Most of the dinner was uneventful, the usual chit chat and get to know you stuff. I'll rephrase that: she blabbered on and on about her hopes and ambitions and Hollywood and hair and famous people she coiffed and I nodded and wolfed down the food like a Zombie at a Mensa convention. Truth be told, 'food' is a very loose interpretation of what she served me. It looked like she scooped up a bunch of weeds and threw them on a plate. I spent most of dinner ignoring her dreams and looking for anything to give my meal some flavor - dressing, oil, Hershey's syrup. Finally, near the end, I got sick of feeling like a rabbit so I asked her if she had some hot sauce or something.

Suddenly she got distraught and said, "Nothing but goodness and wholeness enters my body." She smiled broadly and shoved a forkful of alfalfa sprout into her face.

"Really? Because the other day, I had a piece of a hot dog." I said.

"I consider anyone who eats meat, evil," she said. "Jamie, do me a favor... don't be evil."

".....Okay."

After I helped her clear the table (hey, I'm a gentleman), I walked around her apartment and snooped through her stuff while she washed the dishes (hey, I'm a Man!). There were angels everywhere. I mean everywhere. If there was a flat surface in the apartment, an angel knick-knack was chillin on it. Bobble headed cherubs shook their heads "no" vehemently whenever I walked by.

A normal person doesn't do this, I was thinking. As I continued looking around, I came across a huge headshot of her in the living room, and then more pictures of her all over the place I went into the bathroom, took a seat on the toilet, looked up, and fucking freaked out again - there was literally a life-sized poster of her directly across from the toilet, I guess as a focal point for anyone having a fecal matter.

A well-adjusted human being doesn't have pictures of themselves everywhere. I mean how do you wake up every day and say, "Hi me. Me. Me. I love me." And then to break up the monotony of YOU, you place angels everywhere?!? Plus who wants their body associated with taking a shit?

I spent a couple minutes sitting on the toilet composing myself before I came back out into the living room.

"Why do you have pictures of yourself?" I asked.

"Because I wake up every morning and give myself a big hug," she said. "Then I sing."

"Why?" I said.

"Because I'm a good fuckin person," she said. A lil pissed off.

Later on she told me how she used to be a biker chick and a huge slut. She blew all the members of Black Sabbath like ten times each when she was their groupie. I realized immediately that she couldn't have evil enter her body, because she'd had so much of it enter her in her youth. She probably hosted the entire Knievel family at one point. She went on to detail even more prodigious tales of youthful sex and sluttery. She was graphic, she was hardcore, she was filthy. I had a boner.

But NOOOOOOOWWWWWWW? Now she was a born-again Christian and a vegan. I was oh so fortunate enough to catch her in her re-born and blossoming phase. PRAISE THE LORD! Lucky me, a re-born vegan! Why do I always find girls immediately after their slutty phase? I have yet to find a girl who said, "It's cool you met me now! I'm really at the zenith of my deep throating ability. Buckle up!"

On the couch after dessert, I nodded and listened empathetically as she beamed about her new found sense of hope and pride, all the while thinking how best to shimmy off her organic cotton underpants. There was a lot of sexual energy in the air and we started making out like two animals, totally grinding. I started biting her neck and pulling her hair. Going crazy. It was ON like Donkey Kong.

Anyway, in one of my scenes with Denise, a dilemma came up (will the puns ever stop?): should Dick show dick in the movie? In other words, was Jamie going to show Little Jamie in the movie or not? To show peepee or not to show peepee, that was the question.

Personally, I don't think showing junk on film ever really hurts a man's film career. If you saw that movie KINSEY a few years back, you saw clear as day that Peter Saarsgard is hung like half an acorn, but he's still a hugely successful dramatic actor and has been nominated for multiple awards. There might even be an inverse relationship between Oscar trophies and schlong size. I don't want Mr. Saarsgard to 'google' himself and find this (although if he 'googled' himself more when he was younger he might have turned out larger), so I will say, in his hypothetical defense, that he could be a grower and not a shower (you need to pronounce that correctly or that sentence makes no sense).

