It was a Plymouth Fury, the GT Sport, a two-door 440 V-8 with hidden headlamps and a four-barrel carb. The color scheme was red over white, and its vanity plates read "Coco." White interior made it a woman's car. The bright finish and the personalized tags would render the vehicle easily identifiable around town, but Robert Lee Jons was unconcerned. To him it was important that he be remembered and that what he did got done with style.
Joe did not spend a lot of time bemoaning the fact that God, who could easily have created him six foot six, rippling with muscles and coruscating with charisma, had opted instead for five foot five, a sagging waist, and social invisibility except maybe in a convention of white supremacists. What did gripe him a bit was there was no consistency. Man who could spend twenty minutes trying to catch the waiter's eye in a half-empty restaurant ought to be able to slip out of a crowded hospital ward without attracting attention, but the long eye of the law was not to be denied.
'Joe, where are you rushing off to?' said Prince, taking his elbow as he stepped into the corridor.
'My oh my,' said Merv Golightly as Joe got into his taxi. 'It's a dressy up party, is it? Have to hurry, don't want you to be any later.'
'I'm not late,' protested Joe.
'Oh yes, you are. About thirty years in that suit, I'd say!'
Merv, who appreciated a good joke, especially his own, laughed at this one for the first five minutes of the journey. Even Joe had to admit there was a real point to it. What to wear at Willie Woodbine's party had exercised his mind greatly. The balding cord jacket was obviously out, though he had hopes if it got much smoother, it might eventually pass for a blazer in the dark with the light behind it. This left either the casual look, which meant his blue leather jerkin over a Gary Glitter T-shirt; or the formal look which meant his funeral, wedding, and choir performance suit.
It was a good suit. He'd had it so long it had come back into fashion twice, and there was hardly a mark on it. Unfortunately, with its broad lapels, slanting pockets, triple=buttoned jacket and seventeem-inch trousers with a two-inch turn, it was at the bottom of its fashion cycle just now.
Manhattan was twenty-two square miles and if he took his time, he'd cover it in two hours. He needed the air, needed to clear the alcohol from his head. The perspective from the driver's seat was a bittersweet pleasure to him.
He continued east.
The Greater Chinatown Dream, the Nationalists had called it: an all-yellow district in lower Manhattan running from the Battery to Fourteenth street, river to river, east to west, by the year 2000.
Then he turned the car north and made all the green lights through loisaida, the Lower East Side, past the Welfare Projects - the Wagner, Rutgers, Baruch, Gouverneur - federally subsidized highrises, which ran along the East River, blocs of buildings that stood out like racial fortresses. Blacks in the Smith Houses, Latinos in the Towers.
That's how the Lower East Side really was, not a melting pot but a patchwork quilt of different communities of people coexisting, sometimes with great difficulty.
Manhattan was symbolic of the rest of Gotham, the Big City, where the best walked the streets alongside the worst.
When the red light caught him, he was already past Alphabet City, in that part of the East Village where the druggie nation came to score: smoke, crack, rocks, pharmaceuticals, and a brand of Mott Street H tagged China Cat, so potent and poisonous it had sent twelve of the hardcore straight to junkie heaven in August, keeping the Ninth Precinct narcs tossing.
'OK - it's not Banquo who fucks things up, it's MacBeth,' said Blaise. He too was chewing at the stem of a piece of grass now, biting fragments off it and spitting them out. 'We are all like a man rowing a boat. We have our backs to the way we're going. We can't look ahead, can't see the future. All we can see is the past behind us.'
'Very good,' said Kavanagh. 'But not so the canoeist.' They all laughed.
Blaise joined his hands and cradled them behind his head and said, 'Where do you think we'll be three or four years from now?'
'What a crass question,' said Martin.
'It'll be easier looking back. Three or four years from now you'll say - remember that day we mitched off to the Waterworks.' They thought about this in silence. Clouds covered the sun and their shadow could be seen moving on the hills. The water sounded continually at the lake edge.
He assured her: "It's a mistake. They are frightened. There has been rioting in Belgrade. They want me, that's all."
"But why? You're English, aren't you?"
"No, I'm one of them," he said with some bitterness.
"What have you done?"
"I've tried to make things different." He explained with an air of distaste for labels: "I am a Communist."
At once she exclaimed: "Why? Why? watching him fearfully, unable to hide that she felt her faith shaken in the only man, except Myatt, able and willing to help her. Even the kindness he had shown her on the train she now regarded with suspicion. She went to the bench and sat down as far as she could from the German.
