Hollywood has invited me to the Beverly Hills Hotel to have a drink at the Polo Lounge and discuss my autobiography being made into a movie.

I find him sitting at the table on his cell phone, and he motions me to sit down. Hollywood’s talking to some agent about something he calls a “package deal”. Evidently this agency called “CAA” has some sort of warehouse in Burbank where they store movie stars, and Hollywood has ordered a pallet full of them. I can only imagine how cool it must be to be a forklift driver in this warehouse, and having to unstack a ton of pallets containing reject stars like Lindsey Lohan and Meryl Streep before you get to the good ones like Selena Gomez and Mary-Louise Parker. I’m sure his job never gets old.

Finally Hollywood finishes his call and orders a Perrier with a lime twist. He asks me what I want and I order a Coke. He tells me he also invited the guy who is going to be the movie director to the meeting and that he should be here any minute, but in the meantime he says this is going to be a good time to talk about my book.

“So Ric, you know I’m you’re biggest fan…” Hollywood pauses to take a sip of his Perrier, and my psychic intuition tells me that the next word out of his mouth is going to be “But” with a capital “B” followed by me feeling like I’ve had something shoved up my ass. “But, you know this is a low budget movie and we’ve got to cut corners, count nickels and dimes to make this happen. You understand don’t you?”

“Is that why you changed my name from ‘Thibault’ to ‘Stevens’ because having one less letter would save you money on ink in your printer?”

“Yes, I mean that’ll save a penny or two, but I was talking bigger things, like for one I’m going to be filming the movie in Pasadena instead of St. Louis. But I want you to know that I’m making sure that we spend money on all the important things, the things people will see on the screen. For that I’m not going to spare a dime.”

I sigh in relief. My ass still feels okay, and maybe I’m not as psychic as I thought.

“So I’ve come up with a couple of money saving ideas. One because I want to make sure that everything people see on screen is good, we’re going to shoot things a little differently and we’re going to use smaller movie screens, so I don’t have to spend money on the things on the edges that no one cares about.”

I squirm a little in my seat.

“Secondly since my first choice of movie director Ed Wood apparently died a few years ago, I hired the next best person,” and there he is now – Ric Thibault, or should I say, Ric Stevens, I want you to meet Roger Debris.”

Roger Debris sits down, orders a Shirley Temple and performs fellatio on my ego, before telling me that he has completely changed everything in the book because it would be too expensive to film otherwise.

Hollywood tells me he has to go to the bathroom, and he is followed by Roger Debris who also has to go.

I wait at the table formulating my response to Hollywood and Roger while watching Paris Hilton bat her eyelashes at some guy with an oversized Rolex and a tattoo of a snake on his arm which shows that he is an individual and different from every other person with a tattoo on their arm.

My cell phone rings.

It’s Hollywood calling me from his car. Evidently my movie is so low budget that Hollywood and Roger Debris just split and stuck me with the check.

Hollywood called again today.

“You know I’ve love your autobiography, it’s cutting edge, dark and black. Just like I like it. Sweetie baby don’t ever change,” he launches into his standard warm-up, “but…”

Evidently, my life has gone into the movie version of the Federal Witness Relocation program. My last name no longer is ‘Thibault’ because it’s too French sounding and difficult to pronounce. My new name is ‘Stevens’ and I really love my mother big time.

“But I hated my mother, didn’t you read my book?” I whine.

“Don’t you want to be successful? Don’t you want to be get an Academy Award so you can get laid, or at least get into the Sky Bar?”

“But it’s not true, people will think I’ve sold out…”

“It won’t be a lie. I’ll put my best scriptwriter on it. You’ve got nothing to worry about. Your morals will be intact.”

I’m so relieved to know Hollywood shares my moral values and would never lie about anything and that everything in my movie is going to be true. They used to have a technical term for it, Cinéma vérité, but Hollywood told me it was too French sounding and difficult to pronounce, so they just changed it to “scripted reality show”.

Now that I love my mother so much I feel kind of guilty. I guess I finally should retrieve that box containing her ashes. Someone called me about it ten years ago and asked me to come get them. I think it was the vacuum cleaner repair guy, but I’ve gone through a whole bunch of vacuum cleaners since then, and I can’t remember which vacuum cleaner I left Mrs. Stevens in.

According to the latest edition of “The Observers Guide to Rockstars”, having a hot girlfriend is a requirement for being a rockstar.   Tommy Lee had Pam Anderson,  David Bowie has Iman, and Mick Jagger and Rod Stewart each married a whole slew of supermodels.   Gene Simmons landed a seriously reconditioned Playboy centerfold even after she discovered he wears a really seedy wig.   Yes, to be a rockstar you must have a hot chick, even if you have to go under the hood and replace all the worn out parts with aftermarket material.

I’ve got a guitar, I’ve got a pair of really awesome sunglasses and I have a hot girlfriend in Nina Pennington, so my life should be all groovy.  It isn’t.

The problem is Nina Pennington.  Don’t get me wrong, she’s gorgeous.  The problem is that even though they are making a movie about me, she is still way more famous than I am.   It’s nerve-racking.  She’s got thirteen million Twitter followers, thirty-three million Facebook fans – not to mention her own line of perfume.

What happens if I get a zit on my nose, or if I fart?   I can see her reaching for her diamond studded iPhone and Tweeting what a loser I am.

I just wrote a song about it.  It’s called ‘My Life Sucks and My Girlfriend Doesn’t’ and I recorded it with some Italian friends of mine called Armed Venus.  You can download it on ITunes for ninety-nine cents, or almost as much as I got for selling my life story to a big shot Hollywood producer.   Steve Jobs gets a big chunk of that ninety-nine cents if you decide to buy it.  It won’t do him any good though because he’s dead.  With the gazillion dollars he made, he should have fallen off his wallet and bought a copy of “While I’m Dead…Feed the Dog”. the only book which guarantees you immortality or double your money back.   The poor cheap bastard.

It’s a cautionary tale.

Hollywood called this morning.

“Congratulations.  We’re making your book into a movie.  You’re going to be famous.”

Me?  Famous?  There is so much responsibility to being famous.  I mean I can handle some of the job okay, I’m sure I can handle the  “I’d like to thank all the little people” speeches, and I think I can scrape enough money together to go cruise for some skank crack whore so I can get busted by the police and get one of those really cool celebrity mug shots that they can use on TMZ.  But what about the hard celebrity stuff?

To be famous you have to be on a reality show, and I don’t think I have enough money in my bank account yet to get enough drugs to make me addicted enough to get on ‘Celebrity Rehab’.   I could try for ‘Celebrity Apprentice’, but the thought of being in the vicinity of Donald Trump is so nauseating that I would be constantly puking, and you know someone with an iPhone 5 is going to be there and have it up on YouTube within minutes.  Not good for the image.   I wish there was a Celebrity version of ‘Las Vegas Jailhouse’.  Maybe I can call the show’s producer and convince him to film an episode.  I’d watch it – even if I wasn’t on it.

Lots of questions to think about.  I think I better go to Ikea and see if I can get a casting couch.