because you will get killed. On the other hand, I don’t see what is stopping Americans from taking down these bald fat pricks on Wall Street. It all comes down to strength in numbers. Imagine a card game with ten guys. One of them cheats and wins all of their cash. The remedy is simple. The other nine players kick the shit out of the bum and get their money back. Now imagine an even larger table. Millions of players lose their shirts and a handful of jerks end up with all of the chips. If I had any skin in a game like that, I’d organize an angry mob with torches and pitchforks, give them bus tickets to Greenwich, loot the bankers' mansions, and sell the swag on eBay. 

And if you don’t dig violence, why not just elect some politicians who pass laws to tax the hell out of investment bankers? Even the backwards Brits with their crusty class system managed to enact a windfall tax. After we claw back their ill-gotten gains, the money goes into a government fund to create federal jobs like FDR did during the Great Depression. Or just give every citizen a rebate check so they can keep the heat on this winter. 

These teabaggers crack me up. If they’d shut off the tube for five minutes and think about what I just wrote, maybe the workingman could take back his country. 

Monday, December 6, 2010

Lindsay Lohan Survival Tips

Jerry Geisler taking care of business. 
Lindsay, I’m sorry it had to come to this. Your story saddens me. Back in my day, the judges in LA County were stern but their rates were reasonable. The current media environment is appalling. Where is Eddie Mannix when you need him? Where’s Jerry Giesler? Jesus, I’d even settle for Anthony Pellicano right now. What is this world coming to?! In better times, talk could be silenced. And when that failed, the talker could be silenced.

Now, don’t worry. I’m not going to feed you a line of condescending paternal pabulum about cleaning up your act. Let’s face it. You’re 24, rich, famous, and Betty Ford might as well install a turnstile at the security gates for your relapses. You’re back on the street on January 3, 2011 and temptation in West Hollywood abounds. Before TMZ can twitter “train wreck,” you’re going to get busted back. And next time, it won’t be easy time. It will be Downey time (or even Spector time if you really fuck up).

Keeping in mind the horrendous conditions on the ground, I’d like to give you a survival kit. A realistic one. Before proceeding, let me state my underlying thesis: a human being may live a normal, healthy lifespan while indulging heavily in recreational drugs. I’ve done it. William S. Burroughs did it. And Hunter S. Thompson could have made the finish line if he had not opted out.

The good news is that you may continue to use narcotics. Even in the spotlight, life is depressing and a few kicks keep the stride in your step. However, the professional hedonist must be guarded, disciplined, and mindful. Sure, you can live on the edge but it’s a question of distance. Are you going to party two meters from the edge or two millimeters?

Below are my ten commandments. Dr. “Moses” Williams is handing down these tablets from high above Mt. Sinai so you don’t end up in Cedars-Sinai. They may be harder pills to swallow than last night’s ecstasy but do not question my wisdom. I’m thrice your age and can still drink, snort, shoot, toke, and ingest any punk junkie under any table.

Commandment One: HIRE A CHAUFFEUR

I’ve known many functional alcoholics around town who hire a personal driver to cart their asses from bar to bar until they pass out on the floor or end up in the drunk tank. With your healthy income, you have no excuse to endanger the lives of pedestrians on the Sunset Strip with alcohol-impaired driving. I suggest the purchase of a non-descript Bentley limo (those Hummer stretches are tacky and bad for the environment) that includes a wet bar stocked with all of your favorite drinks. Open container laws do not apply to the passenger section of these vehicles so you will be able to imbibe before and after visits to your favorite nightclubs.

If you choose to use narcotics in the limousine, a decent welder can saw a small hole through the floorboard so you can abandon your contraband in the event of a police stop or checkpoint. Also, make sure your driver has a clean record and will submit to random drug testing. After Princess Diana, I’m probably stating the obvious but, considering the company you keep, let’s not take any chances.

Command Two: BE NICE TO COPS

I cannot tell you how many times my “Patrolman’s Benevolent Association” bumper sticker allowed me to drive away from a borderline DUI pinch. If you are nice to the police, they will be nice to you. If you are afraid of the police, they will be afraid of you. A copper can smell fear just like any well-trained watchdog.

Remember Officer Friendly? Did he ever do you wrong? If you are a white and wealthy female, cops are your friends. The LAPD is out there to save your sorry ass from stalkers and maniacs who fixate on your fame and intend grievous bodily harm.  On a daily basis, the police deal with murders, assaults, rapes, and all sorts of horrors you only view from the comfort of your VIP seating at a red-carpet premiere. Lindsay Lohan is not the center of their world. You are a second-rate nuisance that interferes with law enforcement’s ability to carry out more important duties.

Establishing a rapport with the LAPD will save you much grief down the road. Back in my day, I made a habit of taking officers to lunch. They had issues with me. I had issues with them. But after a couple martinis, we usually resolved our differences and moved on to more substantive matters such as the Dodgers’ potential for taking the pennant in 1977.

