Saturday, March 31, 2007

Identikit Crisis

So... It seems I have fended off what had the potential to be a full-blown nervous breakdown, if you were curious. Earlier today, I was hungry, angry, lonely and tired... This condition is best demonstrated by Dame Elizabeth Taylor in this crazy ass clip from "The Driver's Seat" aka "Identikit."

I certainly didn't ask for a stain resistant dress, but I could use a more stain resistant heart...

I strolled down Ventura Boulevard, thinking about my life as it is today. I stopped into a pet store, lured by the aquariums, and stood watching a nervous little bottom-feeder. What was he so nervous about? It seemed as if he were about to jump out of the tank. That's when I noticed the aquariums other occupant: a shark. Albeit, a small shark, but a toothy monster, nonetheless. I don't think the shark was interested in eating him. The store owners know which fish can tank together without killing each other, right? Enthralled by the drama, I watched as the shark got closer and closer to the sucker, then he suddenly turned and swam the other way. There would be no bloodshed here. I bid the pair farewell and carried on my way.

At the new age bookstore I saw a sign for psychic readings, so I figured... Why not? I've been to psychics before and was impressed at the wisdom you can buy for twenty dollars and fifteen minutes of your life. This lady was good. I won't go into what she told me, as it was private and none of your business. It was mostly stuff I already knew, but as I was leaving she felt compelled to add: "Here is what you don't know about yourself... You are not some beat-up old jalopy. Darling, you are a Bentley! Stop selling yourself for five dollars!" I have heard this metaphor before, it has to do with self-worth and in some ways I'm inclined to agree. I'm very expensive, like white diamonds...

Here's a little word of advice: If you should ever want to take this Bentley for a test drive, make sure you can afford to buy it. Otherwise, you are doing us both a disservice. And yes, when I orgasm, I orgasm... Maybe it's time for a diet.


Charlie has this sign on his refrigerator that says: "H.A.L.T. Don't get too Hungry, Angry, Lonely, or Tired" It's a recovery slogan, designed to help keep life in balance. Here is my problem.

I'm Hungry. I have a profound need for love. To be loved, to give love, to fill the hole deep inside of me. Are desire and hunger so different? Looking back at the choices I have made in my life, I am starving.

I'm Angry. I am angry at myself for the choices I have made. I am angry about the hand I've been dealt. I am angry that there is nothing I can do to control certain situations. I feel helpless.

I'm Lonely. Which also feeds the anger. Who could love me? I feel desperately alone in this world sometimes. I have so much love to give. I want someone who is man enough to accept it.

I'm Tired. At the end of it all, I'm just really tired of it all. I'm tired of being hungry, lonely and angry. I keep trying to think of good reasons to stick around. And just when I think I've found it, it's taken away. The universe says: "Here. Isn't this great? Isn't it exactly what you wanted? But NO! It's not for you!"

I feel like Nancy Spungeon right now.

Monday, March 26, 2007

The Daily Grind

Sometimes I miss being human.

Usually, though, I am tethered to humanity through a vast and intricately powerful set of emotions. I cycle through as if nothing is wrong. Pedal, pedal, petal...


A pretty yet quite obese cashier calls up the next customer in line, a young black buck with some toiletries and a copy of MAXIM with an anorexic bleached blond filleted on the cover.

I wonder what she did in a past life to look like that in this one?

The black buck just shrugs, pays and leaves.

I contemplate her question for a moment before stepping up to cash out myself.

It must have been something bad.

Then I smiled at her. A gentle, genuine smile, as if to say: You are prettier far than she.

The cashier twitched slightly before ringing me out. She did not return my smile.
C'est la vie...

Petal, petal, petal... HE LOVES ME!

A dinner party was dramatically cut short when two of the guests retired to another room. Moments later, one emerges, enraged, panting and hungry for escape. Then came the screams. Yes, a lover's quarrel gone horribly wrong. The bloodied party screamed: "He hit me!"

My answer?
"Yes, but darling... Did it feel like a kiss?"

Surgery was performed in sobriety, the following day.