I count myself as part of the 'grower' family. Sometimes, after a shower (now pronounce it the other way), I have looked down to find something that looked like a sad cocktail wiener in need of a Zoloft - come on, everyone has had LDS before! No, not Latter Day Saints -- Little Dick Syndrome. It's winter, you didn't eat your Wheaties, and you walk around all day with a crinkled, deflated balloon flapping in your boxers. Fortunately, I feel like I have a circus clown living in my taint who can blow the balloon up to an impressive size; at times long enough to be twisted into a poodle. Okay, a toy poodle. Still, it's quite a difference from the piece of fusili I had five minutes before. Or elbow macaroni. Whatever pasta provides you with the best visual. That being said, even soft, I'm at least a FULL acorn in season. Plus, the day of the shoot, I wasn't having any LDS problems, so I figured, "Hey, I'll go all in. Who doesn't love toy poodles?"

Unfortunately, more than a half pint of blood flow to the package region and the film gets an X. Yes, that's correct, you can't show a boner in a movie or its gets an X rating. I was very disappointed when I found that out. On the other hand, I didn't want to risk getting performance anxiety penis either. I know it can get cold when you're hanging out in the breeze, and the last thing I needed was for Little Jamie to not come out of his trailer.

Like most men who go full monty on film, I needed to look casual yet respectable. Since I'm famous, you have to add another inch for what is considered respectable compared to some unknown, for instance, who's playing a tranny Off-Broadway (cough, Bill Dawes, cough). That meant I needed the perfect amount of fluffing. So, seconds before shooting, I sat down with Little Jamie and gave him a stern talking to. I shook him and smacked him around a few times like I was Ike Turner and he had jut messed up dinner

I felt that the proud Mary beatdown resulted in a pretty good balance between 'blood flow ready for action' penis and 'whatever, I'm just a penis chillin' with my two homey balls' penis. Still, the director informed me that just because we filmed it, I could wait until I saw the dailies of the footage (or inchage, rather) before signing off on whether or not it could be used in the final cut of the movie.

I usually don't go to these types of affairs for two reasons. One, I hate banal conversation. Two, I always get the same annoying question: Whatever happened to the Jamie Kennedy Experience? Normally, I can handle boring, mindless conversation, but I can't deal with THAT goddamn question. When I get it, which is almost always, I immediately want to reply

"I don't know, I've never heard of that show. My show wasn't called the Experience, it was called the Jamie Kennedy Experiment.!!! If you're such a big fuckin' fan, can't you at least get the name right?"

Getting the title wrong isn't what really gets me, though. What gets me is that I have to remind a bunch of people in the industry that my show was...ahhh...CANCELLED! And it happened 3 years ago. That's when they go on to ask me why the show was canceled. Oh, I don't know, maybe because networks are assholes??

On this occasion, my agent told me to go because he wanted me to meet with some producers who might be interested in working with me on developing an idea, and all that so on and so forth bullshit. It felt like your basic Sunday morning Hollywood barbecue with all the Hollywood accoutrements: great food, open bar, massage table, ping pong, swimming pool. So I'm talking to these producers, trying to focus on their empty Hollywood speak, when I spot an attractive little sprite out of the corner of my eye, running around without any pants on. And I thought to myself ...so it's THAT kind of Hollywood barbecue.

I turned to get a better look at her and maybe make eye contact when I realized I wasn't looking at a free-spirited Roller Girl kind of chick. I was looking at a girl...a little girl.. YUCCKK.

I fucking hate that!

Oh, one disclaimer!: It's important to remember that SHE wanted me to write this "contract" and, since I'm a retard, I couldn't help but make it kind of tongue in cheek and a little ridiculous.

