Tag Archives: stan peters

NO ENCORE FOR OLIVER

FOREWORD BY STAN LERNER: Downtownster does not celebrate its first birthday until February, but I still feel compelled to post the TEN BEST downtownster blogs of 2009. And while I think all of our blogs have been great, these are the ones that readers read the most and gave us the highest level of props for writing. Of course it should come as no surprise that “The Adventures Of Downtown Oliver Brown” made the list more than once. It was a hell of a year!!! 

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“Whooooo Shiiiiiiit!!! Look what the cat done dragged into Vegas!!!!” screamed the large, handsome, cowboy looking fellow that had come to greet us at the airport.

            I staggered off of Stan Peters’ Gulfstream V and watched as the cowboy fellow lifted Stan off of the floor in a hug that would have crushed a hearty Grizzly, no doubt. Hopefully you’ve read the last blog where the drinking binge that resulted in the flight to Las Vegas with Stan on his private jet began. Because Stan’s Gulfsream is well stocked with fine Scotch the drinking had continued unabated until the moment where our story continues:

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            “James Whiskey Peet the third, I’d like you to meet the best and possibly most dysfunctional writer in Hollywood, Downtown Oliver Brown.”

            James Whiskey Peet the third, crushed my hand with a vice like grip. “Well any friend of Stan Peters the scummiest and most powerful producer in Hollywood is a friend of mine.”

 I pried my hand loose. “Are those real six shooters you’ve got strapped on there, James Whiskey Peet the third?” 

            He pulled the pearl handled, diamond studded, beautiful instruments of death with the skill of true shootest and fired off a couple shots each into the air. “Damn right they’re real—writer boy. And call me Whiskey Peet! Now enough of this shiiiiiit hop in the car and let’s go play some cards!” Then wrapping his arm around my shoulder. “Bet you don’t have any cars like this in that faggot, liberal city you just flew in from.”

<Click Here: To Buy Books By Stan Lerner> 

            I took in Whiskey Peet’s Rolls Royce Phantom stretch limousine. It actually made Stan’s normal Rolls Royce Phantom look small. My eyes had some trouble focusing but eventually made their way down to the front of the car where they came to rest on an enormous set of what appeared to be solid silver steer horns.

            “This is a fine automobile Whiskey Peet. I take it that it’s equipped with a bar?”

            He slapped me on the back. “My boy! My boy! Get your ass in there and see for yourself.”

            Whiskey Peet shoved Stan and myself through the back door where we were greeted by a bunch of girls wearing nothing but chaps and cowgirl vests…And a guy named Dave.

            “Girls these are my boys from the coast!” The girls all said, “hi” on cue and made various comments about how cute we were. “And boys that’s my buddy Dave The Jew!” Continue reading

DOWNTOWN OLIVER BROWN AN INTERSECTION OF LOCALS

1100 Wilshire had been an office building with no tenants before the most recent housing boom came along and made it a place that people who enjoy a sky-pool call home. Frankly, the pool at the Skyline, where I am currently borrowing a rich friend’s place, is probably the nicest in Downtown—I’ve used it once. Anyway, it was David Kean’s fortieth birthday so there I was.

“Happy birthday, old boy,” I said handing David a bottle of wine that I had just picked up from Mike Berger at Ralph’s.

About a year ago I signed a copy of my last book for a very nice woman who approached me at the Water Grill while I was having dinner. It turned out that her husband is the CEO of Kroger and much like Starbucks I got one of those plastic cards in the mail—I haven’t had a grocery bill in a year.

“Forty, welcome to my world,” I said to Dave.

 “I know. I woke up feeling older,” David mourned.

 “Not to worry old boy, it only gets worse.” I laughed. “Is that an olive spread?” I asked gesturing toward the red, lacquer, Chinioserie tea table.

 “It is, help yourself,” said David, happy to not have to listen to anymore of my getting old jokes.

 I plopped down on the modern, tan, mohair sofa next to Eric Everhard the porn star. I don’t think Everhard is his real last name, but if it is, I hear that it suits him.

 “Hi Eric.”

 “Hey Oliver!”

 I reached for a cracker and some olive spread. “So what’s up…I mean working hard…I mean how’s life treating you?”

 Eric smiled; he’s a very cool guy. “Oliver I’m a porn star, how bad can life be? Other than my back is just killing me—job hazard.”

 I had never thought of the strain that his particular line of work puts on the back and hips, but suddenly it made sense. Continue reading