Orson, I don’t want to lunch without you. Orson, you were just about to Tell me kiwis are always sliced too thin. Tell me controversial facts about Napoleon. And all dictators are 5’ foot 6.’’ And all tall men get depressed more than a little bit. Traffic is ruining the sex lives of the French. No one has the time anymore for the cinq a sept The gesture of dictatorship most don’t know who created it. Was it Demille or Griffith? Can’t prove it’s true, but can’t prove it isn’t. You think about the nature of art. And 18th century lapdogs were there to blame for your farts. Give me an opinion, like schools are opinion factories. You’re sick of the salad-based health movement of the 60’s. Sardinians stubby fingers, Bostonians have short necks. Hungarians you like to the point of sex. Marlene Dietrich played the saw. Gary Cooper turns you into a girl. Remember when you could stroll along the Seine. It was another world. Biographies focus fast on the things you can’t help. You believe everything bad that you read about yourself. Let’s order another. Don’t tell me it will end. Tell me how cities are declining because of shopping malls. Tell me women never feel any guilt at all. Tell me it was better in the old days. Tell me we can lunch forever. Don’t go. Stay, stay.

Picking up a pack of cigarettes from the corner store one day, In the summer of 1941, I spotted a cover of Life Magazine that took my breath away – A babe in a bikini, munching on a burger, glowing in the sun. At first I just saw the burger, and realized I hadn’t had lunch, But then I saw her smile, her legs, her ha-air. She looked so sexy pigging out, I suddenly had a hunch That’s that’s the girl whose life I’d like to share. I opened up the magazine to see what it would say And lo and behold, what did I find But the same girl kneeling on a bed, in a skimpy negligee And the way she raised her eyebrow made me nearly lose my mind. Within a year, that picture was pinned to every soldier’s bunk, Helping relieve the tensions of the war All those guys could do about it was jerk off their own junk, But I’m Orson Welles, I always aim for more! Oh, she’ll be my cover girl I’ll cover her with kisses, cover her with jewels, cover her with hugs like a bear Oh, my cover girl She’ll cover me with glamour, cover me with cleavage, cover me with long red flowing hair. Oh cover girl, be my lover girl, oh won’t you marry Everywhere I looked I saw more pictures of Rita But I heard she was still married to some schmuck Then I read that she was getting divorced – it was time to meet her Now all I needed was an invitation, my genius, and some luck. I found her at a party in a stunning strapless dress. I offered her a light, a drink, and my name. From the way she giggled at my jokes, I could tell she was impressed, Even though she’d never seen “Citizen Kane.” Before you knew it we were getting married by a judge - Not a very glamorous affair. I wore stripes and she wore a suit the color of caramel fudge But the photographers still ate it up – they didn’t seem to care.. I knew she came from Brooklyn, I knew she’d changed her name, I knew she’d dyed her hair to not look Spanish. She knew I was a bit of an ass, but she loved me just the same, And when I kissed those lips, my doubts would vanish. Cause I’ve got my cover girl She’s on the cover of Time, the cover of Photoplay, of course the cover of Life Oh, my cover girl I cover the world with envy because the cover girl’s my wife Oh, cover girl, you’re my lover girl, now you married… I didn’t want to buy a house, I didn’t want to be tied down, But she insisted so that’s what we got. I didn’t want a kid always crying and running round But I knocked her up when she dared me, “Are you a man or not?” She didn’t want to go to parties, she’d just stay home and bake But I wouldn’t let that stop me from going out. When I came home she’d never be sober, but always still awake, And when she saw me she would scream and shout Oh that’s my cover girl She covers up her past, covers up her drinking, covers up her insecurities. Oh, my cover girl I cover up my boredom, cover up my cheating, cover up my fear of obscurity. Oh cover girl, you cover girl, why did I marry… Well finally she had enough and she ran off with a prince - No really - the son of the Aga Khan. I didn’t cry, I didn’t scream, I didn’t even wince, I shot one final film with her and then I just moved on. She lost her prince, she lost her looks, she lost her battle with temptation She even lost her mind before she died. I gained a couple hundred pounds and a terrible reputation As a guy who couldn’t finish a film on budget if he tried. So I watch old movies on TV, And I tell old stories at lunch, And I try to recover the glory days, And I try to recover the joy, And I try… to… Recover the girl - Recover the way she made me feel, recover the part of us that was real From the cover girl, Oh cover girl, Oh my cover girl, death is scary!

Wait until I die They'll tell all kinds of stories I'd hear them from my grave And wouldn't recognize me I've spent so much time Playing myself They won't know who is who Henry ill lunch with you I half want the world to know me Over a boef au jus I'll tell you stories But before I order Henry hide your recorder As we chew our food I'll tell you who screwed who Whoooo Whoooo Whoooo I'm Orson Welles

Where do you go when you’ve made Citizen Kane At the ripe old age of 25 It’s no wonder you ran off to Brazil Got really fat and sold cheap wine In F is for Fake You say every story Is pretty much a lie You then with respect Are a master of deceit a master of disguise If you want a happy ending That depends on where you stop your story Me, I started at the top And I’ve been working my way down Such a long way down It’s a long way down Judging by your lunches with Henry Jaglom And the War of the Worlds, You knew how to spin a yarn And had a certain way with words Here are some of my favorite Things that you said in this book “The Blue Ange is a big piece of schlock painted on velvet like you buy in Honolulu” “Irene Dunn was such a good fucking Catholic that I wanted to kick her in the crotch” War of the Worlds Is why we have station identifications So that you know that creepy guy walking across your field Isn’t an alien Is just a regular serial killer If you want a happy ending That depends on where you stop your story Me, I started at the top And I’ve been working my way down Such a long way down It’s a long way down

