Eddie Murphy

I may be going back to the Midwest soon. See a little winter this year. I'm lookin' to sew some seeds where there ain't nothin' but the sound of a river mixed with the sound of breathin'. I need a little break from LA-la-land. I love it, but I'm just barely diggin' up enough scratch to pay a few more bills before I skedaddle.

What would Simon and Garfunkel do? That's the question.

Regardless of what the curly haired one and the smaller feller's actions would be, when hip deep in a recessionary suckhole, it seems to have little bearing on the fact that I have to give up my digs in Hollywood on Aug. 1st if I don't find a job pronto.

Meanwhile, I continue to take refuge out by the 101 freeway. I have a few more weeks.

Just can't get a gig. Things are too expensive to be broke. Which is what I am.

I hope Eddie Murphy doesn't quit acting. "48 HRS" is beautiful and I want to see him do Tarantino's "Inglorious Bastards." He was great on SNL. His Mr. Robinson is genius and so is the film he made with Christopher Guest where Murphy goes undercover as a white guy. Pure genius.

(And "Coming to America" and "Trading Places" and "The Nutty Professor" and "Dreamgirls.")

Sue me. He's great in it.

Anyway. Where was I?

Ah, yes.

More important is that I am now at the ready to drink chamomile tea to wash down a sheep's bladder in the name of all that is Holy and Righteous and True if that's what's gotta be done.

I think the cultural revolution that we've been starving for will arrive in the shape of a poster for a fake action movie starring Joe Pesci, Leon Redbone and Heidi Fleiss that someone rare and insane will proceed to plaster all over every city everywhere.

And plaster more than walls. Oh yes. Much more.

Plaster the planet with Pesci, Redbone and Fleiss and whip up a media sensation of such torrential magnitude that the mountains will surely crumble if they haven't already.

Join me, if you will, in the realm of infinitely wonderful possibilities.

Alright . . .

(Deep breath.)

Where'd I go?