Production Number

So I am in the office today, toiling away as usual, when lovely young Katherine trots by and stops dead in her tracks to ask me: "What products are you using?"

I think to myself, What products aren't I using?, before raising one eyebrow in the traditional "Excuse me?" gesture. Katherine surveys the landscape of my face and announces: "You look so young! Not that you didn't before, but... You didn't. What happened?"

Indeed. What has happened to the OLD ME? Somehow I always knew that when I hit thirty-five, I would go completely out of my mind and now it has happened. Oh, I've been out of my mind so very many times that it was hardly a stretch to imagine my renewed interest in my own aging body. Getting older is truly a fascinating, horrifying process and since it is something we all have to do, I suppose I should get used to it. I just can't understand why hair suddenly decides to grow out of an ear?

I really like the fact that I not only joined a gym, but that I have gone there to workout almost every day since. I don't really care that teenage boys stare, slack-jawed, as I struggle with fifty pounds. "I have never lifted weights in my life!" I tell them. "I do yoga..." And then I considered adding that I can suck my own dick to see if that would shut them up, but instead I just went upstairs to fight with the stupid TreadClimber, which I decided is twice the workout and twice the trouble. Fuck that machine, man. I can fall on my ass tripping over shoelaces! I can't, by the way, suck my own dick if you are still thinking about that. I find it helpful to have a specific goal in mind when practicing yoga.

So, there is that, and the beach trips this summer, which gave me a lovely glow... Also, the fact that I no longer live in a tiny studio, all alone, probably contributes to the youthful, fresh appearance I seem to be emitting. I thought about telling Katherine any number of these things, but in the end, I resorted to a fairly uninspired answer to her products question: "Mainly, I smoke a lot and jerk off to The Machinist." Katherine blinked several times before scampering back to her desk. Oh, well. She's not really my type anyway.

I actually like lots of things about getting older. First of all, I know more from experience. Hopefully, I am getting smarter as well as hairier and more bitter. I think that I am, but what do I know? I've got all kinds of products to apply, hair to remove and loves to forget. I should get going on that.

Five! Six! Seven! Eight!

Kiss Me Deadly

I watched Woody Allen's Match Point last night and now I feel all dirty. It's a rather stale plot, involving a cute tennis player, his ultra-rich and dowdy fiancee and Scarlett Johansson as the blonde femme fatale that tempts him. I felt like I knew what was coming, but was compelled to keep watching as the characters descend into hysterical behaviour of the worst kind. I almost wish Woody would remake the film as a comedy, like he did in that other one with Will Ferrell. Only this time, he should call it: "Woody Allen's Do The Right Thing."

In the end, that's what it boils down to. Morality. Justice. Obligation. I hate that shit. It's like when someone tells me to keep it simple. I don't think many things in this life are simple. Ignorance may be bliss, but that train left the station without me. I'm just hanging out on the platform, all complicated and shit. Someone might take pity on me and hand me a Diet Coke, but it won't help. I have a thirst for all things complex and weird. That's why I like Bjork. It also accounts for the fact that I fully expect to see an ex-lover on television in handcuffs with the headline: Serial Killer Caught! No one is particular, I'm just saying that it wouldn't surprise me.

What Are You Lookin' At?

Happy Anniversary, Darling!

While You're On Your Knees is officially one year old. The self-portrait above is in tribute to Self Portrait As, a bloody brilliant blog by my dear friend Holly, who is responsible for talking me into the blogesphere in the first place. So, if you like what you read here... Please barrage Holly with unnecessary and annoying comments about me. NOT! Because the world revolves around me, I need you to keep the unnecessary and annoying comments coming HERE, even though I have been a rather shitty blogger lately. My life changed substantially in the last year and even more in the last few months, so cut me a break, okay?

It seems like only yesterday that I wanted to pet every monster that I met. Love, truly, is the danger for me and the ultimate undoing. I only want to be loved, but who could love one with such a soiled and sordid past? I shall tell you who... No one and so I gave myself a new name with which to curse the ungrateful masses.

