My Lucky Star
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In this hilarious, laser-sharp comedy, the Emmy-winning writer and producer of "Frasier" sends up Hollywood pretense higher than it's ever been sent before.
without irony that she herself had appeared many times. Even now, mere minutes into my acquaintance with Rex, I suspected strongly that his show would not prove to be superior television, a suspicion borne out by my subsequent viewings. For the fortunate majority of you who’ve never seen it, Rex Bajour’s Hollywood Lowdown is a daily interview show, the production values of which are shockingly threadbare even by the standards of public access television. His guests are “celebrities” whose fame
novelists who can scatter showbiz-skewering jokes more lavishly over every page and paragraph, or who are more adroit at plotting, piling twist upon twist. . . . Keenan makes a thing of beauty of what could have been tired camp.” — Gavin Borchert, Seattle Weekly “Keenan deftly guides us through the S-curves of Hollywood fortune with the aplomb of someone who knows that even the sturdiest-looking facade is propped up with sticks.” — Thane Tierney, Bookpage “What a succulent treat: this is a
“Want some?” asked Stephen, holding his breath. “I’m good.” Stephen took a few more drags, then lay down on his stomach, his face toward the mirror. He seemed to be watching the scene as if it were a movie, smiling at the tableau they presented. Ricky, aware of this, peeled off his T-shirt, proudly displaying what a few thousand hours at a good gym can do for a boy. Stephen’s smile crinkled into a loopy grin that was equal parts contentment, anticipation, and pot. I was thrilled to be
THOUGH IT WOULD HAVE BEEN DIFFICULT to imagine a more shattering ordeal, there was no topping it as a bonding experience for Stephen and me. When the ladies had finally gone the look that passed between us was one such as two World War I doughboys might have exchanged after passing a long night in their foxhole, staring death in the face while dodging their less fortunate comrades’ flying viscera. “Jeez,” said Stephen with a shudder. “Yikes,” I concurred. The door to the back hall opened and
delightful. She’s quite pretty in a peppy young Mary Tyler Moore sort of way and, when she chooses to be, relentlessly charming. She’s a diligent researcher and expert flatterer; her praise never sounds like the star-struck effusions of a mere fan but the carefully weighed opinion of a savvy insider. (When extolling a performance she always speaks gravely of its “layers.”) I’d once watched her turn a roomful of cold-blooded mafiosi into fawning admirers but I’d never seen her play a crowd as