Journal sbszine's Journal: Roger Moore 1
An earlier strange email that I forgot to archive at the time:
I did morphine injections with Roger Moore--now Sir Roger Moore--in 1984 on the set of A View To A Kill. I was a key grip. A dude named Rolando from craft services hooked me up with the morphine while Roger Moore waited in his trailer. It took longer than we thought, Rolando's cousin being a hardcore junkie who was always late, but it all worked out in the end. Rolando handed over the little tied up balloons full of morphine, looked at me sideways and said: "Be careful with this shit, man. It's too good. You can smell it going in." I got the needles from Grace Jones who had a whole two dozen of them in a plastic bag. She said she didn't fuck around with the hard shit anymore but used the needles for administering vitamin B-12 injections into her upper thigh. I believed her.
When I got back to the trailer with the drugs, Roger Moore was dressed in a bathrobe and beating a Rubik's Cube to death with a metal cafeteria tray (also from craft services). "Fuck," he screamed, and slammed down hard on the thing with the tray. Little squared-off chunks of plastic rainbow splattered across the room like busted teeth flying out of a boxer's mouth. I threw my hand in front of my face. One of the pieces bounced off the edge of my palm. Roger Moore was breathing heavily, gasping, his bathrobe flapping open. The weirdest part of this whole story is that James Bond wasn't wearing any underpants. I saw it all hanging there: Shrivelled. Uncircumcised. Fucked. Up. He saw me in the doorway and stabbed a finger at the busted carcass of the Rubik's Cube. "That fuckin' thing! That fuckin' demon box! What took you so long, anyway?! Tell me you got the drugs," he said. "Jesus, at least tell me that." He was crazy, his eyes ranged all over the room. I sat him down on the couch while I prepared the shots. He tried to fix up himself but couldn't hit a vein. I had to do it for him. His eyes rolled back after the plunger dropped. He was out of it. Shitty. Drug-fucked. He looked like a baby, but a baby who'd been struck in the head with a rubber mallet. He gurgled. He drooled. He said: "This is good. This is good shit. I love this. I love it all. I love you, too. What was your name again? I love you."
I did morphine injections with Roger Moore--now Sir Roger Moore--in 1984 on the set of A View To A Kill. I was a key grip. A dude named Rolando from craft services hooked me up with the morphine while Roger Moore waited in his trailer. It took longer than we thought, Rolando's cousin being a hardcore junkie who was always late, but it all worked out in the end. Rolando handed over the little tied up balloons full of morphine, looked at me sideways and said: "Be careful with this shit, man. It's too good. You can smell it going in." I got the needles from Grace Jones who had a whole two dozen of them in a plastic bag. She said she didn't fuck around with the hard shit anymore but used the needles for administering vitamin B-12 injections into her upper thigh. I believed her.
When I got back to the trailer with the drugs, Roger Moore was dressed in a bathrobe and beating a Rubik's Cube to death with a metal cafeteria tray (also from craft services). "Fuck," he screamed, and slammed down hard on the thing with the tray. Little squared-off chunks of plastic rainbow splattered across the room like busted teeth flying out of a boxer's mouth. I threw my hand in front of my face. One of the pieces bounced off the edge of my palm. Roger Moore was breathing heavily, gasping, his bathrobe flapping open. The weirdest part of this whole story is that James Bond wasn't wearing any underpants. I saw it all hanging there: Shrivelled. Uncircumcised. Fucked. Up. He saw me in the doorway and stabbed a finger at the busted carcass of the Rubik's Cube. "That fuckin' thing! That fuckin' demon box! What took you so long, anyway?! Tell me you got the drugs," he said. "Jesus, at least tell me that." He was crazy, his eyes ranged all over the room. I sat him down on the couch while I prepared the shots. He tried to fix up himself but couldn't hit a vein. I had to do it for him. His eyes rolled back after the plunger dropped. He was out of it. Shitty. Drug-fucked. He looked like a baby, but a baby who'd been struck in the head with a rubber mallet. He gurgled. He drooled. He said: "This is good. This is good shit. I love this. I love it all. I love you, too. What was your name again? I love you."
Cool (Score:2)