My Lucky Star
Authors: Joe Keenan
Copyright © 2006 by Joe Keenan
Reading group guide © 2006 by Joe Keenan and Little, Brown and Company (Inc.)
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced,
distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a data base or retrieval system, without the prior written
permission of the publisher.
Back Bay Books / Little, Brown and Company
Hachette Book Group
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Originally published in hardcover by Little, Brown and Company, January 2006 First eBook Edition: November 2006
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and
not intended by the author.
ISBN: 978-0-316-01335-2
The Back Bay Books / Little, Brown and Company name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Contents
Author’s Notes and Acknowledgments
A conversation with Joe Keenan
Questions and topics for discussion
Applause for Joe Keenan’s
My Lucky Star
“Joe Keenan fills
My Lucky Star
with the kind of zany twists he perfected in
Frasier
.”
— Raven Snook,
Time Out New York
“Keenan’s comedy is of a high order . . . sophisticated, deliciously camp entertainment.”
—Kate Saunders,
The Times
“Part high satire, part
Will & Grace
, and part clue-sniffing Nick, Nora, and Nick.”
— Emily Gordon,
Newsday
“When you think page-turner, you probably think of a crime novel or a thriller. Or maybe a juicy tell-all biography. Now take
the suspense and gossip and stir in a good splash of laughs.
Voilà!
You have a novel by Joe Keenan. . . . The main attraction is Keenan’s seemingly bottomless inkwell of bons mots and witty
zingers. . . . Bring on the popcorn!”
—John Terauds,
Toronto Star
“Keenan’s command of the written word is as deft as the words he puts in other people’s mouths on TV. . . .
My Lucky Star
is a venomously funny autopsy of the hypocrisy and venality of Hollywood . . . the funniest novel of the year.”
— Ian O’Doherty,
Irish Independent
“Keenan clearly has been schooled in the Academy of Plot. . . . The novel is fueled by twists and turns, contrivances and
coincidences. There’s even a car chase.”
—Debra Weinstein,
Washington Post
“The Hollywood farce, with its made-up celebrities who are never quite as ridiculous as the real thing, is tricky to pull
off. But as a former head writer on
Frasier
, Keenan has the advantage of insider knowledge for this hilarious tale. . . . The manic twists and jibes at modern celebrity
are a delight.”
—Andrea Mullaney,
Scotland on Sunday
“There must be few if any novelists who can scatter showbiz-skewering jokes more lavishly over every page and paragraph, or
who are more adroit at plotting, piling twist upon twist. . . . Keenan makes a thing of beauty of what could have been tired
camp.”
— Gavin Borchert,
Seattle Weekly
“Keenan deftly guides us through the S-curves of Hollywood fortune with the aplomb of someone who knows that even the sturdiest-looking
facade is propped up with sticks.”
— Thane Tierney,
Bookpage
“What a succulent treat: this is a laugh-out-loud literary masterpiece.”
— Richard Labonte,
Between the Lines
“The urbane wit and high comedy of
Frasier
run like quicksilver through the veins of
My Lucky Star
. . . a delightful, feel-good, beautifully crafted romp.”
— David Phelan,
Independent on Sunday
“In Keenan’s Hollywood, blackmail, nepotism, and chutzpah are rewarded at least as regularly as tight buns and taut scripts.
On this sort of playing field, the graceful management of coincidence — otherwise known as timing—is everything. Keenan understands
that well.”
—Ariel Swartley,
Los Angeles Magazine
“Fantastic. . . . Keenan is unashamedly burlesque in his writing, which is thick with humor and a joy to read.”
— Rob Dawson,
Gay Times
“Peppered with witty one-liners. . . . Keenan’s twinkly prose keeps you firmly tethered to his
Lucky Star
. ”
—Joe Dziemianowicz,
New York Daily News
“A delight . . . relentlessly humorous. . . . Although Keenan’s sidesplitting writing is often compared to P. G. Wodehouse’s
. . . the wit is incredibly elegant and owes more than a little to Oscar Wilde and Ronald Firbank, with more subtle dashes
of the lyric agility of Noel Coward and Cole Porter.”
— Frederik Liljeblad,
Pages
“An uproarious satire on Hollywood life.
My Lucky Star
is a gift from the gods.”
— Kelly Apter,
The List
“
My Lucky Star
is madcap, charming, and hilarious. . . . Keenan’s in fine form here with both farce and wit.”
— Marilyn Dahl,
Shelf Awareness
“Witty, twisted, dry as a martini, and sporting more daringly stylish wrinkles than a Hollywood bad boy’s tuxedo after a long
night in questionable company,
My Lucky Star
lampoons the very excess in which it gleefully partakes, jumping from the lofty to the low and back again with easy abandon.”
—Kilian Melloy, AfterElton.com
“Joe Keenan’s novel has taken him two decades to complete, but it has been worth the wait. It’s a feisty, entertaining tale.”
—
Metro London
“The glamorous Hollywood novel gets a sharp send-up as a smart drawing-room comedy crossed liberally with farce. . . . The
witty banter, zany plot twists, and colorful, likable characters (even the dastardly villains) prove a delight for fans of
brainy comedy. If the ghost of Noel Coward isn’t pleased, Frasier’s is.”
