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Saturday 19th April

Have slipped a network embedded reporter a roofie in order to use his satellite phone. As it is, I had to use my gas card and the blasted thing is running me $500 a minute to console Tim Robbins stateside. The perennially angry and ranting actor shows no sign of taking a breath. He talks about a chill wind blowing across the country. He tells me about this Baseball Hall of Fame fiasco, how the director of the joint told him his ticket would be no good due to expected far- left diatribes. "Moth," he said. "You know I wouldn't have gone in for any of that! I'd have kept the talk strictly on baseball." I hemmed and hawed and decided the straight approach from a friend was what the situation required. "You throw like a girl," I told him at long last. "You're going to be typecast as a serial murder. No more amiable dunces for you. Sarandon will still get to play sluts with enormous breasts who inexplicably brandish cartoon-style southern accents. I don't know why this should be so, but there it is." He was uncharacteristically quiet for a moment, then made an odd chirping sound. He then told me John Cusack was on the other line and rang off. I owe my Mobil credit card $9,000. Shit!

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