You’re not normal That’s your gravest sin You are the dancing bear and Forfeit the games you win You’re a lover A real amateur You embrace what you don’t know To know, you can’t be sure believe your myth, you are the holy raconteur Labyrinthine mind your curse You are the unfulfilled promise This reel doesn’t play in reverse you made you, a very fine friend you played you, to the bitter end no cheap disguises no compromises your heart problems you wore them out and in fall asleep, in your company ­­the dream, unlimited you’re no exception ­­­a pauper and poet you are an empty church filled by the light in it like the moon, always changing reflects, never quite tells the truth the only place we are truly free searching, searching, searching since youth you made you, a very fine friend you played you, to the bitter end no cheap disguises no compromises no compromises

In Majorca or San Tropez, where the finest people go to play or better yet, a dictatorship in Central America with a revolution in it: Two cities on the island: one, a port, the other, a resort. The kind of people there: everybody who is anybody anybody who is everybody's anybody's everybody are there. A small black boy in orange shorts carries water down with coconut clumps The presidential candidate suns on the fold back chair on the white beach front His naked mistress, pressed breasts, on the phone, another boy spreads lotion on her butt's bronze glow tone.Some synthesized salsa speaks from the cabana columns through the palm trees. Deep inside is Dan, the hotel pianist, down for the winter to get a tan and improve his Spanish And upstairs the honeymoon Marxists cocoon in their room all day long. At night they walk to the other town to see the movies. They're the only white people around. When they return, we and the others note what they had done. And the lovely lady who's just come down is Lola, my dear wife. Tomorrow she's scheduled her first polo lesson at 4:45. I miss the occupation. The classy gangster is a Hollywood creation. And the Eiffel Tower is the last great work of the age of Iron. Last week they burned down the most remote resort town, the militia has started swaggering, my daughter was caught daggering with the locals. So we locked her in her room, as she requested, and we talked with the guests around the card table about Scuba, France, Hungarians, and the presidential candidate's stances, and the Irish girls answered: “If you walk on stilts, you still walk on your feet. If you sit on the higher throne, you still sit on your own ass.” So fast, the ship comes now to take the tall people out. You know there's never been a tall dictator before. The tall melancholic freaks speak slowly and endure the short ones' delusions of grandeur. And again, I remark to Lola, as a consolation, “Polo, Cowboys, and classy gangsters are Hollywood creations. Aristocrats have no nation. Polo, Cowboys, and classy gangsters are Hollywood creations. Aristocrats have no nation. I miss the occupation. I miss the occupation. I miss the occupation. The sun descends, the fires and gun shots reach the shores we've pushed away, and we hear the Irish girls spit and say, “A star is something you fall in love with.”

Oh, when I was a boy, Nothing gave me more joy Than watching a Chaplin flick; If I was sad or in pain, His mustache and his cane Cheered me up like a magic trick. I adore him with force, an’ I said so to Orson, But what he answered made me sick: He said, "Chaplin had gagmen, "Believe me, it's true," And now I don't know what to do. "He didn't write his own gags!?" I said, "You're kidding me, Orse!" He said, "I'm telling you, Jags, He's not the one to endorse; His legend collapses if you just compare him to Keaton." And I crumpled back in my chair, utterly beaten. I got out my old tapes, But those crazy escapes And those tumbles left me cold; And as the video played, I just sat there dismayed At the stories that Orson told; Now those wonderful jokes Feel like part of a hoax My childhood self was sold; ‘Cause if Chaplin had gagmen, And nobody knew, Then I could be Chaplin, And you could be too; If Chaplin had gagmen, I guess that it’s true… That Chaplin was human too.

A professional turns up on Wednesday afternoons An amateur, however, is a lover If you don't get want you want, do you go ahead with the picture What do you want to be, what kind of failure We come in with only our overnight bags and go out with nothing Listen I want to tell you I want to tell you something If you build a monument when you are young Eventually they're gonna bury you under it I cannot swear that it's true I cannot swear that it's true Do you remember what the Seine was like when you could stroll along it Another great place to take the wrong girl There are more clairvoyants in Paris than any city in the world Four clairvoyants for every doctor We come in with only our overnight bags and go out with nothing Listen I want to tell you I want to tell you something You can walk around on stilts But you're still walking on your feet I cannot swear that it's true I cannot swear that it's true You have to be prepared for any situation When you run your rough cut for the critics Extraordinary people with their gargoyle laugh Like creatures on the front of a cathedral We come in with only our overnight bags and go out with nothing Listen I want to tell you I want to tell you something You're finally here at the end of the world And there is nothing here I cannot swear that it's true I cannot swear that it's true I cannot swear that it's true

I celebrate us with my heart. The Love of us expressed through my art. The life affirming part of art is what astounds me. I'm fueled by the way you feel it. it's different from the way I perceive it And some times I just don't believe it But it still astounds me. "This epic chant." "This gaiety." "This grandchoiring shout of affirmation." "To testify to what we had it in us to accomplish." "Be of good heart", cries the dead art. From the living top 40 art charts. Along with the daily art that didn't chart ... it all astounds me. it 's what astounds me It still astounds me.