Disclaimer to the disclaimer: I pretty much meant what I wrote. It's one of those things where you throw out a statement that you really mean but then couch it in some goofy way to defend yourself in case someone gets mad at you: like my one gay friend who, at the end of a night of drinking, starts with just the slightest of homosexual overtones:

"Well, no girls at this bar. I guess we could just go fuck each other now! Hahahahahha! Kidding, I'm just kidding! That's crazy, right? Like, any of you guys would like to go back to my place and just suck dicks? Of course not, that's what I'm saying... although it might be fun... KIDDING AGAIN... right? There are no dicksuckers here...are there??"

My point is, my contract falls somewhere in between gospel truth and an absurdist Beckett piece. It's been so long, I can't really remember which parts I meant and which I didn't.

Disclaimer to the disclaimer to the disclaimer: I AM THE PIG! NOT THE GIRL! If I was talking about the girl I would have used a more appropriate word like "slut" or "sucker" or "merciful angel princess". Duh!

Here's a draft:

Now, the next few stories might make me look a little desperate. They all involve things i did to get sex. What you need to understand is that these are stories from when I was younger. Am I proud of some of the things I did or suffered through? No, but that doesn't mean they aren't the truth or that they aren't exactly like the things every other guy out there has done when he was young in the service of getting his pencil wet. But I'm older now so I do my best not to stoop to old tricks to get girls in the sack. I've matured and realized that direct honesty is the best way to avoid long term negative consequences. That's why now when I meet a hot girl I want to sleep with all I do is pull out a copy of Malibu's Most Wanted, point to her lips and point to my face on the cover. DESPERATE!!!!

These are the confessions of a future ex-scumbag.

I'm thinking when did I become the fat girl?! "Hey, it's nice in here," I shout over to them. "They got a basketball hoop." No response. Now I'm desperate, I'm nervous, and Dawes is having all the fun. I look around, scan the pool, and at the top of my lungs scream...."CHICKEN FIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!"

On Sunday, any ambition to do anything constructive (work on screenplays, pitches, or jokes) has gone to shit, and you go see a movie. Finally, you do the Sunday 8pm show, and you're done. Usually you fly home or to your next destination the following morning. Usually, it's just sleep and work and fly. Sometimes, though, you finish your weekend with a drink, or an encounter.

A couple of weekends ago, I finished nine months of touring. I was doing stand-up, doing publicity for Kickin' It Old Skool, and shooting a pilot for FOX all at the same time. When I was done, I wanted a lil reprieve. I decided that the set of shows I had booked at the Palm Beach Improv would be my last for a while.

Keep in mind, the Palm Beach Improv is NOT in Palm Beach, where there are mansions the size of Aaron Spelling's. It is in West Palm Beach, where there are flying cockroaches called Palmettos. The valet at the Marriott swore to me that one of them flew off with his mother and took her to Cuba. I decided that a small town like West Palm was the best place for me to sit and vegetate for a few days while I contemplated my existence.

I convinced Bill Dawes, my opener, to stay with me. He said okay because he didn't have anything to do until that following Wednesday. For three days, we either sat around or took in all the sights West Palm Beach had to offer. We went to the Cheesecake Factory, the movies, the arcade, Starbucks, Tommy Bahamas, Starbucks again, Borders, Linens 'n Things, and Nine West. Basically, we went to a strip mall.

At Pizza City, our last fine dining spot of the week, I gorged myself on chicken Parmesan until I felt like Big Pussy times two. Bill just had a HOUSE salad, hold the dressing (gay?). I was mainlining cappuccino and channeling Quentin Tarantino as I discussed how there was no difference between a male breakdancer in a coma and a male figure skater looking for respect, and how I just couldn't understand why my movie had made 110 million dollars less than Blades of Glory.

During my rant I mentioned that I might finally be seriously looking for a girlfriend, and he told me that a little "upfucking" might be a good career move--meaning that if I get with a high wattage star, my star might burn a lil brighter. That might sound a little superficial and gross, but it's what ALL of Hollywood does, not just KFed--look around.