Invite a hot-dog LAPD captain or lieutenant to the Pacific Dining Car for a nice meal. Cops love the joint. The menu is a bit pricey on a policeman’s salary so they will be grateful when you pick up the check. The restaurant has excellent steaks and an elegant low-key atmosphere for good conversation.

Given your status as a paparazzi magnet, book a private room at the Dining Car and arrive twenty minutes before the scheduled meeting. Otherwise, you’re going to blow their cover and everyone will look stupid. Now, don’t worry. You won’t need to bribe or blow anyone.  A $25,000 donation to a slain officer fund should be sufficient to put you in their good graces. And, frankly, if you’re going to stuff that cash up your nose within the month, why not do a good deed for once in your life?


Judge Marsha Revel ain't into revelry.
So, let’s see. You put your fate in the hands of a menopausal female judge under a harsh media spotlight. Then you publicly flout her authority and ignore her rulings whilst partying in Cannes. Lindsay, you ought to know how envious women can get. And I don’t know what goodies Marcia Revel has under her robe but I will assume they are not as tasty as yours. How could you not see how this episode would play out? You almost deserve to go to jail for the crime of willful stupidity.

At this point, it’s a little late in the game to switch judges though I just heard Lil’ Miss Marcia had to recuse herself from your case. Wonder if Bob Shapiro’s working that “Ol’ Black Mannix” behind the scenes. Or maybe she really did fuck up. I just can’t know…

Anyway, next time you end up in court, have your lawyer find a nice white-haired old gent from the judicial pool. Flirt a bit, hit your mark, and you’ll be able to get away with murder.

The Honorable Elden S. Fox
UPDATE: Congratulations on getting the Honorable Elden S. Fox! He sounds like a definite improvement. According to one legal forum, “He has bent over backwards with criminal defendants whom he thinks can be helped with something other then wasting time in jail.”



According to news reports, I have learned that you have been on several prescription medications, including Zoloft, Trazodone, Adderall, Nexium, and Dilaudid. Most of that stuff is just boring, non-euphoric garbage. You can drop that crap. It obviously hasn’t done you much good. However, I’m very interested in the Dilaudid prescription that you received for “occasional dental pain.” That must be one of hell of a toothache, LiLo!

For those who haven’t seen Drugstore Cowboy, Dilaudid was the very potent opiate that Matt Dillon’s character jacked from pharmacies. In fact, the actual person (James Fogle) that inspired the film just got arrested for trying to stick up a drug store in Redmond, Washington at the ripe old age of 73. I’m glad to see us geriatrics fight for the right to party. Keep punchin’, Jim!

Suffice to say, I would be most grateful if you could refer me to your dentist. In the meantime, stock up on those Dilaudid refills. Nothing beats narcotics manufactured in a FDA-sanctioned laboratory. By the time you score street stuff, it probably has gone through multiple distributors who progressively adulterate the product with quinine, caffeine, and all sorts of unhealthy chemical substances that diminish its purity.

As they say, if you want money, go to a bank. And if you want drugs, go to a drug store.

Now don’t be an idiot like Rush Limbaugh and go doctor shopping. The acquisition process should be performed through two levels of cut-outs. The first set procures the desired painkillers from, say, arthritic old ladies in Fairfax Village who want to pad their social security checks. You must not have any contact with these people. They never, ever should know your identity in the event of an arrest. Instead, your upper cut-outs will obtain the narcotics from the lower ones and then deliver them to you. By this means, you will achieve a certain degree of insulation. However, the upper cut-outs could still drop the dime on you so be sure to pay them well for their services.

At this point, you still carry the risk of a possession rap without a doctor’s prescription. However, I have a workaround for that too. If you previously had a prescription for a pleasant controlled substance like Percocet, be sure to save the bottle. Long after the official refills have run out, you may continue to replenish the contents without anyone getting wise at an airport or border crossing. Even if the bottle is out of date, you can just say it ended up in your luggage from an old vacation.

In this case, be sure the dosages match the label. For instance, if the doctor originally prescribed DuPont 7.5mg Oxycodone Hydrochloride/325mg Acetaminophen Percocet, be sure to acquire pills of the same dosage and brand. Most customs officers probably won’t be able to identify the imprint codes but I always advise minimization of exposure. 


As I mentioned earlier, narcotics are OK. In fact, you are free to use lots of drugs but you must use lots of different drugs. The problem with addicts is that they get stuck in a rut. They develop an unhealthy relationship with a controlled substance. The narcotic becomes the crazed yet beautiful lover you cannot quit even though the affair is clearly headed for an unpleasant demise. After awhile, addicts don’t even get high off their drugs. They take more and more of the same substance, chasing after the initial bliss like trying to recapture the better days of a romance gone sour. 

When using drugs, promiscuity is key. No loyalty. Fuck and leave. There are so many wonderful drugs out there that can fuck you up in so many different ways, why choose the monotony of a booze or coke habit? The cardinal rule is never to use the same drug on two consecutive days. Further, NEVER EVER mix your intake of drugs. That’s what got Belushi and Ledger. Drug interactions dramatically increase your chances of a visit to ER. Definitely a style-cramper and just more fodder for the tabloids.