"It would take a long time to tell you why," he said. She took no notice, shutting her mind to the meaning of any words he uttered. She thought of him now as one of the untidy men who paraded on Saturday afternoons in Trafalgar Square bearing hideous banners: "Workers of the World, Unite", "Walthamstow Old Comrades', "Balham Branch of the Juvenile Workers' League". They were the killjoys, who would hang the rich and close the theatres and drive her into dismal free love at a summer camp, and afterwards make her walk in procession down Oxford Street, carrying her baby behind a banner: "British Women Workers".
"Longer than I've got," he said.
She took no notice. She was, for the moment in her thoughts, immeasurably above him. She was a rich man's mistress, and he was a workman. When she at last took notice of him it was with an ingenious contempt: "I suppose you'll go to gaol."
"I think they'll shoot me," he said.
She stared at him in amazement, forgetting their difference in class: "Why?" He smiled with a touch of conceit: "They're afraid."
"In England," she said, "they let the Reds speak as much as they like. The police stand around."
"Ah, but there's a difference. We do more than speak."
"But, there'll be a trial?"
"A sort of trial. They'll take me to Belgrade."
Superintendent Andrew Dalziel was a big man. When he took his jacket off and dropped it over the back of a chair it was like a Bedouin pitching camp. He had a big head, greying now; big eyes, short-sighted, but losing nothing of their penetrating force behind a pair of solidframed spectacles; and he blew his big nose into a khaki handkerchief a foot-and-a-half square. He had been a vicious lock forward in his time, which had been a time before speed and dexterity were placed higher in the list of a pack's qualities than sheer indestructibility. The same order of priorities had brought him to his present office. He was a man not difficult to mock. But it was dangerous sport. And perhaps therefore all the more tempting to a Detective-Sergeant who was twenty years younger, had a degree in social sciences and read works of criminology.
Dalziel sank over his chair and scratched himself vigorously between the legs. Not absent-mindedly - nothing he did was mannerism - but with conscious sensuousness. Like scratching a dog to keep it happy, a constable had once said within range of Dalziel's very sharp hearing. He had liked the simile and therefore ignored it.
After an encore, as the revelers filed out toward the frigid night and the year ahead, the DJs slipped on a gentle acoustic number: a cover of Suicide's
'Dream Baby Dream" by, of all people, Bruce Springsteen. Springsteen played the song as a coda to nearly every show on his solo 2005 Devils and Dust tour. This particular version, a hypnotizing mantra-cum-lullaby-cum-benediction, was released on an import-only compilation right around Alan Vega's seventieth birthday.
Springsteen had always liked Suicide: he was especially impressed by the story-song "Frankie Teardrop." When he was working on The River in '79, he and Vega crossed paths up at 914 Studios in Blauvelt, where Springsteen had recorded so much of his early work. Vega and Marty Rev were finishing their second LP, which included "Dream Baby Dream." Bruce and Vega talked about rock 'n' roll, taking nips off Vega's flask. "You know, if Elvis came back from the dead," Springsteen said later, "I think he would sound like Alan Vega."
Edwards was still doing his best Monty Hall imitation: Let’s make a deal. Although he maintained publicly that he never desired to be a running mate again, Edwards was, in fact, quite open to the idea. But he was also willing to consider more modest rewards. Having been rebuffed on the notion of teaming up with Obama after Iowa, he once again dispatched Leo Hindery to make a revised offer.
“John will settle for attorney general,” Hindery emailed Tom Daschle.
Daschle shook his head. How desperate is this guy?
“Leo, this isn’t good for John,” Daschle replied. “This is ridiculous. It’s going to be ambassador to Zimbabwe next.”
Daschle warned Hindery that this new offer, like the last one, was sure to be rejected. And it was. When Obama heard about the suggested quid pro quo, he was incredulous.
That’s crazy, he told Axelrod. If I were willing to make a deal like that, I shouldn’t be president!
Edwards wondered if Clinton might be more open to cutting a deal. For all his previous distaste for her, he was beginning to find her more agreeable than Obama—less aloof, more brass-tacks. But Edwards knew his options were rapidly running out. He had no money, the press was ignoring him, and his vote totals were spiraling toward zero; he’d won just 3.8 percent in Nevada.
Then again, Rielle Hunter was only eight months pregnant.
So Edwards still had another month to strike a bargain.
