In which our hero films the Easy Rider remake and returns home to find his computer hacked.

NEWS: The papers described the performance as passionate and enraged but this they had only come to by watching my films.

LETTERS: I’d like to apologize to the Honda company.

INT. EASY RIDER (remake) – FINAL SCENE – DAY

Ashton Kutchner and Shia LaBeouf ride their horses side-by-side down a country dirt road. They are young and free.

Danny DeVito drives his pickup truck and I ride passenger (shotgun) position. We are old and conservative.

DANNY DEVITO

Hey, hallo-loo-lee-lims!

JACK NICHOLSON

Pull around the side, we’ll scare the Hell out of them.

I reach for the shotgun behind us and take it off the gun-rack.

We drive up beside a mustachioed and long-haired Ashton Kutchner.

JACK NICHOLSON

Want me to blow your face off?

DeVito laughs, and this makes me proud.

Kutchner flips his middle finger up at me.

JACK NICHOLSON

Why don’t you get a haircut?

He don’t respond. Pussy. I shoot. You know, just for shits and giggles.

But his horse goes all crazy. It falls, and the cowboy is crushed under the thing.

We drive past the other one (Shia LaBeouf) and he gives me a look like he just don’t understand. Gets a good look at me too.

In a panic, Shia LaBeouf rides back to the fallen young hero, Mr. Kutchner.

ASHTON KUTCHNER:  I got punked.

SHIA LABEOUF:  I my God. I’m going for help.

ASHTON KUTCHNER:  I got ‘em! I’m gonna get ‘em!

MEANWHILE:

JACK NICHOLSON

                                                We gotta go back.

CUT BACK TO:

LaBeouf putting his American flag leather jacket over Kutchner’s face.

He jumps back on his horse.

DeVito’s pickup drives towards him.

LaBoeouf’s horse.

DeVito’s pickup.

LaBoeouf’s horse.

A shot and a cloud of smoke coming from my window.

LaBoeouf’s horse goes flying through the air in pieces. A leg. A head. Where’s LaBoeuf? Presumably he is in pieces too.

“I couldn’t help but notice that you’re not wearing your sunglasses this morning, Jack.” My agent can sound so damn smug. “I think it’s good that you learn to live without them. Don’t you?” I choose not to respond. “It’s a sign of making real progress.” He allows me to think this over. “Just imagine all the possibilities, all the new and interesting roles that might open themselves up to you if you approach them without relying so heavily on your sunglasses.”

"Did you have a chance to read my script yet, Mitch?"

“I was confused by the kabuki sequences. Why are they in there?”

“That’s an homage to Japan. You know, after the earthquake…”

“I’m not sure why you feel something like that belongs in this film.”

“That’s the problem with you Hollywood-types, the aesthetics always take precedent over the ethics.”

“That’s very interesting. Tell me more about that.”

Upon returning home, Jack Nicholson found a passive-aggressive note posted to the front door interior of his apartment building.

To the man who attempted to lure my 12 year old daughter into his apartment… blah, blah, blah.

He tore it down and threw it on the floor.

Strange happenings seemed to emerge from his computer once he connected online. Various cease and desist messages from Danny DeVito had now progressed to death threats; his facebook account had become temporarily suspended; and when looking through his correspondences with Edith, he first noticed several references in her emails to comments he had no recollection of making and then words and sentences randomly inserted to his own messages that he had positively never written.

jack nicholson < robEdupea > wrote:

Dearest Edith,

I thought about you again this morning when listening to that song

by Leonard Cohen. You know the one…

“There is a crack in everything… That’s how the light gets in…”

I have developed a diet which has allowed me to only diarrhea

for the past week. With that diarrhea, I have filled an empty bottle

of whiskey. It is my intent to make you drink it. Why?

Because I would like to fill you with my fluids. Not just my cum, but

I also prefer his earlier work, but there are certain songs from his later

period that are just so close in taste to my bowels that I need you to

swallow them.

Had he been hacked? First his sunglasses stolen and now this!