I feel like a ghost, walking through a crime scene. I am a figment of JT Leroy's imagination. Like Jackie, in the end I realized that I had to save myself or enlightenment would never come. Oh, I tried many vices and devices to help me along the way, but I was never a good liar. Bullshit, sure, I am full of that... But honest-to-goodness lying just gets you into the frying pan and that's one place I hope I never have to go.

Like the time I was so rude to some dumb bitch at the grocery store... Actually, that is so very politically incorrect of me. Let me try again: Like the time I was so fucking rude to some dumb bitch at the grocery store, Ma'am, I apologize. I appreciate the game you are playing, but I will not play along. Here, have a lullaby, I've got a prescription.

It wasn't until about June that I started losing my religion in a real and major way. Not my religion exactly, it was more like losing my mind. I started hanging out with imaginary friends with even bigger problems than my own. June is also my birth month. I hate my birthday because I really resent being born in the first place. I didn't get half the shit I ordered and the box it came in was simply wrong. I thought a lot about how much I relate to William H. Macy's character in Magnolia and how very sad that is.

So, I decided that if I didn't want to resign myself to a life on Magnolia Boulevard (where I actually used to live), where I only had to answer to monsters, I had to change. I moved into a bigger apartment and became a bigger bitch, just ask JR, he'll tell you the simple truth. But I don't want to live the simple life anymore. I want everyone to see, hear, touch and smell... That's right smell how fucking fabulous I am! I want it all and I want it now! But if I am going to end up like that nasty little cunt in the Chocolate Factory, I'm going to need some time to think.

While I am thinking, I hope you take the time to peruse the links I have provided here. Just to review exactly what you are looking at, who I am and possibly who you are, too. Thank you to all the dear, sweet, blogger friends I have made over the last year. Without you, darlings, I am nothing...

Much Love and Blessings,
Saviour Onassis

Mental Health

Yeah, I got Xanax. I also got a gym membership, so get your filthy mind out of the gutter. I've been working out everyday and soon, a new craze will sweep the planet..."Snakes On My Bod"... What do you think? I guess I just got tired of feeling like my life is a sequel to Frances.

It was this (little) breakdown I was having because I project and it's bad or something. Bad for the environment, or the species, I don't really remember. But the point is, and I do have one... I tend to transfer emotional seedlings into unwelcoming soil. I have done it time and again, with very little luck. Now, I have the good fortune to be blessed by the memory of past mistakes. And no, it's not fun. Let's eat, shall we?

Should I make my famous guacamole? I just happen to have two ripe avocados right here. No, it's no problem. I live to serve. No really, I do. Nothing makes me happier than being your handmaiden. Can you hand me that knife? At your beck and call, that's me. Ready, willing and able...

So, if it's satisfaction you want... It would behoove you to look elsewhere. Saints and sinners rejoice! The time for a mighty uprising is at hand. Just wait til my Viagra where's off and I will show you the what's what. We now, I say, we now return you to your regularly scheduled program:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

And Back Again

After temporarily losing my mind, I am back. Turns out, it was nothing a little Xanax couldn't fix.

Suspicious Minds

I don't trust my own mind these days, so I am opening the floor to you, dear friends. This is the first of several headlines meant to generate some discussion. I shall try to participate, but as I said, I'm sort of losing it right now. The saboteur is in full effect and I don't like it. Is it possible not to destroy the ones you love?

SO JEALOUS

I don't want to be part of the problem but I can see that it's me, not you, not ever, and so I beat myself up again. I try so hard to get roughed up, fucked up in a sea of never ending agony and defeat. It's a no win situation, fists on up. Like the way it looks that easy on TV, in the movies... Confidence runs wild, yeah, it looks that way to me. But I'm a fool for trying, it looks that way to you, doesn't it? Or am I missing something. I'm missing everything, but then there's you telling me I can. And it kills me, you know that it does. Everytime, a little more...Then there's you screaming say something, say anything. Just don't wait until you're halfway through the door before asking me.
I want the ocean right now and I don't care how deep I go. If I drown, then what I've lost might get found. I guess I want the ocean right now. I'll call it that because of what I can't admit.

