The Freelantzovitz Files

The Diary of Josh Freelantzovitz of Park Slope, Brooklyn

MONDAY Drafted cover letter: "Dear Mr. Murdoch: Whether it's television, film, print, the Net, or other new media, you have proven to be a visionary. My name is Josh Freelantzovitz, and I am a visionary, too. Once our visions are married, there will be no stopping us. To that end, I want you to appoint me director of new media for the News Corporation. I am uniquely qualified, having created the unofficial Janeane Garofalo home page, written three unproduced screenplays, and contributed articles on a freelance basis to such publications as George, The Boston Phoenix, Wesleyan magazine, and The Tidings, the newsletter of Temple Ohabei Shalom in Brookline, Massachusetts. Please contact me at once so that we may plan the 21 st century together." Decided to leave out the stuff about my 1,600-page memoir manuscript and the demo tape I cut with my band, Automatic Drip—didn't want to seem like I was overselling myself.

TUESDAY Took laptop to Ozzie's to burnish Rupert letter. Added a zinger sentence: "I am your ideal partner, with all the juice of a young Steve Chao." Faxed it to Rupert's office. Tinkered with letter and made an alternative version for Ted Turner, substituting "Amy Pascal" for "Steve Chao." Faxed again. Later, checking fax log, realized I'd sent Turner letter to Murdoch's number. Aaarghl

WEDNESDAY Swiftly rebounded from the Rupert-Ted debacle with a brilliant brainstorm for a hot story: there haven't been many articles on heroin chic, have there? Faxed story proposal to Esquire, The New York Times Magazine, and The New Republic, then began reporting. Left six messages with Irvine Welsh's publicist. Posted a message to the Stone Temple Pilots newsgroup requesting info on Weiland's progress in rehab. Took F train to Broadway-Lafayette stop, then waited outside Lou Reed's office for eight hours to see if I could get a comment—no Lou, but I saw Laurie Anderson go in holding a falafel. Cool!

THURSDAY There is a God! Fax on News Corporation letterhead came in this A.M., saying Rupert got my letter, didn't have new-media position available, but suggested I was just the type of young "content provider" needed to write articles for the new Sunday edition of the New York Post! Called the editor, told him Rupert recommended me, asked about benefits and 401 (k) and when I should start. He told me the best he could do for me was $50 to do a roundup of the best spots for kissing in Murray Hill. I was, like, what?

FRIDAY Bummer: still no return calls or faxes or E-mails from anyone on heroin-chic story. Then, a thought: Wouldn't it be cool to "score" some "junk" myself and write about it? Took F train to East Village and asked the first dealer I saw in Tompkins Square Park if he had the kind that killed the guy from the Smashing Pumpkins. He said I was lucky because he had one last packet, which I could have for $250, including syringe. Went to the cash machine.

SATURDAY Floating ... weightless ... shhhhhhhhiver... the dark ... the cold dark ... THE BLACK ANGEL ... AIEEEEEEEEEE!

SUNDAY Mom's down from Brookline with a shrink and her friend Myrna. When I didn't show for brunch at New Prospect Cafe, my friend Caitlin ran over to my apartment, jimmied the lock, and found me in my underwear, drooling and catatonic. The medics called my parents, who had to be paged out of a Yo-Yo Ma concert. My brother Joel called from L.A., says Dad wants to ship me to Hazelden for detox. Hey—could be a hot Details story! E-mailed proposal to Joe Dolce while Mom thought I was sleeping ...