Too tired. Too tired to figure things out. Too tired to even think about things. And so, his head already sinking to his chest, our hero marched the slender path to bed and attempted sleep. There was another body beside his. There had already been another human being in his bed, and Jack had been too exhausted to even notice until now.  The other body seemed to belong to a man, and so he shook the hairy shoulder aggressively enough to let the stranger know that nothing sexual could be interpreted about the two men in bed together. The other man turned his face toward our hero and, even in the darkness, he could see that it was Jack Nicholson.  They both did. Nicholson – the other Nicholson whom he had found in his bed – howled into the night, played fisty-cups and punched at shadows in the black air. Then he laughed and wept without transition. Nicholson was a little jealous of this Jack Nicholson, who so embodied emotion, but he dared not confront the crazy man. Instead, a strange sort of embarrassment took hold of him, freezing him, and he chose to fake sleep until it became a reality. He was soon awakened, however, by a soused Crag sneaking into his pillowcase to curl beside his warm breath. After scaring the pest away, he drifted back to sleep and each nerve ending felt the vibrating tap-dance of multiple Cragganmores stepping across the bumps on his brain.  In a cold sweat, he ran out of his apartment building.

At the pizzeria, he found a payphone. “You have to help me. I can’t live with it anymore. I’m not used to this… this feeling.” And why was he at the pizzeria anyway? “I want to kill it! This cute little thing. (hint of laughter).” Why? Because Cragganmore wanted it! Because Cragganmore left that flyer from the pizzeria uneaten!  “I want to hurt it. That’s not normal. (slight laughter). It’s so small. It’s disgusting.” Mozzarella! He spit out the pizza from his mouse (mouth). “It’s disgusting! It’s disgusting!! Ignore this. (sharp, single laugh). It’s not me.” The exterminator was bothered – more by the alluring sound of masticated pizza than anything else – and casually told the caller to bring a couple of slices to his private residence.

Rubbing his eyes in want of his sunglasses, Jack Nicholson looked up and down the list of residents and buzzer numbers. To the side of that list was a handsome brass door-plate inscribed: Al Condor – Exterminator of rodent and insectual beings.

In which our hero performs misanthropic acts in the midst of a traffic jam.

NEWS: We make our own fate.

LETTERS: I’d like to apologize to Eugene O’Neill, to Anton Chekhov, to William Shakespeare (whom I’ve never had the pleasure of working with) for the things I said and the things I say. Hum, mum, hughm meughm, yum….

He had lost his sunglasses somewhere. That’s why he was late. Where were they? Stolen! No, I lost them. Stolen! I lost ‘em… STOLEN!!!! Lost ‘em! Stolen! Losten! Ha, ha, ha!!! Ho, ho, ho!!!

With an awful smell in his mouth lingering for the third day in a row and without a couple nights’ sleep in my eyes – no fucking sunglasses to hide them – Jack Nicholson poses in a Santa outfit in front of green screen. When asked if he’d like some coffee or tea, he requests “a shot of water."  Then I do the little ‘nip ‘nip Easy Rider thing with my elbow. Those advertising guys love that.

Exterior. Westside Highway. Day. In the midst of a traffic jam, he stood from the piano on the back of the exterminator’s pickup and jumped over the driver’s head, which shrugged our hero off with an eye-rolling grin. Jack stretched his hands out freely, pissing all over the back window of a white Honda Civic, and howled at the wind. The initial force of his flaxen spray ricocheted into the flap-flap October breeze, and golden sprinkles danced towards his face where they were imbibed by pores his sunglasses would have otherwise protected. Safely shielded by the rear window, Ironside’s son was unsure if he should look away or not. Before time allowed the boy reaction, the exterminator honked to warn Nicholson that Michael Ironside had stepped out of the car. [CUE Jerry Goldsmith’s score to Total Recall].

            “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

The urine slid down the windshield with perfect smoothness and there was no reason to believe it would leave a stain – perhaps something small, but hidden within the deluged gap demarcating the trunk.

            “That’s my kid, asshole!”

            “Fuck off, Family Man!”

            “If you don’t put that thing away in the next –” 

Upon realizing that the impassioned villain would continue to shout, threaten, preach, Nicholson redirected his piss onto Ironside’s forehead.            

Before he knew it, the Honda Civic reversed into the truck and he was thrown off the roof. Backing into the car behind him, the exterminator positioned his pickup for attack on the Honda Civic. The child went flying into the front seat, and Nicholson did not know who was more worried, Ironside or Edith. He laughed pleasurably and smashed their front window in with a baseball bat. “That’s how you do it!” He screamed at the now dented metal frame. “You see that? That’s how you do it!” He pointed the bat toward Ironside and warned, “A wife and kid is no life for you! You are alone!!” He presented the bat with a devilish grin, and a final trickle of urine sneaked out his flaccid penis and stained his pants. He looked down, pulled a hair from his eyebrow and held it up for the couple to ponder.