Did I ever mention on the blog that Coronation Street's Stan Ogden was supposed to have been an International Brigader? By the time Ian Walker wrote this article in 1980 all memory of The Street's radical past was long forgotten.
" . . . sentimental Labour Party nationalism", indeed.
The Street where they live by Ian Walker
An old man sits in the Rover's return, saying nothing. A few yards away, in Elsie Tanner's living room, Len Fairclough is confessing that he has beaten up a woman, but the old man doesn't seem too interested. An extra, he has been sitting in the Rover's on and off for the last 13 years. The first episode of Coronation Street went out on 7 December 1960.
They all call it The Street, those who work on the programme, like producer Bill Podmore. "People says it's bloody ridiculous," he says. "All them things wouldn't happen on one street. But The Street ia all the streets. That's dramatic licence."
But scrub the term "soap opera." According to Bill, The Street is a "drama series," employing nine writers, two continuity writers and one programme historian. "A lot of the stories are taken from real life. Like there was this newspaper story about GIS returning to this country and meeting up with old girl friends. So we played it with a GI coming round to look Hilda up. Yes, we are aping reality." The Street has seen five births, 20 deaths and eleven weddings, but no abortions.
"We're very aware we're talking about working class people, the problems they have. We're talking about real people. We'll always have someone saying, 'Do you know, Albert Tatlock's just like my uncle whatsit?' As long as people are saying that, then the programme will be a success." Arrangements are already in hand for celebrations attendant upon The Street's two-thousandth episode, due for transmission on Monday, 2 June. "Everyone knows an Annie Walker and a busty barmaid who's quick with the repartee."
The television strike put the programme behind schedule, so film produced this Thursday afternoon will be watched by around 19 million next Wednesday night. "We're ready to go, 45 seconds. Nice and quiet now . . . 15 seconds." The floor manager beats sound out with his arm and the theme tune plays in, that mournful accompaniment to the smoke drifting over the backstreets in the opening shots, mourning originally I suppose the heartache down there on the wrong sides of the tracks, but more now it seems mourning for the old England, the old north.
It is a dirge for the world which lost out to gay rock stars and American detective shows; which caved in with the Special Patrol Group and race riots. The last time any black people appeared in The Street was in 1974 when the Bishops fostered two black children at Christmas.
Stan Ogden sits in a threadbare armchair reading Sporting Life. Hilda is away in Spain, and there us a mountain of washing up in the sink. The floor manager snaps his fingers for the dummy run to begin. Before filming, the producer, sitting up in a glass box, must work out all the camera angles. Young men push around grey metal structures supporting seated cameramen.
"It's great," says one of the lads doing the pushing. "Great. In August you get a straight ten weeks off, full pay. This is my first year, like, and you just do this, then a bit of mixing." When he has finished his apprenticeship, he will get pushed around too.
Stan Ogden receives a visit from Eddie Yates, the fat Scouse, who predicts the pasting Stan will get from Hilda when she sees what a state the place is in.
Eddie Yates, like Stan Ogden, speaks exactly the same on and off screen. "Exciting, isn't it, showbiz?" he says, when the scene is over. "The tinsel, the glitter . . . I'm an 18-stone Greta Garbo." The Street's sex symbol, Elsie Tanner (Pat Phoenix), says that she expects I'm here to do "another knocking job" as she waltzes by.
Someone tells me Jim Callaghan once said Pat Phoenix was "the sexiest thing on TV." The Street has many famous fans: Laurence Olivier, Roy Orbison, David Essex, Diana Dors, Cyril Smith, the late Marc Bolan. John Betjeman once came round to Granada for lunch. He likened The Street to Pickwick Papers; reckoned that if Dickens was around now, this is the kind of stuff he'd be doing.
The Street had its biggest international audience in the early sixties, when it was exported to 19 different countries, but subsequently those networks developed their own working class soap operas and now only television stations in Ireland, Australia, New Zealand and Canada still screen it.
Elsie Tanner is supposed to be brewing tea for Len Fairclough, but the box of matches has gone astray and Vinny, the props manager, tears his hair out. "Shocking isn't it?" he says. "Not a box of matches in the place." Pat Phoenix languidly remarks that it doesn't matter; she can fire up the gas ring with a cigarette lighter, shielding it from the camera with her body so the viewers will never know.
After she's put the kettle on, an out-of-work Elsie tells Len she has just been for a job interview. "Oh," he says. "You're going to the boss's wife."
