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.