—
Booklist
“A hilarious cast of writers, actors, agents, and hacks collide in vicious, psychotic, backstabbing, and back-scuttling mayhem
. . . fart-out-loud funny.”
—
Lads Mag
Also by Joe Keenan
Blue Heaven
Putting on the Ritz
For Chris and David Lloyd
I
T IS NEVER A HAPPY MOMENT
in the life of a struggling artist when some fresh assault on his fragile dignity compels him finally and painfully to concede
that Failure has lost its charm. He has up until this point soldiered bravely along, managing to persuade himself that there’s
something not merely noble but downright jolly about Struggle, about demeaning temp jobs, day-old baked goods, and pitchers
of beer nursed like dying pets into the night. He would, of course, grant that
la vie Bohème
with its myriad deprivations and anxieties was not an unalloyed delight. But whenever its indignities rankled unduly he could
console himself with his certainty that Bohemia was not, after all, his permanent address. Oh, no. His present charmingly
scruffy existence was a mere preamble to his real life, a larval stage from which he would soon gloriously emerge into the
sunshine of success. Its small embarrassments were, if anything, to be prized, not only for their lessons in humility but
for the many droll, self-deprecatory anecdotes they would later provide, stories he’d polish and trot out for parties, interviews,
and—why be pessimistic?—talk shows.
Then one day he is faced with some final affront, minor perhaps, but so symbolically freighted as to land on him with the
force of an inadequately cabled Steinway. He reels, stunned, and dark speculations, long and successfully repressed, rampage
through his mind. For the first time he allows himself to wonder if his life twenty years hence will be any different than
his present existence. “Of course it will be different,” coos the voice in his head. “You’ll be old.”
From this icy thought a short road leads to panic, and from panic to despair, self-pity, desperation, and, finally, Los Angeles.
M
Y OWN RUDE EPIPHANY
came a year ago last fall shortly after the closing of
Three to Tango,
a larky little comedy I’d written with my good friend and collaborator Claire Simmons. The play had been enthusiastically
received in a series of readings, stirring a cautious hope in Claire’s heart and extravagant optimism in my own. The production,
alas, was doomed from the start, owing chiefly to our producer’s decision to present the show in a small basement playhouse
that was as damp as Atlantis and harder to find. We tried to persuade him that the show might fare better in a space that
felt more like a theater and less like a hideout, but he felt confident that people would find us. People did not. We opened
in mid-September and by month’s end the play had closed and I was back to my day job, pounding the pavement as an outdoor
messenger for the Jackrabbit Courier Service.
You might suppose this experience would have left me a broken and bitter man, but on the day in question my mood was actually
pretty chipper. The autumn weather was brisk and lovely. The job, though lacking a certain prestige, allowed me to write much
of the day, and I’d just gotten an idea for a new comedy. Best of all, my chum Gilbert, whose consoling presence I’d sorely
missed during the deathwatch for my play, was due to return soon from Los Angeles. I’d been slightly miffed at his desertion
but couldn’t really blame him. His mother, Maddie, had recently snagged herself a rich Hollywood mogul, and Gilbert—who if
mooching were an Olympic sport would have his picture on Wheaties boxes—could not resist flying west to bond with the lovebirds
poolside. I looked forward to hearing of his romantic exploits, which, if the hints in his e-mails were any indication, would
give new life to the phrase “Westward Ho.” So buoyant in fact was my mood that I was even coping stoically with the news that
a musical penned by the loathsome Marlowe Heppenstall, my nemesis since high school, had opened to unfathomably kind reviews
and was looking like a major hit.
By late afternoon the benevolent sunshine had given way to darker skies and a sudden cloudburst forced me to sprint the six
blocks to my final destination, a Park Avenue law office. I raced into the building, ascended to the seventeenth floor, and
entered a spacious foyer, every mahogany-paneled inch of which bespoke the age and prosperity of the firm. The prim, bespectacled
woman at the desk glanced up and fixed me with that look of quizzical disdain legal receptionists have long reserved for dampened
members of the messenger class.
I removed from my satchel an envelope addressed to a Mr. Charles O’Donnell and marked PERSONAL. I presented this to the human
pince-nez, who gazed right past me and said, “Mr. O’Donnell, this just came for you.”
I turned. Walking toward us was an extremely handsome blond fellow about my age, dressed in a flawlessly tailored charcoal
pin-striped suit. He had wonderfully broad shoulders though I couldn’t say if this was the result of weight training or if
it was workout enough just lifting the massive Rolex and chunky gold cuff links that sparkled on his tanned wrists.
Reminding myself, as I need to at such moments, that this was not a movie and the fellow could
see
me, I tried not to stare too blatantly as I handed him the envelope. He took it, barely glancing at me, then did a little
double take as though he recognized me but wasn’t sure where from. He suddenly looked familiar to me as well. I wondered if
we’d shared some fleeting romantic liaison but immediately dismissed this notion as it hinged on the ludicrous premise that
I could have slept with such a man then forgotten him. I knew that if we’d dallied even once ten years ago, I’d still be mooning
over him and writing maudlin sonnets starting “If love, thou wouldst but phone me once again.”
His puzzled look morphed suddenly into a smile of delighted surprise.
“Phil?” he said. “Phil Cavanaugh?”
Light dawned.
“Oh my God! Chuck O’Donnell! How the hell are you?”
“I don’t believe this. It’s so great to see you!”
