Boy meets girl. Boy (really a man-boy) negotiates the messy convolutions of his own desire (or more often his New Yorker Dyspepsia) by engaging in that writer-ly occupation of supplanting his psyche into the imagined psyche of an other, namely famed comedian, humorist, white-haired model of amiability Steve Martin. Boy by way of Steve Martin charms girl. Boy eventually becomes disillusioned with role playing and loses girl. Along the way Boy has kinky escapades, eat lots of lengua tacos, gets to know LA from the sidewalk up, engages in tidy and tiny moments of cinephilia, eventually attains a state of grace, a second-sight, having broken into new forays of time-space via the black hole of his own navel. If Camus tried to write broad comedy maybe it would be nothing like this.

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