“Of course I remember him,” I answered with a heavy sigh. “He almost changed my life entirely back in the day.”
Most of you know the story of how Dr. Dre, yes, that Dr. Dre, almost bought my screenplay .33 Reverse Gunther. He planned to produce the film, cast himself in a small, but important role, and oversee the soundtrack.
Dre also wanted to cast Mark Wahlberg as the lead, and have me rewrite some of the roles to better accommodate his pals Eninem and Snoop Dogg.
We met at Skybar, his producing partner and bodyguards in tow, to discuss his interest in the script. At that meeting, Dre gave me one of my all time favorite compliments about my writing. “You are one sick mother#$%^&*” were his exact words.
Coming from a doctor, that has always meant so much to me.
I started working on the rewrite based on his notes, I watched a ton of Eminem videos to get a feel for his producing partner’s directing skills (as he had directed those videos), and I finally thought I’d achieved the Hollywood Dream.
Then it all fell apart because of greed and stupidity. Dre was neither the greedy, nor the stupid party in this scenario.
I do still dwell on what could have been, and I’m frustrated that the movie didn’t get made because I know it would have been amazing and opened so many doors for me.
There’s nothing like New York pizza, and I miss it so much. Thankfully, Hanukkah Harry brings me a pie whenever he visits The House on the Hill.
“I’ve gone into business with him,” Harry announced proudly as he gnoshed on an everything bagel from Bagels on the Square. “This Hanukkah, all the good little girls and boys will be receiving Dr. Dre-dels. Can Santa Claus top that?”
“I don’t think so,” I had to admit. “Having Dr. Dre associated with Hanukkah is bound to make it hipper than Adam Sandler and his annoying little song ever could.”
Hanukkah Harry nodded. “Sandler is a good kid, though. I just wish he would make more movies like The Wedding Singer. Be more of a mensch than a putz, you know?”
I had to agree. I used to be a huge fan of Adam Sandler and his films before he started hiring twelve year old boys to write them.
“Dr. Dre-dels, huh?” I asked as I reached for another slice of greasy pizza. “Does he make them out of clay?”
Hanukkah Harry slapped the table in delight and let out a belly shaking laugh that would’ve made Santa Claus jealous.
“Clay, Austin?” he asked as he helped himself to a Snapple. “Dr. Dre can afford to make his Dre-dels out of something a lot snazzier than clay. Please!”
Harry knew that I needed to write monologue jokes for this week’s taping of The Nite Show, so he insisted on hitting the road early.
Before he left, though, he rested a comforting hand on my shoulder and said something that put a smile on my face. “Dr. Dre sends his best, and wants to know if you’re still one sick mother#$%^&*. I, of course, assured him that you were.”
Happy Hanukkah, Modern Philosophers!