He had said it. Sitting around the yellow couch at 4am with Kenny G and rock and roll Dave. “…if I was ever in a movie, I’d want Mickey Rourke to play me, that guy is fuckin’ hard core.” And there it was. Before there was a character to cast, Mickey Rourke would play any part in any screenplay written on this moment from then on in. Just to have the real Mickey — 9 1/2 weeks, Wild Orchid Mickey — sitting in on a yellow couch at 4am with Kenny G and rock and roll Dave, saying that line “…if I was ever in a movie, I’d want Mickey Rourke to play me, that guy is fuckin’ hard core.”
Of course to get Kenny G to play Kenny G, and to take the last line and nod enthusiastically in Mickey’s direction, sniffing and sputtering agreement like some playground lackey would seal the script. Would incite a bidding war from all the major studios. Would bring Tarantino out of creative hibernation and breath new life into the genre. Whatever genre would accept Mickey Rourke and Kenny G on a couch, spun on blow, playing lesser figures yearning to be their aptly cast selves.
Insulting injury, the Kenny G sitting in our living room at 4am was not the same Kenny G found wafting through the fluorescent glow of timeless waiting rooms and half dead magazines. Not the same Kenny G who is beckoned to tame Burt Bacharach and Van Morrison tunes with a side-mouth clarinet. Interesting that there is someone making this call. Divining that the newest Rod Stewart is just too heavy for the waiting room sequestered, for the sick and dying, and must be Kenny G-ified. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he was doing coke in our living room. Who could sleep through the night with that on the conscience.
The fucking whore.