I get so jealous that I can't even work, think, breathe without being aware of what you have that I will never. I have to wake up to me. There I am. There I am in the morning and baby, I don't like what I see. Reflections betray and I want what I haven't got. I don't know how it's become such a problem, but it has. It's something I have to do. I'll try not to keep you up all night. I'll try not to feel the way I do. Maybe I can, if I try to remain calm, detached, cool like Fonzie. I just wish it didn't hurt so much. How can they ask why I feel so angry? So betrayed, so messed up. Do you see my problem? I should only get what I deserve, what I ask for is apparently too much if I never explain it.

But then there's you asking me how long and I don't know how to answer. How long until you stop asking me to say something? It's taken me so long to get here. I don't want to go back. I just wish it didn't hurt so much to hear about your love. I'm not listening anymore.

Hot Pants

JR seems to think that my difficulty in attracting a mate stems from my pants. Or rather, from the fact that I still have and wear pants that are left over from when I was larger. Now, these garments tend to bunch up around my waist when belted. This is not a look I am particularly proud of, but shit... Pants are expensive.

"Throw away your fat pants," JR chimes on a regular basis, and part of me wants to. Another part of me fears gaining back a bunch of weight and not having enough denim to cover my ass. What's a boy to do? I have started to emulate JR and even bought some of the trendy, tighter jeans that he is so fond of sporting. I also fear looking desperate, which is silly because I am, essentially, desperate. But to dress like my roommate, who is almost ten years younger than me, seems wrong. There are certain things that I am positive I can no longer get away with, like tragically ripped jeans. The kind of pants that have seen many, many floors. When JR wears these, I call them his "slut pants." Because they reveal far more than they conceal and almost dare anyone who gazes upon them, to rip them off JR and make him their bitch. Hey, maybe he'll let me borrow them... Nah, like I said, it might be too desperate.

I can't help but think that there is something more than just my ill-fitting pants that keeps men from approaching me. Maybe I am wrong, but are gay men really that shallow? I guess I know the answer to that one, having once broken up with a guy because his favorite movie starred Diana Ross, and I'm not talking about Lady Sings the Blues or Mahogany. I like to think that I am open to things. If, for instance, my dream guy had to love an icon from days gone by, I would happily accept Pam Grier or Tina Turner. Both of them look great in hot pants. But the fucking WIZ?!?!? C'mon, already!

The last thing I had resembling a relationship was a fuckbuddy for several years. His name was Jon, another in a very long list. Jon was a film editor, a little thick and was rocking a severe combover that I found endearing. But, alas, all strange things cum to an end and we never saw each other again. Except once, at Starbucks where he chose to ignore me. It didn't help that I chased him through the parking lot, screaming: "That's right, asshole! Run away! And next time you bring someone back a souvenir from Amsterdam, make sure it comes with a fucking vaccine! Shithead!"

Maybe I should just go shopping.

Fresh Baked

I baked some of those Toll House cookies tonight. I was craving comfort food, okay? Sue me. I just really wanted something sweet and hot. Just a morsel, a taste... Sometimes I get that from Mitch, but lately he says I am too emotional. Or "hormonal", as he puts it... I hope I'm not pregnant again. Child-proofing is such a pain in the ass, you know?

Some people say "Just Write"
And I do.
Sometimes I don't tell the truth
And that's okay.
Sometimes you don't believe it.

Still, it's about the baking. Domestic and yet completely unfulfilled, I fear I've become my own worst nightmare. Am I a desperate housewife? Do I have a nudity clause that is holding me back from being all that I can? Will I always resent those bitches in Agrestic? Yes, yes, yes! There is nothing quite a freshly baked morsel melting on your tongue.

Unfruitful

In my quest for new ways to torture myself, I have placed several personal ads up in various places around the web. This is supposed to help me find a date, which I cannot seem to accomplish without venturing into parts of the city that depress me and by the time I get there, I'm so morose that finding someone for romance or even conversation becomes an impossibility. I thought that online dating would be a good way to weed out the undesirables without leaving the house. So far, I haven't had any luck.

One of the interesting things that personal ads offer is the opportunity to say that all your vices are done "socially." Drinking, smoking, drugs, and such can be listed as "Socially Only." Who smokes socially? That seems weird and a sort of denial to me. But after some thought, I decided that I, too, have only social vices. The only reason I do these things alone is due to my violently anti-social tendencies.