As I finished my fourth cappuccino and started my second heart attack, a bit of downfucking walked by. Her name was Sheila, and she was one of the cocktail waitresses from the Palm Beach Improv. Bill moved his salad aside, and his little cherubic face suddenly went aglow, like a girl who was just told how good her lowlights look.

Shelia sat down and joined us after giving Bill and me a few cheek swipes of her lips. Bill is perky because this is a girl who he has been flirting with all weekend, and he is convinced now is the time for her to be his. There is only one problem: she has a boyfriend. Being a bit of a cocksman, Bill believes the boyfriend is just a minor deterrent, a mere roadblock on the way to Lake Finechina (vagina). I'm a realist, and I know that this lake is bone dry because A) this girl told Bill she wasn't gonna cheat, B) this girl was in a hurry on her way to buy coke (not cola) for her friend's birthday party, C) this girl lived in her boyfriend's penthouse free of charge and didn't want to piss off "the landlord," and D) this girl used to be one of the top strippers at the Penthouse Executive Club in NYC. She was trying to put her shady past behind her and live on the straight and narrow. I mean seriously, who goes from one of the best pole dancing establishments in the business to hocking honey garlic chicken fingers for bridal showers and drug dealers in West Palm Beach unless she's trying to go square? If it was still about the money and the fame, she'd still be on the pole. And she wasn't going to throw it all away for my opener, who looks like Ellen DeGeneres on steroids no matter how good of an impressionist he is.

She finally tells Bill she feels weird and shoots him down a final time, but admits if she wasn't on a coke run or had a boyfriend she would definitely like to take him behind the dumpster and see his braciole. As she walks away, Bill tells me to "look at her ass." I do. Now I have a boner and order a fifth cappuccino.

12/7/03
What did I do today? Well I slept 'til noon, ate breakfast, rehearsed with Traylor (Howard), had some ice-cream, didn't have sex, and watched "Scarface" again. Michelle Pfeiffer can't dance.

12/8/03
I fucking hate these vegemite farmers. Fuckin' drama. The lady who does my makeup is really nice, but she talks...A LOT!! So I'm in the trailer this morning getting my makeup done, and my lady is in the middle of one of her very long stories about Russell Crowe, when I touch her by accident. She jumps up and goes "excuse me!" and it went downhill from there.

I say, "Erin, why you freakin' out?"
She says, "you startled me for a sec, that's all."
I say, "I didn't mean to startle you. Don't freak out, you know I can grope you anytime I want, it's part of my contract."

Then another woman in the trailer named, well--lets call her..."Big Fat Toni the other make-up lady who looks like a pirate"--opens up her big yap and says "Ah naheu you cant"
I say, "Are you serious?"
She says, "Yeah".
I say, "Damn I have to renegotiate then." Then I say, "are you retarded, how the hell am I going to getting groping put in a contract?!"
She says, " ..I don't know, most actors are horrible."

I almost fuckin' lost it. I mean, yeah we all know I'm working on a celibacy stamina record down here, but really let's look at the facts! In my career, I've done 3 make-out scenes including one with Carmen Electra and another with Amber Valetta. I have gotten on base with a certain incarcerated socialite. I have had heavy flirtations with a certain Asian superstar, dated Numbers 78, 54, and 5 on Maxim 100 (not this year, a few years back), and have had encounters with extras, strippers, and B-actresses in and around the Continental U.S. But you know what? Let's forgot all that, and start getting into the molestation business. In fact, let's put my whole career in jeopardy for you, a fat middle aged make-up artist from the bush with moles. Let's make YOU the apex of my groping career.

Even Arnold's like, "Jamie, please, you're inappropriate." Dumb fucking beauty consultant. Get a clue!!!

P.S. to reader: it seems like I'm angry a lot, I know. I will start working on it in therapy as soon as I get out of this trashcan of a country.