The papers described the performance as passionate and enraged but this they had only come to by watching my films. “Perhaps it’s time to step out of the spotlight. Take a break from yourself,” suggested my agent. This is not a confession.

In which our hero has a memory of his father.

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. 

Letters:

I would like to formally apologize to both Time and Rolling Stone Magazines. Apparently it was a Rolling Stone reporter who discovered the truth about my sister/mother and not a Time Magazine reporter. 

Tossing aside my script, “Reads like a movie-of-the-God-damn-week!” my agent takes another drink and makes a noise (part-gurgle / part grunt) meant to inquire if I’d also like another drink. “Spacey’s people have expressed interest in the Easy Rider remake.” I roll my eyes. “Hey! It’s a job! And you’re the leading-fuckin’-man! It’s perfect for you. I mean, this guy is a real nut-job!”

He stands up to close the blinds and relaxes his tone. “It’s all about dreams, Jack… The hyper-real… Wish fulfillment… Carl Jung… Dreams… Everybody is doing something about dreams these days… Dreams… Do you dream, Jack? Tell me about your… dreams.”

All that can be heard is the slow rhythm of a metronome’s arm and muffled sirens from the street below. 

“Look at the fire truck, son. You know, it’s not everyday a little boy gets to watch a fire truck pull into the station. Look! Here come the firemen.” Jack Nicholson’s father was becoming increasingly irritated, and our young hero sensed it. A piece of chewing gum stuck to the sidewalk captivated the boy until a smack on the side of his head and a tense shaking of his left arm had freed him. “Now listen to me. If I’m forceful with you it’s only because I need to be in order to get my point across. Most boys your age are fascinated with firemen and fire engines. They even want to be firemen when they grow up. Maybe not all of them. Sure, some would prefer to become fighter pilots… Like your uncle. One thing is certain: any other boy would consider himself lucky to see the scene before you right now. Firemen and their trucks. You know I love you. You’re my son. And I encourage individuality. But if you’re going to grow up to be a normal man, you ought to be fascinated by this. God damn it! It’s enough that your mother gave you a girl’s name. Trust me when I tell you: Everything that happens now will shape the man you will one day become. So, like it or not, we’re going to stand here and watch the show. If it doesn’t entertain you, then pretend. It might upset you now and you might be angry with me today, but when you are older you will thank me. Normal boys like firemen and we’re not leaving this spot until you prove to me that you like firemen.”

One of the only memories I have of my father.

“I gotta take a shit.”

“Good. Okay, I think that’s a good place to stop for today.”

 

In which our hero discusses the works of Anton Chekhov and an Easy Rider remake.

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.

LATEST NEWS!

Like a doctor attempting to understand another man’s pain, I have plenty of explanations but know very little about love.

Letters:

I would like to formally apologize to fans of Michael Ironside. He really is a wonderful performer whose work is too often compared to my own. It was never my intention to use the blog previous to undermine his very original work. I don’t treat other actors that way. I am Jack Nicholson. 

After reading my previous blog posting, my good friend Danny DeVito telephoned to inquire if it really was me writing this thing.

Some of you have written in, expressing interest in what my screenplay is about and/or why I have decided to undertake the writing of this blog. The notes you read here contain, of course, the unofficial chronicles of my existence – though he still encourages me to write out my thoughts and feelings, my agent has pulled this blog from my official website. During one of our weekly meetings, while I was rehearsing here (in New York) with Marty Scorsese, my agent explained, “Irony is really hipster right now. Every aging talent is doing something self-reflexive these days.” That got me thinking…

“The studio wants to remake Easy Rider as a western,” he revealed. “They’re gonna put Ashton Kutchner and Shia LaBeouf on horses instead of motorcycles! You’re part is being handed down to that kid from Scrubs. I know, I know… This used to be a helluva good movie! I can’t understand what’s going wrong with it. But, get this, they want YOU to play one of them conservative southern guys who shoots down the hippies at the end. It’s supposed to be ironic.” He referenced Bruce Willis. “You know, it’s like your older self is coming back to kill your younger self! Do I ice her? Do I marry her? Which one of these? Ha!” My agent has adopted the habit of poorly impersonating me when trying to push me toward a particular offer. “It’s fan-fucking-tastic!”


The salary for half-a-day’s work encouraged me to think it over. Then I began to feel pretty miserable with myself. I mean, why was I doing it? How much better could I eat? What could I buy that I couldn’t already afford? “Tell me more about that,” says my agent. Well, that’s about the time when the mice began to appear – first, in the form of twins (Dalwhinnie and Balvenie) –and I was about ready to hop on a plane home to Los Angeles, when my agent says I should stay here in New York and write about it. “Whatever comes to mind...”

