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They call me "Little Script," Mister!
Paul Buscemi's Column (minus, Paul Buscemi) For Monday June 11, 2001.
If you're looking for Paul Buscemi, he's taken the week off. I'm filling in for him. He's mentioned me before. My name is Little Script. Actually, Buscemi's not on any vacation. He's passed out. Exhaustion has finally taken its toll on him. It was inevitable after all. You can't keep up a pace like that, work a day job, raise two kids, be a good husband, remain in escrow and attend a weekly industry training class without something giving way. In this case, it was his ability to cram a 27-hour day into 24.
Right now, he's lying face down in his kitchen by the refrigerator. It's Sunday around 12 am. He was nodding off in front of his computer - trying to finish this week's column, when he mumbled something about needing cranberry juice or caffeine. The next thing I heard was a tremendous thud and then snoring. His wife will find him in the morning. He'll be fine.
I mean, I don't give a (expletive deleted) about him. He sent me out into "Script Factory" with nothing more than a gray cover and three brads on! I made it back here - eventually. My worn pages and tattered cover now rest meekly on his shelf. My shrink says I suffer from "Post Traumatic Shock Syndrome." No, (expletive deleted). You don't know what I've been through, man!
Let ?em sleep.
Last week he had the audacity to list everything he has accomplished this year, thus far. "So what," I said. He just didn't get it! All that work was meaningless! He still hadn't made a sale. His career hasn't launched in my book until he's got a sale.
What? Oh, sleeping beauty is now passed out in front of the fridge AND talking in his sleep. "If you write it, they will come," he mumbles between snores. Geeze, it's like living with a (expletive deleted) cheerleader.
c.2001pdb
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