Yet, I am the type of person who dreams scenarios like this: I am at a party. I am under dressed and not nearly witty enough for the room. The one pop culture reference I make falls flat and the party guests all frown in disapproval. Note to self: Stop mentioning Courtney Love. I notice a server walking by with a tray full of pistols. I grab one and pop it in my mouth like an hors d'oeuvre and pull the trigger.

Any bits of advice on how to trap a man would be greatly appreciated. I am afraid my methods have proven "unfruitful."

Candles and Kind

I was trying to think of an excuse to throw a party. Searching for a reason to entertain, it occurred to me that moving into a new apartment might be reason enough. This is my new home and I really want to celebrate. The only thing that scares me about having a "moving in" party is that people might bring me house-warming presents, which is fine. But I don't really trust anyone else's idea of what I might like. Most of the people I know have horrid taste. But there is one house warming gift that I do find charming, no matter who the giver is: candles. I love candles, love the look, love the flame, love the aromatherapy... So, I asked Mitch what he thought of my throwing a "Candles Only House Warming."

"Funny you should ask," said Mitch. "I happen to know someone who did the exact same thing." Mitch was serious and in a storytelling mood. "Her name was Nina and she had just moved into a new apartment in Silver Lake. Nina was a massage therapist and kind of a hippy chick, so she insisted on candles. Like you, she had already established herself in town and had no use for another blender or what the hell it is that people give when someone rents a new hole... Anyway, the party was cool. Lots of freaky people showed up and they all brought candles, candle-holders, lighters, incense, all that shit. Nina was stocked. That bitch had more wax than the Wax Museum!"

At this point, Mitch started fumbling around for a cigarette. I watched him, fascinated by his inability to talk and smoke at the same time. He lit a cigarette and looked up at me. "What?"

"I'm fascinated by your inability to smoke and talk at the same time." I replied.

"Ha ha," said Mitch. "You're so funny!"

"Sarcasm is as attractive as leprosy, asshole. Tell me what happened with Nina."

"What do you think happened? She burnt up."

"Huh?"

"Yeah. The night after the big house party, Nina lit a shitload of candles. Then she smoked a bowl and ran a bath. After her bath, she got out of the tub and slipped, knocked over a table full of candles, hit her head and died in the fire. Her whole place went up really fast, at least according to the arson report."

"You read that?"

"I was undercover at the time." Somehow, I knew better than to pursue the conversation at that point. And I knew that I wouldn't be throwing a candle themed party any time soon. Mitch's little story served it's purpose and now I am totally freaked out about lighting candles. I guess I am safe, as long as I don't go for the Oprah perfect bath. Candles and Kind do not mix. Then again, maybe Nina should have let people give whatever they wanted to. Maybe she would have received a bath mat or a sprinkler system.

Over The Rimbaud

I'm thinking that HELL is so last season, it's passe and darling... I'm not buying it anymore. Tired of feeling sorry, sordid and translucent, I vow from this moment forth to... to... Well, the important thing is that I feel better.

I suspect that I am highly allergic to celebrities. Meeting Paris Hilton last week really did a number on me. It wasn't the same reaction I had to meeting say, The Goo Goo Dolls or Courtney Love, but it was still bad. Maybe it's the fact that I feel like I am miscast in these scenes. Shouldn't they be asking me for my autograph? Shouldn't I be the one awkwardly accepting strange gifts? Shouldn't I be fucking famous by now?

Yes, yes, yes. But for now, I am over the Rimbaud. Starfuckers of the world, unite and take over. I have to pee.

Life Springs Eternal

I had a horrible night. Just tragic...

Yes, I made some poor choices.

But when allegiances were challenged, I lost.

I won't be going out again anytime soon.

My heart can't take it.

I had a really bad asmtha attack this morning while cleaning up the shit and vomit.

I feel too fragile for this world.

That's all.

Trust Overfull & The Will of Man

I feel like a tiger with a steak lying just outside my cage.

Transitional mourning aside. These are the days of beer and poses, laid to waste on eyes too young and hearts too bruised. And I do say "Fuck You" for turning off the Air Con. This is the Valley, for Christ's sake, not Venice Beach. I struggled all afternoon to just do laundry. It was a bore.

