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I knew there would be trouble
when I returned to my Hollywood compound after a Fourth
of July weekend in Baghdad and found Matthew Perry sitting
in my living room.
Matthew Perry, if you’ll recall, is the star of the
long-running NBC sitcom "Friends".
“We’ve been waiting for you,” he said. There
was something both expectant and sad in his eyes, the puffiness
of a hard-fought and still-new sobriety in his face.
“We?” I asked.
He clapped his hands quickly and loudly, as if summoning the
help. I was momentarily confused because I have the help trained
only to respond to the tinkling of a porcelain bell I’d
picked up in some down time on a whore-binge in Rangoon.
Perry clapped again. Drew Barrymore, Ben Affleck (with his
personal assistant, who due to arcane Hollywood assistant
convention, only warrants mention in parentheses despite her
engagement to Matt Damon and a brief, yet intense, sexual
relationship with me), and “Personal Power” guru
Tony Robbins entered single-file from the pantry.
“What’s this about?” I asked. But I knew what
“this” was “about.”
Intervention.
“We need to talk,” said Perry, his eyes a little
sadder, his face puffier than even a moment earlier, his hard-fought
sobriety seconds older. “Why don’t you have a seat?”
he said, gesturing to a beanbag chair in which I’d once
spanked Barrymore with a whoopee cushion covered in mayonnaise
during one of my chubby-chasing phases (this, obviously, was
before her "Charlie’s Angels" gig). She averted
her gaze as I plopped down in the chair and prepared for the
worst.
Affleck stepped forward. “Dude, this is for your own
good.” Behind him, Tony Robbins flashed his patented
whiter-than-the-face-of-God-at-the-Rapture smile and loudly
popped his knuckles. For reasons I don’t entirely understand,
he was wearing a spandex speed-skater body suit and one of
those helmets with holders for two cans of beer. But instead
of beer, there were two cans of Red Bull.
It was Drew’s turn. She sat in my lap, looked into my
eyes, and said “I care about you. We care about you.”
I hardly heard her words as the sense memory of a good, authentic
Bronx cheer and the cool slipperiness of Hellman’s fired
through my synapses.
I was snapped back into the troubling present by Robbins’
crackling knuckles.
“I’m just going to say it,” said Affleck. He
had a hickey suspiciously close in size to Robbins’ gigantic
mouth, but as a gentleman I will refrain from speculating
on its origin. Perhaps J-Lo can unhinge her jaw like a python.
“No, let me. I called you all here,” said Perry.
He pulled a folding chair in front of me, spun in around backwards
so that he could sit on it in a fashion that suggested caring,
and ran his hand through his hair.
I swallowed hard. I needed a drink, badly.
“You’re a starfucker,” he said, his eyes immediately
breaking our gaze and pointed to the floor. I could hear Affleck
sigh, and Robbins momentarily stopped smiling. Drew shifted
uncomfortably in my lap, and I had to summon all my powers
of imagination to conjure Ellen DeGeneres buttering bread
to avoid an embarrassing erection. (Affleck’s personal
assistant had taken a call and slipped out to another room.)
“Starfucker,” said Affleck, nodding.
“Star-f’er,” said Drew, determined to keep
this PG-13.
I started to speak, but Robbins silently placed a huge index
finger across my lips.
Perry continued, “You’re a starfucker. We all know
it. It’s time to do something about it.”
“OK,” I said. I just wanted the whole thing to end.
“You’re not going to write about any of this. Make
up some shit about going on a camping trip or something without
mentioning the names of a single celebrity,” said Affleck.
“You can’t write about this,” said Perry. “That’s
the first step. Now watch.”
Robbins retrieved a six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon from behind
the sofa. He handed cans to Perry and Affleck, who promptly
popped the tops and took long swigs. My mouth hung agape,
but that was just the beginning. They shook up the beers,
stripped off their shirts, and began covering each other in
a thick lather of beer suds.
“You can’t write about this,” said Drew.
Perry and Affleck dropped their empty beers and proceeded
to beat each other with Nerf softball bats. I don’t know
where they came from – they certainly weren’t mine.
Then, without warning, they stopped and put their shirts back
on. Drew got up from my lap. Robbins collected the spent beer
cans and the Nerf bats.
“Starfucker,” said Perry.
“Starfucker,” said Affleck, as he, Perry, and Barrymore
turned to walk out. “You can’t write about this.”
I am so weak, I am so weak.
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Above:
Bunsen pals Matthew Perry and Drew Barrymore show up relatively
sober at his intervention. Patrick Swayze was a no-show.
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