The following is a work of fiction.

Not Nick Nolte's Diary, Malibu, California
November 13, 2004


During breakfast today, Manolo interrupted a decent script and announced Henry James was on the phone. Given the author's current condition, I knew my help was mistaken, but I indulged for more than a moment in a fantasy conversation with him. Well by the time I had gotten to the kitchen phone, I was all worked up about the mystery. Always knowing who you're about to talk to when you pick up the phone is a luxury I could do without. Anyway, my hopes were dashed when I found out it was just that used book store on Sawtelle calling about a first edition James Jones. I returned to the script but it had cooled about as quickly as my Kiwi and Gentian root smoothie had warmed in the sun.

[signed] Nick

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