If it's a crutch you want, a crutch you will receive. If it is pain you crave, then pain is what you'll bleed. I was never into "disco" for disco's sake. It was that damn Japanese wine that did me in. In all my dying, I have never once felt like silencing myself like I do now. Like I do now... See, it was the approach that caused the plane to crash. It was the intention behind those lying eyes. It was the juicy wet youth of the moment. It was and will never be. It isn't, anymore.

There was a time when I could have happily taught English to Aliens. But that, too, is gone. Daddy, it's gone. Go on and do it. See if I care. See how much I don't. See Dick. Run. If at first you don't succeed. Add a houseguest to the mix and stir. Sure, I've got a thousand dollars and not a shred of dignity. Three percent body fat doesn't impress me nearly as much as Charlie Bukowski, who always seemed so fragile. So about to break, that I broke my piggy bank as a boy and sent every red cent to Chinaski, care of Charles, LA, CA. No return address.

I've been had and had again, by my own heart. There might be an attack. But still.... I feel like a tiger with a steak lying just outside my cage.

My Trip to Paris

I have just finished work on a series of short promotional films for a certain music television network. They are pimping a video music awards show, even though they no longer show music videos on their network. Strange, I know, but mine is not to question. I actually quite like working on things like this from time to time. It keeps me humble to be in the presence of such genius musical artists as Panic! in the Disco and All American Rejects. Yeah, there was a scene we shot with some classic rockers named Anthony and Flea from some band called the Dynamite Jalapenos or something like that. Of course, I work in a managerial position, in an office that I have to drag around with me everywhere I go. It's something of a pain, but well worth it when someone asks for a stapler and I can lend them my Swingline.

Our final day of shooting took place on a sound stage in Hollywood on Sunday. Our set was built next door to the set of the new Lindsay Lohan movie, Georgia Rule, which wouldn't be a problem except for the fact that our own diva, Paris Hilton, and Miss Lohan have a rather sour relationship. Luckily for everyone, their bodyguards played football together and now do their best to keep their respective clients away from each other. I saw Lindsay on Saturday at the commissary catching some rays on the patio. This was just days after a scathing letter surfaced, basically saying if Lindsay didn't show up on time, she'd be fired. Needless to say, LL looked less than thrilled to be there.
When Paris finally arrived, there was no drama. The divas were oblivious to the fact that they were so close to each other.

Now, the latest Paris news has her taking a one year vow of celibacy. (Which shouldn't be that hard, since she says she's only slept with two guys... One of which, she made a video of. I wonder who the other one was?) Maybe she just meant two guys at a time, anyway, that's trashy gossip and I am here to talk about the facts. What really happened.... True dirt... Well, they shot her scenes and everyone was really happy, despite the fact that the whitest kittens we could find were tabbies. It all worked out perfectly and Paris retired to her dressing room after the shoot was over. Here is where it gets interesting...

Some of you might remember this painting I did of Miss Hilton eating a hamburger. Well, on my way in to work that morning, it occurred to me that Paris might like to see it. So, I called JR and asked him to bring it to me at the stage, in the off chance that I would have an opportunity to meet her. And so, I waited outside her dressing room for her manager to finish a phone call. When he did, I explained that I would very much like to meet Paris and show her the artwork she had inspired.

Even though previous posts claim that she and I are close friends, it just isn't the case. Although, my general feelings for and about her have been drifting towards a melancholy acceptance. Her manager said that he would ask her and a few minutes later, I was summoned into the dressing room for an audience with the Queen of Reality TV/Hotel Heiress Paris Hilton. This was a highly surreal moment for me. Paris sat in her makeup chair admiring her reflection as I approached.

"Hi Paris..." I said, shyly. "I did this painting of you, it's not a very good likeness. I thought you might like to see it." She took the painting from me and admired her reflection.

"Oh, how sweet!" Paris cooed. "It is for me?"

"If you like it, I would love for you to have it."

"I do like it." Several of her assistants had gathered around to see what the fuss what about. They all seemed to agree. I asked for an autograph and photo, in exchange for the painting.

"Does that sound fair?" Paris nodded and stood, still holding the artwork.

"It's the Carl's Jr. thing," she commented. "And it even has Tink."