"Boss's plaything, I'm not fussy," she replies, the cheeky kink of the lips, the raunchy available local girl. James Callaghan could never feels as at home with Jane Fonda or Brigitte Bardot. The scene ends with Len Fairclough, head in hands, starting to cry after he says, "Elsie. Why am I such a bloody fool?" The moment the floor manager winds up the scene, he wipes away the tears and starts laughing.
The fixture list pinned to the wall of The Street's working man's cafe is for Man City, the one in the Rovers is for Man United, and it is in the Rovers that around 15 extras have taken up their positions. "Bit of chatter please," they are instructed. The three men playing darts land all their arrows in and around the 20. "Well, what sort of year do you think it's going to be business-wise then, 1980?" the worker (pint of bitter) demands of the businessman (gin and tonic).
Granada TV should continue to do well business-wise, out of The Street. A 60-second advertising spot for transmission in the Granada area alone costs £7,000. "It's a very popular programme so you have to pay the top premium rate, what we call superfix," says the man in the ad sales department.
Eddie Yates buys his girl friend a half of lager in the Rovers. The woman playing that part has been on good money for the last few weeks, but next week she'll be travelling home to London. She says she hasn't got any other work lined up, but she has heard that her part went down well with the producer. She thinks she might be written back in soon.
Even if she sin't, the programme historian, Eric Rosser, will have preserved her role for posterity. He used to work for the Inland Revenue till, ten years ago, he wrote to the executive director with some ideas for story-lines. His letter disclosed such intimate knowledge of The Street that he was hired as an archivist. "I kept records from that first show, 20 years ago," he says. Now aged 66, he has only ever missed three or four episodes, which he was able to see run through again at Granada. Does he remember any gays featuring in The Street? "No, nothing like that at all. We had an attempted rape once, but we've had no homosexuals at all on The Street." Next Monday's show is going to be the 1,984th episode.
Filming finishes at six on the dot. "We start at 9.30 sharp tomorrow." The floor manager's shout is drowned in a determined rush for the exits. Some are making for the Granada drinking club over the road, where two women, one with a peroxide bouffant, say they have just been interviewed by Tit-Bits for a feature on the women who work in The Street's factory.
It grew up with Z-Cars, Harold Wilson, football as a fashionable interest for rulers. Now, in 1980, The Street has become a period piece, sentimental Labour Party nationalism: coronations, pints of bitter, working girls with knowing winks. The streets are different now.
The outdoor scenes are filmed every Monday on a street Granada built, just behind the studios. It is a row of empty shells: facades and backyards with nothing in the middle.
3 April 1980
"I know the Spartans, that's my old club, have been using the track evenings for training to help it settle. Plus there's the workmen putting finishing touches. Plus people using other bits of the Plezz could easily stroll in here. Shouldn't you concentrate on who's got access to the spare keys? Can't be too many of them."
Oh dear, thought Joe. Like a good princess, she wasn't going to be shy about telling the help what they ought to be working at.
He said, "Got your key handy?"
She passed it over. Joe moved along the wall of metal lockers. They came in blocks of eight. Zak's was second from the left. He counted two in the next block and inserted the key. The door opened. He did the same with the next block.
,p>This way the manufacturers only need eight variations on locks and keys instead of an infinity," he explained."But it's lousy security!" she protested angrily.
"Saves rate payers money," said Joe with civic sternness. "As for security, your crook's got to work it out first."
"You worked it out," she said not un admiringly
That's my job," he said modestly, not thinking it worthwhile to reveal that the lockers at Robco Engineering where he'd worked nearly twenty years had suffered from the same deficiency which he'd worked out after ten.
Another piece from the Ian Walker New Society archive. It dates from November 1979 and, to be honest, it is not one of his better articles.
I think it initially caught my eye because of the mention of Brian Hayes. A long time ago a couple of SPGBers insisted that Hayes was strongly sympathetic to the SPGB's politics. I never knew if there was any truth in the claim but it was the case that the SPGB members did regularly appear on LBC phone-in shows in the first half of the eighties. Maybe Hayes was just a canny operator, and he gave out that vibe to all number of political groups who provided the cheap knockabout entertainment for LBC back in the day.
Reading the article thirty years on it all seems so sedate in comparison with the drip drip drip of political poison that passes for talk radio today.
