He auditioned all the boys
and girls, personal, in his office,
one on one.
Spread the rumor that if his casting
couch had kept a diary it would
have made Casanova blush.
Would have revealed detailed
information The Hite Report,
Kinsey and Masters and Johnson
had missed.
Claimed all the behind the scenes
work had made him old before
his time, and that might have been true,
in a way, if all the communicable
diseases he had caught and the immunity
to the miracle drugs that were required
to cure them, counted as adding rings
to the tree.
Said he had an eye for talent and
a gift for nurturing it, with a straight
face , when everyone knew it was more
of a, “you do something for me and I’ll
do something for you,” kind of arrangement.
Liked to proclaim that his work was
essentially thankless, foreswearing
personal gain and glory, while compiling
the kind of portfolio that made Wall
Street players envious.
“It was all about the Art, the theater
and the people that made it happen,”
was his standard interview line which
meant, “As long as it benefits me in
the long run.”
Might even have convinced himself that
all the lies he told were the truth,
which it may have been, in a way,
the way good propaganda has an element
of reality, the way self congratulation may
be seen as modesty, to the recipient, but
seen as a mockery of the truth by everyone else.
In Between Hangovers 