Her manager volunteered to take the photo. Paris slid her hand around me and pulled me close. I was still reeling from the latent Carl's Jr. comment when the camera flashed. As a result, my eyeline is off. I am thinking: This is weird.

At the wrap dinner the following night, her wardrobe stylist for the shoot told me how much Paris liked the painting.

"Think about it," she said. "Paris can have anything she wants, but it's hand-made stuff like your painting that mean the most and you gave it to her because you love her. She totally dug it." I coughed a little when she said that I loved Paris. I suppose she was right, though. That is not the kind of thing that money can buy. I feel bad that I didn't try harder to make it look more like she really is. Several people have suggested to me that I shouldn't have given it to her, but sold it to her. For some reason, that just doesn't seem right.

After the photo, Paris searched the room for something to sign for me. She chose a copy of the "script" and wrote some kind words. I thanked her and put it into my notebook, which happens to have my autographed photo of the Backstreet Boys on the cover. "Oh!" Paris said. "That's my ex-boyfriend!" Having completely forgotten that Paris had once been romantically linked to Nick Carter, I felt like an ass. I just grinned and backed out of her dressing room, thanking her again.

My Paris Hilton experience was short and sweet. She really is a nice person and I will have a hard time dissing her from now on. She's just a girl who owns one of my paintings and half the hotels in the world. I think she might even own a little piece of my heart.

Did you call the Fish Wrangler?

That was the question my boss asked me on the phone last night as I drove home from work. No, I hadn't called the Fish Wrangler. It's all part of this elaborate shoot involving moonmen, chili peppers and barracudas. I'm heading out towards Malibu in a bit to see what else I have forgotten to arrange. I have a very strange job.

On top of everything else, technical difficulties had my computer down for about eight hours yesterday. That makes my job much, much harder to do. I had to reinstall my operating system and download three years worth of updates, in order to do something as simple as check my mail. Sometimes I hate technology...

Hopefully, everything will go smoothly for the rest of the shoot. Here are some more examples of the kinds of things that people say to me at work:

Should I take the bagels directly to the pool?

No, take them to the band's dressing room

Find me Paris Hilton's address, right away!

Seriously?

Did you call the Fish Wrangler?

No, I did not. Sorry.

Are those your nuts in my salad?

I certainly hope not.

We need the whitest kitten they have, okay?

Find White Kitten. Got it. Anything else?

I'm running about an hour behind because the suit was still wet and I had to blow it dry.

Get here as soon as you can. And next time, just know that if you need to blow something dry, we have people on the crew who can do that for you....

Isn't Hollywood great?

In The Details

I had no idea, for the longest time, that Details was a gay magazine. It's not an out and out "gay" mag, but as a friend pointed out to me, it pretty fucking gay. Augusten Burroughs writes for it from time to time and every issue ends with the "Gay or __________" segment. I don't really know why I am mentioning this.

I suppose it stems from a giant argument I had with JR last night about Caravaggio versus Rembrandt. It started with me explaining that this painting I did of Jesse Metcalf was inspired by the chiaroscuro works of Caravaggio. JR saw only Rembrandt and I took great offense to that. I guess there are worse things than having your work compared to Rembrandt, but I was not having it.

My job requires immense attention to details. Very boring details, often times, yet I dutifully pay attention to them. I don't know if it is God or the Devil that reveals itself in the details, but I am sure that it is a power from another level. Isn't it the strange and beautiful details that tend to capture our collective imaginations? Dale seems to be aware of this. I wish that we could all frolic a little more "in the follow through" from time to time.

I regret that I cannot always turn lead into gold. I am a bad alchemist, sometimes. When the wind blows this hard, I can't always make out the words.

Listening tends to throw off my equilibrium. And yet, here I am, stuck in the details...

Fear and Loathing with the Rich and Famous

I don't expect much from people, but I do expect you to know the difference between Kim Gordon and David Bowie. That said, I have just joined a top secret project that I will tell you all about very soon. It may or may not involve celebrities behaving badly. But with the producers tossing out names like Paris Hilton and Bob Saget, I am sure I will have so much dirt that this place will start to resemble an ant farm in the very near future. Hold on to your hats, cowboys, this bitch is going to the RODEO!