My Lucky Star

My Lucky Star

Joe Keenan

Language: English

Pages: 384

ISBN: 0316013358

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

My Lucky Star

Joe Keenan

Language: English

Pages: 384

ISBN: 0316013358

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


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.

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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

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