Q: How have you been sleeping, Tom? A: Good. Thanks for asking! Q: Any suicidal thoughts? A: What the fuck kind of interview is this? Q: It's in your best interest to be truthful. A: Let's see, if there were a woman named Susan Oside, would her friends call her Sue Oside? Q: Any family history of suicide? A: No, as a family, we never attempted it. Although, we did go on a vacation once. Q: Are you regular? A: I beg your pardon! Hey, where'd my publicist go? Q: Do you even have a publicist? A: [heavy sigh] Q: Do you want to talk about your black eye there? A: It's a long story. Q: Forget it then. A: You sure? Q: You want to tell it, don't you? A: So I'm writing in this coffee shop on La Brea when this older dude behind me asks if I can watch his shit while -- Q: His weed? A: No, his laptop, dummy. So I'm like, "Fuck yeah, man." Then it hits me -- it's David Chase. Q: Creator of The Sopranos? A: Completely. So he takes off for the bathroom, and I'm finding myself, you know, curious as a -- Q: Closeted man in West Hollywood? A: Not the most apt analogy, but I guess it works. Anyway, I'm -- wait, the fuck're you implying? Q: Nothing. Continue. A: David Chase is, in my opinion, a genius, better than lots of literary novelists. So I'm thinking maybe he's working on the final ep, you know? Carefully, I flip open his laptop and, turns out, his Outlook is open. All of a sudden this email comes in from James Gandolfini, asking all these recipients, Edie Falco, Brad Gray, Dakota Fanning, et al, to forward this email so that Microsoft and AOL will award Jimmy 245 bucks or some shit. Makes sense. So I'm about to open up Chase's Final Draft program when BAM! . . . I'm on the floor, staring up at Paul Haggis. Motherfucker whacked me in the face with this Powerbook. He's all, smirkin', "And you call yourself a writer?" Then Chase returns and I'm like, "Chase, I'm so sorry -- I couldn't help it." But Chase doesn't say a word. He just starts levitating to the point where his head, I swear, is, like, inches from the ceiling fan. Haggis and me are like, "Damn!" Then he descends and, still hovering, starts typing -- Q: Responding to that Jimmy Gandolfini email? A: No doubt. Anyway, without saying a word, he packs up his stuff and drifts all gracefully out of the joint. Q: At which point Haggis bought you a coffee and apologized? A: No, he insulted my shirt and left. Q: I'm going to prescribe some pain killers for that eye, and some Crystal Meth for that writer's block. A: But I'm not blocked. Wait, you're Paul Haggis, aren't you? Q: What gave it away, the Oscar hanging around my neck? A: I'd say the name tag. [Pause] Q: [giggling] Hey where'd you get that shirt, your grandmother's closet? A: Cut me some slack, Paul! Q: By the way, if you're interested, I've got some rewrite jobs in my pocket here. A: Am I? Q: I'm kidding. A: Yeah well . . . I'm joking too, I wouldn't rewrite for you for all the money in the world. Q: Actually, in all seriousness, my driveway needs sealing. [Pause] A: What time should I show up? Q: Seven AM should cut it.

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