Come in, Mary by Ian Walker
Some say it is democratic. Some say it is the best way of finding out what people are thinking. Some say it gives advice and help to people who need those things. Some say it was only invented because it was a cheap way of filling up air-time. Some say that only cranks and bores ever bother to call the phone-ins. "It's an intense way of earning your living," says Brian Hayes, in a break for ads, before the 10.30 news bulletin, here in Studio A at the London Broadcasting Company.
"More than just a phone-in. It's Brian Hayes on LBC, bam-bam-bam." This jingle is called a sting: it distinguishes certain elements of the show, says the engineer who sits in front of a console, separated by glass from the studio, where a grey-suited Brian Hayes speaks into a microphone. He is telling his 200,000-odd listeners that at eleven o'clock he will be talking to Professor Keith Simpson, a renowned pathologist who has just published a book on death, "And he will be here to answer your calls." At twelve, Clark Todd, NBC correspondent in London will discuss Ted Kennedy's decision to run for President.
For two years now, the switchboard on the Brian Hayes Show has been run single-handed by Mark Smith, who has long red hair and beard and who worked in an off-licence for a year before he came to LBC: "What would you like to talk about? . . . Can I have your name? . . . What part of London do you live in? . . . Stay on the line and you'll be on the air in a few minutes." Mark scribbles GILES, CAMBERWELL in black felt tip on yellow paper, which is then stuck behind the engineer's console, where Brian Hayes can see it. "Now we talk to Giles from Camberwell. Hello Giles."
"Chris from Lewisham got a kid who's school phobic," says Mark to the producer, Lawrie Douglas, who replies, "Yeah, I want more on school phobia." Yesterday a report came out on school phobia and this is one of the topics Brian Hayes has asked listeners to focus on this morning. School phobia is ideal for this show: it is current, the listeners will be concerned about it, the callers should have some interesting anecdotes, and it is not too highbrow. "We've got more Cs and Ds than As and Bs," says Lawrie, the producer. "The show can't be too intellectual."
Mary from Maida Vale is telling hayes that her child was ridiculed in front of the class, with the full approval of the teacher. "This sounds a perfectly valid reason for a teacher to be sacked," he replies, keeping his eye on the cloack as he speaks. He must go to the ads and the news every 15 minutes, trail forthcoming items on LBC. His response to Mary is tailored to the requirements of the second hand. He then jerks his finger to the engineer, who plays in a commercial. "Whiskas is always called and healthy. Sam know it's best."
The ads are scheduled either side of the news headlines. "The maximum permitted by the IBA is nine minutes per hour," says Lawrie. "And we get in, er, nine minutes." A 60-second spot on the Brian Hayes Show costs £162 and a 30-second spot, £90.
A stencilled note headlined "Profanity" is pinned to the wall of the tiny control room. Phone-ins, these days, are not quite live: they are received ten seconds after they are broadcast, allowing the "profanity button" to wipe out any obscenities, libels, or "excessive promotion of products." But Lawrie says that the only people he used it on are the Bishop of Woolwich and the Pencourt reporters. At ten seconds to eleven, the news reader presents exactly three minutes of news bulletins.
The pathologist, Professor Keith Simpson, disturbs no stereotypes. He is grey and balding and exudes enthusiasm about his job. "I prefer dead bodies to live ones," he trills. The switchboard is jumping. "This woman has a dreadful fear of being buried alive," says Mark questioningly. Lawrie shakes his head. The Prof has brought with him a man from his publisher, who collaborated on the books he has just written, and who is telling everyone in the control room that the Prof advised the Japanese on the cause of death of the King of Siam and investigated the Sharon Tate murders for the American government.
"The dead body for me is rather like a jigsaw puzzle," says the Prof. "I suppose you called him a necrophile," says Mark.
"Look who we've got coming on next," smiles the engineer to Lawrie. "Dewhurst, the Master Butcher." "Oh, really? Is he on next? Haven't we got another ad? Colgate?" A pathologist and a butcher is (like death and the Kennedys?) an unfortunate juxtaposition.
"The trouble with dying, as Mountbatten said, is that you're so stiff the next day." The Prof is telling a caller he is not afraid of death. The 11.45 bulletin contains the news that Sydney Tafler, the actor, has died, age 63.
Back on the air, the Prof mentions his book again. "He's a good publicist," says Lawrie. "He's done that twice." The man from the publisher protests that he didn't tell him to do that at all, "I never briefed him." The PR plug can be pulled out by pressing the profanity button, but of course it rarely is. PR is advertising and radio stations are well aware of that. The writer or the actor gets to push the product; the radio station gets a good show.
