Jake Fogelnest

I had kind of a rough night.

Around 3:45 AM my apartment buzzer started going off.  Some asshole was hitting it over and over again in that annoying “shave in a haircut” rhythm.  I opened the door to find a really drunk and hostile James Cameron standing in my hallway.  He was NOT in good shape.  Cameron burst into my apartment, sweating and talking a mile a minute.  He seemed really pissed off, ranting incoherently about his ex-wife.

When I asked him the perfect logical question of how he managed to get from the Oscars in Los Angeles to my East Village apartment so quickly, he grabbed me by the shoulders and shouted,  ”RICH PEOPLE HAVE DIFFERENT RULES!!!”

Cameron walked over to my desk and began pouring a mound of coke out.  ”I swiped this from Quentin!” he exclaimed proudly.

It was at this point I was really starting to wonder why I had let James Cameron into my apartment in the first place.  I had never met James Cameron before.  Ever.  I’m not even particularly a fan of James Cameron.  Don’t get me wrong, I think he’s a fine director and everything. But having him in my apartment, doing blow in the middle of the night after just losing at the Oscars was a bit much. Honestly, the whole thing was a little frightening.

“Hey, let’s make a movie!” Cameron shouted. “Let’s make a movie right now! Take your shirt off!”

At first I refused his request.  However James Cameron is a very persistent man and a powerful director. He can be amazingly convincing when he’s passionate about something.  Even more convincing when he has access to a taser gun, which was the case in this situation.

“TAKE YOUR SHIRT OFF!” he screamed, zapping the taser.  Cameron then broke into maniacal laughter for a solid seven minutes.  I’m pretty sure it was laughter.  It could’ve been tears.  I’m honestly not sure if he was laughing or crying.  it was this high pitched, girlish whimper.  Very disconcerting.

Cameron took out one of those Sharpie markers and started to put all these little red dots all over my chest.

“Mr. Cameron,” I asked nervously.  ”What are you doing?”

“Motion capture!”

Before I knew it, James Cameron shouted “Action!” and was filming me with his cell phone.

“Pretend like you’re running away from a giant bear!  No!  Pretend like YOU’RE the giant bear and you’re running away from a space dragon!”

That’s when I heard a loud “pop” sound.  James Cameron stopped suddenly in his tracks, fell to his knees, slumped over and passed out — COLD.   Sticking out of his ass was a small tranquilizer dart.

I turned around to see a large biker dude with a ZZ top beard casually walking into my apartment, whistling.  The biker gentlemen bent down, picked up James Cameron and threw him over his shoulder.

“Sorry for the trouble.” the Biker said and then calmly left my apartment with a comatose James Cameron.

I locked the door and went back to sleep.

Rough night.