Research Notes for a Film:

•         9:30am – Michael Ironside leaves his apartment dressed in kimono.
•        10:06am – Honda Civic gets off Westside Highway and stops on 49^th Street. Ironside pantomimes several exaggerated emotions. Good.      
•        10:12am – I imagine slipping in the shower and landing with my asshole around a hot faucet.

[Similar Imaginings: baseball bat smashing me in the face and lodging teeth down my throat, falling teeth-first onto concrete or cement (often a sidewalk), the aftermath of a car accident in which I am helplessly stuck in a position that holds shards of broken windshield along my gums and around my teeth].

•        10:16am – I-side smears white make-up on his face. He exhales deeply, careful not to cry, fearing tears would make him appear more clownish. What memories does he draw on? Memory of sister washing dishes and flashing him from the kitchen?
•         10:17am – I-side exits vehicle. 9^th Avenue. Enters loft apartments. Good pace.
•        10:19am – I-side frames himself in doorway and contorts his kimonoed arms, flamboyantly holding a picturesque pose. “Ironside!” is shouted with pleasurable recognition.
•         10:22am – I-side has extended conversation with Edith. 

Some time has gone by since The Two Jakes, and I suppose that I just got the itch to have another go at making my own film, so I have begun writing a script. “Who is this Michael Ironweed?” asks my agent. “Never heard of the guy!” I am determined to create a character who can reclaim my image from the American family and give me back to the free-spirited, if alienated, American individual. No more family shit. Just shit. I want to write about shit. I want to portray a human piece of shit, but he will remain endearing because he will be played by Jack Nicholson.

•         Why are flies so attracted to the scent of shit? I read somewhere that female fruit flies deprived of the ability to smell food outlive their peers. The study suggested that our sense of smell might be linked to our cellular aging process. 
  
  
  Someone said of Henry James that he wouldn’t know what to do if a bird should happen to shit on one of his characters during an afternoon stroll through the park. The story would have to end there because James was incapable of describing the shit.
  
  I knew it was over when I saw Edith eating sushi with Ironside. He gave me such a scowl, but it was Edith’s downcast eyes that let me know it was over.
  
  Maybe Dalwhinnie and Balvenie weren’t twins at all. Maybe they were a couple, and the other mice have been their offspring. Is it possible that I’ve killed the father and mother, and that I’m now working my way through their progeny?
  
  DeVito reminded me about something I had confided while rehearsing Hoffa. Something about a Chekhov character whom I had once figured I’d end up like. An older country doctor, somebody’s uncle, who finally finds love after years of convincing himself that it either did not exist within the social realms of reality, or that it simply would not play a role in his own life. I questioned if the Chekhov character ever truly found love. Perhaps the elderly uncle was only coming to accept that his time was nearly up, and falling in love seemed to be the remaining thing to do – love as the consequence of man’s acceptance of his own mortality.

Who knows? Perhaps love is an illusion

I cannot bring myself to accept. One I refuse

to go along with. Like the kid who sticks around

to annoy the magician into revealing his tricks

long after the birthday party has ended.

Cordially,

your Mulholland Man in the Village

(or just… jack)

--- edith beaumont wrote:

> dear jack,

> what have the girls you've dated been like?

We had met on an Internet site for adventurous Jewish singles disinterested in lifetime relationships and long periods of dating. I knew that, as an actor, I could participate in sexual role-playing with ease; but I was otherwise unsure what my fetishes might be. This forum presented itself as a good place to explore. For months, nobody responded to my messages. Until one day, SinGal 128 sent a threatening reply, bringing to my attention that my profile had been interpreted as a joke. Admittedly, the thought of Jack Nicholson joining a sex site – a profile explaining his infatuation with soft rather than hardcore porn as not having to do with sexual prudishness, but an erotic attachment to character and plot – seemed absurd. I responded by posting candid images of myself, but visitors to my online profile assessed me a deranged paparazzi. Edith was the only one willing to carry out correspondence.

> I like walks through parks in the

> winter, along beaches

> in the fall, going to the movies

> in the springtime, bicycle rides

> to nowhere on long summer days,

> and having to find my way back

> home in the evening.

>

We were convinced our letters were destined to be read historically, long after our absence from this world – and not because I am Jack Nicholson, which even Edith did not believe, but because the letters justified it with their own elegance.