"You've got a buyer," says Mark to the man from the publisher. "Someone wants to know where you can get a hold of the book." The man from the publisher is happy. Lawrie makes a winding action with his arm to Brian Hayes and Mark writes Kennedy on the tape which will record the next part of the show.
A caller wants to speak to "Mr Clark." Hayes and Clark Todd, of NBC, both smile and shrug. "Chappaquickwick," mispronounces the caller. "Why do they keep on about this unfortunate girl?"
"You haven't heard anything yet," replies Clark Todd. Brian Hayes adds that "Already the jokes are starting, even here. I heard one the other day, from a comedian called Bernard Manning. He said: 'I don't know why they bothered to impeach Nixon. They should have suggested that Ted Kennedy drove him home in the car.'"
Someone walks into the control room. "That's probably the lead now," he says, handing a slip of paper to the producer, Lawrie. "No. I've got one already on Vickers." "Oh shit," says the man who thought he had written the lead.
At 12.29, Lawrie walks into the studio with the bits of paper which contain the three minutes of news. He comes back, rubs his hands in anticipation of the whisky he will shortly receive in the boardroom. The man from NEW SOCIETY is to get the PR treatment.
IBA rulings about balance can make life difficult, Lawrie explains over his whisky especially during general elections, when lists of political allegiances of callers have to be kept and the ideological books balanced each week. Brian Hayes, who drinks neat tonic, says he agrees with the principle of balance, but can get irritated by its cosmetic application. But Hayes says there are practical reasons too for his keeping a low political profile: "For the listeners it categorises you for evermore. Stifles discussion. I mean, just the fact that the listeners know I'm Australian is used against me when the chips are down."
At two minutes to three, George Gale, ex-editor of the Spectator, sits at the sand brown felt-topped table occupied two hours earlier by Brian Hayes. He's wearing a green tweed jacket and has long grey hair which periodically flops over his half-moon glasses and he has to sweep it back so he can continue leafing through the newspapers. Mark works the switchboard for his show too, but there is a different producer, Gary Donovan, who says, "It's a question and answer session. Like dial-a-pundit." Whereas the Hayes show is "structured,: the phone-in is "unstructured": George gale will take calls on more or less anything.
The switchboard is very quiet, only a few calls so far. First on the air is a man who wants to know George's opinion of the Iranians holding hostages at the American embassy. Gale calls them "religious maniacs."
"Lunatics yesterday," says the producer. "They were religious lunatics."
Fifteen minutes later, Gale has still only dealt with one call. "I'll pass these through to give him a hint some other people are on the line." Gary takes in some names on yellow slips of paper and places them on Gale's table.
"Hello, George." The callers on the show are more chummy. "Yes." "How's the line now, George?" He had a bad line earlier. "Yes?"
This caller wants to know how the government arrive at their balance of payment figures. George Gale explains. "Thanks very much George," says the caller as he signs off. One more satisfied customer. The next caller wants to know if david Steel would make a good Prime Minister. "You can't tell in advance whether Prime Ministers are going to be good or bad," replies George gale. "But his entire life is based on the assumption that he won't be Prime Minister."
One caller suggests that "the BBC should be had up for treason," for their collaboration with the IRA, and that's all there is time for. "That's all from me. I'll be back tomorrow." George Gale puts his pen in his pocket, gathers up his newspapers and walks out of the studio, out of the building. He doesn't hang about, they all say, doesn't George. Mark plays me a "cart" (tape cartridge) which is an edited version of all Gale's stutters and mumblings and ers in one programme. Once, he says, this cartridge got played into George's earphones by mistake. But he only laughed.
29 November 1979
You see Get Leo?
Again, a pause and Linda saying, Wait a minute. You're Chili Palmer? You are you were on Charlie Rose at least a half hour. He got you to admit your name's Ernest, and I recognize your voice. I've read all about you the interviews, the ones that asked if it's true you were a gangster in Florida? Or was it Brooklyn?
Both.
I loved Get Leo, I saw it twice. The only thing that bothered me, just a little. The guy's too short to be what he is?
Well, that, yeah. But you know going in Michael Weir's short. What was it bothered you?
He's so sure of himself. I can't stand guys who think they know everything. What other movies have you done?
He listened to his voice come on after a pause. I did Get Lost next. Admitting it.
When she says, I still haven't seen it.
He tells her. A sequel has to be better'n the original or it's not gonna work.