Furthermore, if you want to be a connoisseur of quality narcotics, you need to enjoy the purity of the high. You must learn to savor the bliss of phamaceutical-grade heroin in the same way a sommelier enjoys the heady aroma of a vintage bottle of  Lafite-Rothschild ’75. Adulterating the euphoria of good drugs with a toot of blow is tantamount to chasing a glass of Pauillac with a Bud Light.

Though I don’t want to micromanage your regimen, here is a sample schedule to follow. 


Now that gets you through the first week but we should mix around the order of narcotics and introduce other substances to keep things exciting. Here’s a more detailed schedule.

Week One
Week Three
Magic Mushrooms

Also, I know this will be a challenge but it might be healthy to refrain from using drugs every other Sunday. Take a yoga class or some bullshit. Talk to your shrink. Personally, after a long period of ingestion, I always found a sexual liaison to be restorative and life-affirming. Personally, nothing beats fucking off a vicious hangover with a member of the opposite sex. Or, with your orientation, you can hook up with both sexes! As you already demonstrate, variety is the spice of life. 


Before proceeding, I want to emphasize that this blog does not condone violations of 18 U.S.C. § 1509 ("obstruction of court orders") nor equivalent statutes on the California books. The following remarks are to be construed as hypothetical in nature.

Having said that, the photo to my left speaks for itself. This clumsy attempt at tampering with your SCRAM bracelet is simply pathetic. If you are going to break the law, try to do so in an intelligent manner.

Keep in mind these monitoring bracelets are basically junk. Besides the fact that they may not meet the Frye or Daubert standards in appeals court, a decent electronics expert could trick out the alarm system in under five minutes. I suggest you find a engineering geek at Cal-Tech. Your starpower will dazzle him. After rewiring a few circuits, the bracelet will transmit an “all-clear” sobriety signal no matter how much you guzzle.   

Lindsay, you are not dealing with the NSA here. These bracelets are manufactured by a chickenshit private contractor without any third-party research studies that affirm the effectiveness of the device. 

Commandment Eight: LEARN YOUR CRAFT

Just when I thought I was the only geezer on your case, I came across a most amusing interview by my old pal Jerry Lewis. I will quote him directly as he articulates my sentiments perfectly. 

Q: When you look at someone like Lindsay Lohan and then hear that she may get a million dollars for her first post-rehab interview, what do you think about that?

A: First, she doesn’t know who Al Jolson was… I’d give her a smack in the mouth if I saw her… The terrible part about our business is that people don’t know their craft. They, therefore don’t really help their director, they don’t help their writer, and don’t help their play. They have to learn what they’re doing and how does that get to the public. It gets through your crew. It gets through the people next to you and you treat them with infinite care because they’re delivering what you do. And when people who have celebrity deliver nothing in return, I think they need a fucking spanking… and a reprimand. And because they have all that money, they think they can do that. It has nothing to do with money….They have the intelligence of a box of rocks…a bag of snails. 

Jerry has a point, Lindsay. Whether or not you know Al Jolson, learn to fucking act.

As a director, I have always subscribed to “The Method” as the best way of working with actors. For instance, before Robert DeNiro played Travis Bickle in “Taxi Driver” (old movie you wouldn’t know), he drove a NYC cab for a few weeks to become his character. It has come to my attention that you plan to play Linda Lovelace in an upcoming biopic about the porn actress. Lindsay, I knew Ms. Lovelace. When she auditioned for one of my films, Linda demonstrated a certain… pharyngeal talent. Accordingly, in order to understand the inner-life of your character, it will behoove you to learn this technique. So, in the name of Stanislavsky, I gladly will work pro bono as your acting coach for as long and as hard as it takes for you to engulf the deeper meaning of Linda's existential condition. I guarantee you will deliver a full-throated Oscar-worthy performance that will blow audiences away. If you'd like to inquire further about acting lessons at my Caribbean villa, please contact my personal assistant.


Although the LAPD has better things to do than initiate lockstep surveillance on your activities, the paparazzi do not. They make a living off your abnormal behavior and may expose illegalities. Accordingly, the easiest way of keeping them away involves acting sane and responsibly. However, if that is not an option, you’re going to need to undertake more proactive measures. Stashing random cars in underground parking garages is an excellent method for shaking unwanted tails. Park, change cars, and you’re free. I used to keep four or five models at LAX whenever the G broke my balls. It drove the Feds nuts! Because of flight paths, they can’t maintain aerial surveillance. For best results, don’t drive anything too flashy. After all, who would suspect that Lindsay Lohan will arrive at a nightclub in a 1982 Chrysler “K” car?


We’re too polite to mention your coke-infused chatter annoys us but it does. Please don’t take offense. I only wish for you to comport yourself in a dignified and ladylike matter.