12/9/03
Nothing really going on today, we're behind though, that's for sure. They are rigging a scene where the baby pisses at me with the strength of a fire hose.

I said, "That's stupid."
They said, "Are you kidding?! That will help us at the box office, pee sells."
I said, "Why don't you guys give the kid a 10 inch cock, that'll sell. I'd pay $8.50 to see that."

They looked at me like I was Michael Jackson in a room full of kindergarteners. Nobody gets my humor here. I'm about to complete the world's biggest piss joke.

12/10/03
So I'm in this scene with Traylor and the little baby and I'm supposed to be scared and nervous and dripping wet. The whole time, all I could think about was Traylor's legs. I kept thinking, "Damn...my movie wife has some nice gams." I know I'm supposed to be connected to my scene and all, but I couldn't take my eyes off her calves. I wonder if Bob DeNiro does that?

I constantly think of other things when I'm in the scene. The words bore me. It's been happening a lot lately. I guess I'm not very "method." During my close-up where I'm hollering at the neighbor, I kept thinking about the pumpkin pie I had at lunch. I'm still craving it.

12/11/03
I just watched The Hulk in my trailer, who cares.

12/12/03
I'm tired as hell. One more week before Christmas. I've been here almost five weeks already, and it's flown. I was kind of depressed today until I took a shit, then I felt much happier... gross but true. The scenes are becoming a blur. I've never worked so much in my life. I like it and feel lucky. From June 2001 until now, I haven't stopped working. I'm too scared to stop.

12/13/03
You know what question I really hate, "How was your weekend?" There's so much pressure. It always feels like my answer isn't good enough and that I have to make up a big lie or something.

A guy said, "Hey Jamie, how was your weekend?"
I said, "I mostly slept and did some laundry."
He was like "Oh" and then acted all disappointed. I feel like saying, "Screw you asshole, that's not good enough for you? What did you do this weekend, climb the Himalayas?"
I asked him back..."what'd you do this weekend?"
He said, "I went to a BBQ."

Oh Bigman, like that's soooooo much better? Wow, I'm impressed. It doesn't matter now anyway, because that question was fucked forever last Saturday night when Saddam Hussein was captured. Think about the guy who captured him. Who's ever going to top him???

I mean imagine asking him that question. "Hey what'd you do this weekend?"

Well, Friday was boring, I slept mostly... but Saturday I managed to infiltrate a farmhouse on the outskirts of Tikrit, and there in a hole.... I managed to find the evil dictator Saddam Hussein! Then Sunday I watched "Bruce Almighty" on dvd!

You're like, "okay, fuck, you win! You're the master of the weekend!"

I did laundry, but the soap machine broke. I used Dove, but made too many bubbles. Then I asked some girl out at the dryer, and she shit on me.

12/14/03
Dear Diary, today the baby cried and cried. Why it was so upset, no one knew. But he was very tired. In other news, Steve the dog trainer also cried....because Bear could not put his hands over his head and the producer decided to pull the plug on the gag.

He said, "We'll live with what we got."
Steve got so upset, he said, "One more chance goddamnit, please??"
Producer said, "Nope, moving on."
Steve got livid and screamed, "Aw fuck it then, it's all shit anyway! Shot's so far away you might as well use a goddamn bird."

12/16/03
I'm really starting to like Sydney now, but my sex problem hasn't gone away. I went up to a girl on the street last night and told her she had the most plump lips and all I wanted was a kiss. After a few funny looks she obliged. I thought, shit! That's all I have to do? This is just a numbers game. So any lips I like, I'm gonna use that line. The trick is to not take it personally when the women tell you to stick it up your arse!

