he let us hire him anyway, so the show could go out in a bonfire of its own negative PR?
No one knew.
The meeting began calmly enough. Joey turned up on time—in lederhosen and moon boots—and leaned down to greet Ed like one of his oldest friends. As for Gent, he seemed like an okay guy. I knew from his bio that he was ex-military (wing commander, Royal Air Force), but he was making an effort to disguise it, what with his herringbone shirt, navy blazer, and wispy brown college-professor hair. In fact, it was hard to believe this was a man who had penetrated the very highest levels of Big Corp and had a policy of automatically demoting employees if they asked for business cards—titles being a sign of complacency and (a far more serious offence at Big Corp) “box-inward thinking.”
“So, Joey, tell me: Why do you think you can do this job?” was his opening question, after a round of handshakes. “You’ve never even watched our show, have you?”
In an instant, the temperature of the room seemed to drop ten degrees. I swear Mitch groaned.
“It’s true… I’ve never seen it,” Joey answered. “But, y’know, I’ve heard about it plenty.”
A seriousness had descended over Joey’s face that I’d never seen before. There was also a tone in his voice I didn’t recognize. Not so much anger. More like petulance.
“I’ve heard that your ratings have been falling by ten percent a year,” he went on. “And I’ve heard that you made a giant fuck-up with your panel last season, ’cause you hired a chick who can tell you how to bake a cake”—he was almost yelling now—“but can’t tell the Rolling Stones from her FAT TALK SHOW HOST ASS.”
“Easy, Joey,” urged Mitch.
Joey ignored him.
“I mean, if it were me,” he continued, “and I had a show about MUSIC that made a billion bucks a year, I think I’d be looking to hire someone who knew a little about MUSIC. Maybe someone whose mom was trained at the Royal fuckin’ Academy, maybe someone who grew up under a grand piano, who plays five instruments, who taught his band everything they know, who can fuckin’ sing, man. And I mean SING—not blow into a goddamn computer. But what do I know, huh? I’m just a rock star! I’m just someone who’s sold one and a half billion records during my career! But if it were up to me—li’l old me, who doesn’t know shit and belongs in the crazy house—I’d want to give the job to someone who actually KNOWS WHAT THE HELL HE’S TALKING ABOUT.”
Joey sunk back in his chair. He looked spent. The rant had clearly been forming for some time.
Gent was smiling.
“I share your sentiment entirely, Mr. Lovecraft,” he said. “Just so you know: We’re also talking with Ms. Bibi Vasquez. How would you feel about working with her?”
For a moment, Joey looked bewildered—as though he were halfway through a gig and had just realized he was at the wrong venue, in the wrong city, playing with the wrong band. Then he showed the room his magnificent teeth.
“Man,” he said, pointing at Gent and drumming his feet. “You had me there! You had me, man!”
“So what about Bibi?” asked Gent again.
“Bibi?” Joey replied. “Just saw her in a movie. Mitch, what was that thing we saw on the plane?”
“Nannyfornia,” answered Mitch.
“There you have it,” Joey confirmed. “Nannyfornia.”
“And how did you like it?”
“Can I be honest?”
Gent looked surprised. “Of course,” he said.
“As long as I have a face,” said Joey. “Bibi Vasquez will always—always—have a place to sit.”
I thought we might have to call an ambulance for Len, he choked so hard. Mitch studied the carpet. Gent said nothing—he just stood up and offered Joey his hand. Sanity Check: The Sequel was over, and Joey had surely passed. Ignoring Gent’s outstretched arm, he moved in for a hug, only to pull back in frustration: The Brit had tensed instinctively, unused to such man-on-man contact.
“Hey, don’t fuckin’ hug me like that, man!” Joey scolded, loudly. “Hug me like you hug your wife.”
They tried again.
I couldn’t watch.
So that was that: Bibi and Joey were hired, terms to be agreed on. Which left only JD Coolz, who no one ever doubted would accept whatever scraps were thrown in his direction to stay on the show. “Coolz is well aware that he is the luckiest man alive—or at least the luckiest man to have ever been paid more than a million dollars a year to