Welcome to my blog. Previous readers have expressed confusion as to whether the narrator of this blog – or what Henry James refers to as the center of consciousness – really is Jack Nicholson. All I can tell you is that I, the writer of the blog, am indeed Jack Nicholson.
However, I should mention that the characters in this rather disjointed chronicle are NOT intended to represent any real people, living or dead. And so, I felt this preface necessary.
However, I should mention that the characters in this rather disjointed chronicle are NOT intended to represent any real people, living or dead. And so, I felt this preface necessary.
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Awards are no different than a name engraved on a bench or a stone.
Letters:
I would like to apologize to the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
Scotch in a champagne flute.
It's 5am here. I am on skype, in the middle of accepting a lifetime achievement award from the Cannes Film Festival.
To the camera attached to my computer, I read from Samuel Johnson:
He that writes upon general principles, or delivers universal truths, may hope to be often read, because his work will be equally useful at all times and in every country; but he cannot expect it to be received with eagerness, or to spread with rapidity, because desire can have no particular stimulation: that which is to be loved long, must be loved with reason rather than with passion. He that lays his labours out upon temporary subjects, easily finds readers, and quickly loses them; for what should make the book valued when the subject is no more?[1]
I tell them that it wasn’t me who appeared in the film with Morgan Freeman, or the slew of recent rom-coms.
"My body has been on loan to the studios."
Craving a salami sandwich, Nicholson stepped away from his computer. He heard a shuffling and, when he turned on the kitchen light, Cragganmore ran under the fridge. Too repulsed to open the refrigerator door, he stood there. Crag’s nose, eager to propitiate our hero, twitched from beneath and pushed forward a tiny piece of cheese. With caution, Nicholson approached the grille toeplate, but before he could stomp his foot down, the mouse had shrunk back from the penumbra of the refrigerator’s base. Jack picked up the speck of cheese and nibbled on it. What would Crag feel like in his hand? He heard it. The mouse seemed to be crawling inside the wall.
This apartment is so small that while standing in the kitchen, I can catch sight of the bathroom mirror, where the image of the other Nicholson (tough guy Nicholson) sitting on the bed can be seen. He continues the interview over skype.
He's telling them stories from my early years. Not Uncle Peter's gang bangs (see previous blog) - that's not how he wants me remembered - but stories from my Roger Corman years. He's talking about my first film, Cry Baby Killer. The brief synopsis notes he provides allude to a spiritual beatnick pornographic film featuring Jack Nicholson killing cry-babies.
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