12/17/03
Traylor is really funny. Half the lines that are funny, she wrote. She's got great timing. She's Tea Leoni but with a better ass. God she's got a nice butt. Sometimes I just wanna squeeze it, but I can't because that has nothing to do with the scene. I guess I could squeeze it and say I was just rehearsing and doing what my character would do to his wife when he got home after a long day at the cartoon office. Is that unprofessional? I guess it is...but Hollywood's great like that. It's the only place where touching and sexual harassment are encouraged. Before you do a take you get touched by so many people: makeup ladies, wardrobe, camera operators, sound guys. So naturally you get used to it. Postal workers don't get that. Poor guys. They don't even get hugs after they deliver a big package.

I don't know, all I'm saying is that in Hollywood, people kiss you and it's not weird. Doctors can't do that shit. They can't be like "Hey baby, how are you? You look great. I'm gonna remove your spleen and after that you'll be pissing fine...ok kisses."

12/18/03
I just looked at my bank statement. The government steals all my money. It's bullshit.

Which is probably why I went into a deep depression after I did Son of the Mask. Here was a movie that was going be like a live action cartoon with inventive animation, sick special effects, and a simple theme that people could relate to: the fear of growing up and actually having a first child...who may be able to fly and shit.

I know it looks nothing like that now, but that was the script and the idea in the beginning, and the plan was very exciting. Plus my only other offer at the time was Without a Paddle. It was like choosing between constipation and diarrhea; I chose diarrhea. People say, "Hey, didn't you read the script?" Yeah I did, and it was pretty good, but it changed throughout production...A LOT. Believe me, I have read a ton of scripts that were horrible, and you just never know how they are going to turn out. EVER. Some end up being HUGE.

I have the first Pirates of the Caribbean script at my house that I got from my friend at Disney. It's 76 pages long with a totally different ending. Johnny Depp's character dances and ends up living underwater in an Atlantis type setting. NO SHIT!!!!!

I have the script for 300, and the scene where they battle for Thermopylae , it just says, "Soldiers fight here." Who knew?! I have the first Scream script where Neve Campbell's character kills Drew Barrymore. Things change.

You just never know.

I recently turned down Delta Farce (the Larry the Cable Guy movie) and decided to do Kickin' It Old Skool instead. Delta Farce is tracking higher. I would never have guessed that a movie about three soldiers who mistakenly believe TIJUANA is IRAQ would be more exciting to people than a breakdancer who's been in a coma for 20 years. (I know, make fun of me here.) I turned down Daddy Day Care to make Malibu's Most Wanted. Daddy did triple the money.

Mike Fleiss and I did a TV show called The Starlet. The New York Times called it the PERFECT reality show. We were pumped, we thought we had Next Top Model on our hands. We even got Faye Dunaway. The show debuted to a .5. For those of you who don't know ratings, that basically means my mom watched it. I'll never understand why it tanked so fantastically.

The point is, I thought I knew what people wanted, but maybe I don't. Maybe I'm destined to be on a third rate sitcom on TBS. The only thing I do seem to have a hold on are my thoughts, and I guess I can share them with you. If you like them, then cool. If you don't, then cool too.

But I'm not up for reading every comment people have, telling me how dumb I am, or what a whore my mother is, or how my acting style is a mix between Saddam's hanging and a Pauly Shore abortion (a real description about me, by the way). If you want to be critical, be critical in context, or constructive. (That's the plot of my next movie: Heckler. More on that to come later.)

So why am I writing this to you? I don't know. I guess I'm looking for new relationships and fresh perspectives outside of the Hollywood quagmire in which I've been ensconced for these past 18 years. Since I've started in this business, those were the only relationships I really had, and I look forward to developing some new ones with you, the reader.

I keep a journal on every movie I've ever done and, rereading this one now, I don't know whether to laugh or cry. My hope and naivete are kind of sweet, I guess, but sometimes I want to go back in time, throttle myself by the neck, and fire my agent. I just hope that if you liked me before, maybe this will help you get to know the real me better. If you hated me, maybe this will make you at least neutral. If you don't care at all, maybe you'll laugh a little.

Here's the first half of my journal from Son of the Mask.

JK

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