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Ray Pride

By Ray Pride Pride@moviecitynews.com

There went in two by two unto Steve: iPhone's opening night

WALKING DOWN MICHIGAN AVENUE, THE CROWD AT HURON IS MOTLEY, but up close to the Apple store, lines are roped off to east and south, security guards are parsing 10 customers at a time: who gets to drop five, six hundred dollars in the pursuit of gadget-lust in the half hour to come? The primary line snakes along Huron where horse-drawn carriages stand; as always on this corner, the smell of shit lingers. Amid the flickers of passerby, something stands out: the rails of the planter in front of Apple are lower and brushed silver,


Happy Man


unlike the uniform black along Boul Mich, chiming with the Apple Store’s sleek facing. Black paper covers the front windows until the hour. A half-dozen bicycle cops watch from their steeds. The one in charge wears tedium well, fiddling with the bike helmet haphazard atop his cap. A kid hands out margherita pizza baked like garlic bread. Starbucks has a tent. Three microwave relays are extended skyward. Fox News, Telemundo and a Korean network reporter are at work. A CLTV reporter in purple striped shirt and purpler tie flubs a stand-up. A pair of Obama ’08 volunteers work the line with clipboards, with the best hair of the scene; baseball caps on middle-aged guys is the style du jour. Inside, sales are tiered: upstairs, the 8GB; downstairs, the 4GB. You activate the thing yourself at home, so it’s only a few seconds to swipe a card. Massed employees in black iPhone T-shirts line the balcony, cheering and applauding the tech Sherpas as they ascend, descend the glass-lined staircase. There is a special bag for the iPhone, and most buyers are taking the limit of two. Turn the bag in the falling light and the coated paper gleams.
At the top of the stairs, an Apple employee mans a tripod, taping every customer’s entrance. On the sidewalk, a young geek has climbed atop a small box to offer interviews to cable access reporters about how he’s keeping the plastic wrap on his iPhone carton, “It’s going straight to eBay!” A kibitzer offers “A Chapstick and some lint!” A line security guy sing-songs, almost an auction yodel, “Ap-pullline ends here. Ap-pull line ends here.” Tourists complain about the knot in German and Swedish and a woman exclaims in a Castilian accent, “Un cuadro extremo!” A woman camera tech says the security’s nothing compared to Dick Cheney’s earlier in the day. A cop says they’d planned for 1,500, and estimates 400 people have gone by in the first half hour. A man in khakis and pricey eyewear pauses at the “don’t walk” light. “Yes, and I bought you the eight gig one.” He’s grinning, two compact gleaming totebags at his side as chats on his OldPhone. [A suite of photos after the jump.]


There went in two by two unto Steve


eBay ready


Unimpressed


Incoming


Brackets


Don't walk
[Photographs © 2007 Ray Pride.]

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It shows how out of it I was in trying to be in it, acknowledging that I was out of it to myself, and then thinking, “Okay, how do I stop being out of it? Well, I get some legitimate illogical narrative ideas” — some novel, you know?

So I decided on three writers that I might be able to option their material and get some producer, or myself as producer, and then get some writer to do a screenplay on it, and maybe make a movie.

And so the three projects were “Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep,” “Naked Lunch” and a collection of Bukowski. Which, in 1975, forget it — I mean, that was nuts. Hollywood would not touch any of that, but I was looking for something commercial, and I thought that all of these things were coming.

There would be no Blade Runner if there was no Ray Bradbury. I couldn’t find Philip K. Dick. His agent didn’t even know where he was. And so I gave up.

I was walking down the street and I ran into Bradbury — he directed a play that I was going to do as an actor, so we know each other, but he yelled “hi” — and I’d forgot who he was.

So at my girlfriend Barbara Hershey’s urging — I was with her at that moment — she said, “Talk to him! That guy really wants to talk to you,” and I said “No, fuck him,” and keep walking.

But then I did, and then I realized who it was, and I thought, “Wait, he’s in that realm, maybe he knows Philip K. Dick.” I said, “You know a guy named—” “Yeah, sure — you want his phone number?”

My friend paid my rent for a year while I wrote, because it turned out we couldn’t get a writer. My friends kept on me about, well, if you can’t get a writer, then you write.”
~ Hampton Fancher

“That was the most disappointing thing to me in how this thing was played. Is that I’m on the phone with you now, after all that’s been said, and the fundamental distinction between what James is dealing with in these other cases is not actually brought to the fore. The fundamental difference is that James Franco didn’t seek to use his position to have sex with anyone. There’s not a case of that. He wasn’t using his position or status to try to solicit a sexual favor from anyone. If he had — if that were what the accusation involved — the show would not have gone on. We would have folded up shop and we would have not completed the show. Because then it would have been the same as Harvey Weinstein, or Les Moonves, or any of these cases that are fundamental to this new paradigm. Did you not notice that? Why did you not notice that? Is that not something notable to say, journalistically? Because nobody could find the voice to say it. I’m not just being rhetorical. Why is it that you and the other critics, none of you could find the voice to say, “You know, it’s not this, it’s that”? Because — let me go on and speak further to this. If you go back to the L.A. Times piece, that’s what it lacked. That’s what they were not able to deliver. The one example in the five that involved an issue of a sexual act was between James and a woman he was dating, who he was not working with. There was no professional dynamic in any capacity.

~ David Simon