Petal, petal, petal... HE LOVES ME NOT!

We don't have to do this, but it feels so good. Like teenagers, we can hardly stop...
"You don't have to swallow that if you don't want to..."

Petal, petal, petal... HE LOVES ME!

As I tear the petals away, I confess that these stories have been edited, quite extensively in some cases, but are, nonetheless, true, true, true... Like reality television, the atomic age and death. We all get along somehow, don't we?

If you have an axe, by all means... GRIND IT!

Sunday, March 18, 2007

Our Father's Sequins

I hung out with my new friend Charlie yesterday. He had an itch for adventure and thought I might like to join him. I had an itch myself, so I complied. We met up and hit the road for our destination: The Reagan Library in Simi Valley. On the way we stopped off at a privately owned public sanctuary called Gardens of the World, which was a pleasant surprise. We strolled through a Japanese garden, complete with asian teenagers reading Joseph Heller. Then we found ourselves in a California style mission that reminded me of the set of a Salma Hayek movie. The place is quite compact and beautiful, though not everything is blooming quite yet. Maybe we'll return in a month to see the English Roses in full effect.

By this time, we were starving. So, we stopped off at a little Mexican place for some spicy duck tacos. It was good, but I could hardly tell the difference between duck and chicken. I remembered the time Roman Coppola sent me on a mission to find him a baby duck for a commercial shoot we were working on. Needless to say, baby ducks don't exactly grow on trees in the greater Los Angeles area, so I got him a lobster instead. Anyway, after lunch we hit the freeway again and finally arrived in Simi Valley.

The Reagan Library isn't a library so much as it is a giant monument to all things Reaganesque, and as we heard a young boy, much to his father's dismay, put it: "Fabulous!" The museum starts out with a collection of red dresses, worn by the various First Ladies of recent years. Charlie and I were surprised to find that the best of the lot belonged to Betty Ford. Who knew? Next up was an exhibition called "Gifts to the President", a large hall filled with an astonishing number of bizarre gifts given to Ronnie whilst in office. This was the beginning of what we would soon realize was the museum of 90,000 chachkis. Rhinestone beltbuckles (about 200), statues, paintings, saddles, portraits, knives, guns, quilts, big leather "artwork", etc.

We were quickly overwhelmed by the sheer number of insignificant crap, so we made our way into the hall of history, where various displays take you on a virtual tour of Reagan's life. Charlie pointed out that they was only one small picture of Jane Wyman (the first wife) and their two kids. The paint was worn off from people pointing to the names and, I imagine, saying: "See, I told you...." I quite enjoyed the Assassination Room, admiring the x-ray of the president's chest. For all the bullshit that the Reagan era represented to me at the time, it hardly compares to where we are today. In a strange way, it made me miss Ronnie a bit... Yeah, the Cold War ended, the Wall came down, but Jane Wyman wasn't the only thing oddly missing from the museum. Charlie said he wanted to write in the guest book: "What about AIDS?" On second thought, I don't miss Ron that much.

Towards the end of the tour, you can have your photo taken boarding Air Force One. We politely declined. The plane was not as fabulous as I had expected, as well as being historically inaccurate. There, in plain view, was a Vogue magazine with Catherine Zeta-Jones on the cover. Shame on you, Reagan Library! That bitch was an amoeba in the eighties! Then again, weren't we all? After that, we dropped by the Oval Office, noted the vast number of Jelly Beans available at the gift shop and stopped by the grave. I'm not sure he's actually buried there, but a headstone exists, on an ugly little monument next to a garden donated by Merv Griffin. It was cold, windy and depressing, so we decided to hit some of the local thrift shops before heading home.

Charlie found a few treasures, but I was not so lucky. Was there nothing for me in the Simi Valley? I had chachkis burnout. Charlie showed me a sequin jacket and said: "These could very well be my father's sequins." That got me thinking about my own history, heritage and legacy. What would fill the halls in the museum of my own life? I suppose I need to start collecting rhinestone belt buckles right away. I've got some catching up to do...