it's being dreamy (part one in an eleven-part series)

The scene is laid out: we're under an immaculate blue Kentucky sky with a bright sun and powder white clouds few & far between. It's spring time and there's a breeze keeping us from being hot but it's still warm enough for me to wear my thin white Armani Exchange v-neck t-shirt. I'm listening to something weird today, something like Royksopp (Norweigen house/pop music...I guess), but weird is what you'll hear in the car with me anyway...so we'll something say something normal is playing. I don't know where I've come from, but judging by the time of day (about 11 AM), I would say that I've just had breakfast or brunch with some actress who wants to be in one of the upcoming films and I'm just toying her along, more than likely because I'm trying to fuck her. Well, let me rephrase this--I'm trying to fuck her regularly. She wouldn't be talking to me now if it was any other way.

The road I'm on looks a lot like US 42 once you pass through Goshen. You start to see that typical Kentucky landscape: white fences to keep the horses in, rolling fields of bluegrass, farms with Ford F-150s and red barns. Shit like that. It's not my thing, but I've gotten used to the isolation the country offers. I can do whatever I want out here--make noise, race, do doughnuts, get road head while the top's down (well, if I was driving a convertible, I could). More importantly, I don't have to deal with the paparazzi. They have been getting on my nerves of late, always sitting outside of my L.A. condo. I have to time my departures around the same time Lady Gaga is leaving so they'll notice her and I can sneak off to the set. But it's post-production time after four damn months of filming every single day. In post-production, I gotta be relaxed and around comfortable surroundings. L.A.'s too busy, too much of a distraction. I'm too liable to go out and tailgate at a USC game to find a couple of undergrads who are feeling like doing something wild at the condo. Besides, I'm not in the mood for any coked-out threesome drama right now. I'm ready to get to work in the studio.

I finally make it to my sprawling 50-acre estate, make sure to enter the gate code--which I always mix up with my bank card pin number--and pull into the driveway. There are a million cars here, or so it seems, but none of them are mine. Apparently, the Fairmount boys are doing something out by the pool because I'm seeing some splashing of water in the backyard and I'm definitely hearing those annoying girl screams when girls act like they don't want you to rip their clothes off when in reality they've always loosened their G-string. Hey, at least it's early and they're out of the house. I park my M6 (the very same car I decided to give my main character in my first published novel) and take the garage's set of stairs to the basement. I figure if I sneak down that no one will convince me to act a damn fool today. And like I said before, I'm ready to get to work in the studio, a Mac lab where I edit all of my own films. First & final cuts of the film are worked on here in the Bluegrass State, where I can't pay attention to the industry patter. I don't care what they say about my film, and I definitely don't care about Robert Downey, Jr. complaining about a certain amount of time on film, especially since he's not starring. Sometimes that shit gets to me though...can't be around it. Bad vibes. I'm hiding in the Mac lab.

My most trusted editor, B, is waiting on me, looking kinda goofy. I think she's trying to show off some clothes she copped at a fashion show when we were in France for Cannes last week, and honestly, I dig them but not on her. Before I can even sit down and tell B about the brunch, my Blackberry's ringing with my brother's ugly mug on it. That lazy bastard's calling me from upstairs? I let the college boy have his fun; besides, he knows I'm working. Before I can even bring up Final Cut Pro, my Blackberry is ringing again. Ahh, this time it's the queer from Complex Magazine wanting to interview B, S, and me. Where the hell was S anyway? He had been upstairs when I left this morning and his 'rati was in the driveway...ahh, the pool. The girl he was with last night--one he had nabbed from Cannes and brought home with him, kinda like a souvenir--had said she liked to tan nude so she was probably catching some sun, probably catching some S at the same time. Ahh, he wouldn't need to be here for editing today. Anyway, so this really annoying flirty writer for Complex was trying to interview us about OI's growth and the rumored project with Pacino (it's not a rumor, we just haven't had the time to let the ink dry) and I've honestly been dodging the fucker. I don't have time for this. I can't interview just yet; I'm hiding.

I already hate this movie I've yet to edit. I'm trying to keep the optimism in my head, but I'll hate until I love it. The movie is made on the cutting floor, so I have plenty of time to make a movie I love. Until then, I hate it--it'll help me keep focus. The young blonde that just walked downstairs wearing, uh, nothing, so it seems, is a perfect example of a distraction. She asks me where the bathroom is, and I know she already has to know because I have like 5 of them upstairs. I'm hiding...gotta make this movie...gotta do work, gotta focus...but I also gotta hot ass blonde dripping wet with no clothes on asking me to show her where the bathroom is. I might be focused, but I'm not gay. Be right back, B, we'll start editing this thing in about, oh.........20 minutes.

I'm dreamy.................