Goldie HellCat and the Three Wrong Turns

That night in the little town of Irvine, Cal, the Chipotle was all aglow with holiday spirit. The children were nestled, snug in their post-modern Danish titanium chairs, in hopes that their nanny would soon be there with a Nantucket Nectar. Goldie and HellCat were pretty cozy themselves, continuing an already hour-and-a-half long conversation about things like vision quests, working out, the Holocaust, and rescuing dogs. Things were going well.

See, this wasn't just any night. Although these two women knew each other and had even ventured outside separately for the same social event, it marked the first time they were alone together. "What's the big deal?" you ask, as you eat your Tofutti Cutie and scratch your left leg. Well, the answer is this: these two women had a lot of things in common...but one thing in particular. The elephant that had occupied their proverbial room for some time was all growns up, and needed to be addressed.

They had both had sex with the same man. And HellCat was still dating that very same man.

Yeah, I know I heard a gasp from the women in the audience. Dudes, you are wondering why this is a problem. Have you ever seen Melrose Place or some other Aaron Spelling show? You can see it practically once an episode there. Women are not built to be friends. They live in a world of competition and solitude--yes, even though they seem to travel in packs and are always talking, they are mostly alone in their soul. Women, please join your humble narrator in saying, "Thank you, instinct!"

Anyway, when one "loses" the battle, well, that's when bitches have catfights in the pool.

But Goldie and HellCat were different. These two women could see that this shared man they had in common was wonderful and has wonderful taste. So that must mean they are both wonderful and should find a third woman to make a Wonderful Triumverate, you dig?

That doesn't mean there wasn't a transition phase to actually aligning with that idea, though. They had just kind of thought it separately and sat back and waited. That night, as they chomped on their fajita burritos, they knew that this was the time to get sappy. The warm, tugsten-y lights seemed to cradle them as they shared their admiration for each other. They agreed that the other was super, and that they should be friends, because super people do super things.

The 2 pioneers of female friendship agreed not to discuss any actual information regarding the more intimate times (as neither one could imagine comparing penis notes or discussing that one cute thing he does when he...etc). They smiled, made eye contact, and got back in the car to see the Death Cab show. History was made.

Their journey continued, as they thought they were a mere 500 feet from their destination. However, the magical intranet site of Google Maps led them astray. After several turns and one trip to the gas station, they made it to the general vacinity of the University of California at Irvine. Then the dark cloud that they thought had dissipated returned. Where in the good Lord's name were they?? There were no signs in this land, only lonely, desolate patches of grass and an occasional beer car in the gutter.

They officially renounced Google Maps, asserting that it was no better than MapQuest or Yahoo Maps, despite its user-friendly interface and satellite-view option. They shook their fists at the sky until finally, finally some sorority girls showed them the way. When they pulled up to the ONLY place on campus that they, as visitors, were allowed to park, they were hustled for seven dollars from the parking attendant.

"Well, that's just insulting huffed HellCat, as she magically morphed into her mother. She rummaged in her satchel and pulled out seven dollars in pennies.

Or at least she wished it was in pennies.

Goldie magically aged too, because as everyone waited in uncomfortable silence for HellCat to get her monies out, she huffed, "You know, this place is really hard to find." And the parking attendant, some 19-year-old kid standing in the bitter cold, shrugged his be-hoodied shoulders and said, "Yeah, it confuses me too."

The two women, stunned by his acquiescence, de-aged 60 years and shook it off. The show was great. They danced together and silently judged the pre-teens taking pictures on their cell phones. They enjoyed the music. It was a lovely night.

And that's the story of How the Triumverate Began. Who wants cookies?

and milk. g

Hard-Boiled Egg or the Bathroom

I have been drinking all night long and am swimming in my own thoughts. So, here I go, with my messy backstroke/quick keystroke.

My friend was recently caught masturbating on a plane. He was in the restroom and had unknowingly placed his arm on the wall. His staccato thumping against it had alerted the male flight attendant sitting in the jump seat, and he finally tapped out "Shave and a Haircut" on the wall to get him to stop. My friend just rapped back with the "Two bits" part and finished his business. Then, as he exited, he spent several minutes standing in the open bathroom doorway trying to locate his cell phone in his pants pockets...much to the chagrin of everyone in the coach bathroom/kitchen area.

His story whisked me down memory lane to a lonely trip from Dallas to Los Angeles, where a couple of bulky blankets and a sexy memory encouraged me to do the same thing. In my seat. No one was around to see me or scold me. But I still became my own hero again when I remembered it. Does that make me a junior member of the mile high club?

I am not the world's biggest exhibitionist. I generally enjoy the comfort, ease, and safety of a room in the home to do the deed in. Living room, kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, whatev. All the same. When the location changes, so does the reaction. It's hot, but the adrenaline causes an altered response that usually makes me wish I had something I don't--small tube of lube, handi wipe. Something. But the sexiness of impromptu public naughtiness can't be beat...God bless the Japanese for proividing me such magnificent automobiles to house me and my caged animal tactics. Also, thanks to the builders of that one bathroom in the Valley, the landscapers of that Park, and the managers of that bar that averted their eyes. And that couple that pretended they didn't see the enthusiastic and well-matched game of tonsil hockey happening in their lobby.

Here are my Places I Hope to Have Sex in for 2007:
A wooded area (waterfall a bonus)
Hot Tub
Top of a Refrigerator
A Closet (how's that for symbolism)
A United Nations Summit
Alcatraz Bathroom
UCB Theater
Taj Mahal
The Container Store in Orange County
The Home Depot on Sherman Way

Now you know. I will post the progress. I promise, my darlings. It's the least I can do.

hit it. g

Boyfriend-Sanctioned Infidelity

From the rooftops I shout, "I had sex with a stranger last night. And my boyfriend ENCOURAGED it!"

Welcome to my online confessional: home of grieving about death, concern over hygiene, scorn for celebutantes, and divulgence of sexual indiscretions.

Anyhow, I know you're wondering how this happened and how it can happen to YOU, too! Let me assure you, you'll find the answers here.

He showed up at my gate, and as I slowly drank in his image, it was clear what he wanted. I hesitated. Should I trust this man? Should I let him in the Treehouse and release all cautionary words my head was spewing forth?

I sighed, and opened the gate wider to allow him inside. I was no match for him. As we silently ascended the steps, I wondered what I was in store for. I could feel the energy between us, like an electric wire had just snapped and was dancing in the same puddle of water we were standing in. Except we weren't standing anywhere...we were walking towards my living room, kitchen...and bedroom.

The minute we walked in the door it was like someone had lit some sort of sex fire in the room and we had to Do It in order to put it out. I barely had time to turn on some fuck music, people. Seriously. In retrospect, the frenzied pace was a good thing, because if I had let my head have a chance to weigh in, it would have told me "Stop! This is not a good idea! The man you have committed yourself to will be maaad! And you might get herpes!"

My eyes, usually permanently closed in celebration of ecstacy, were wide open, still taking in the scene. Who was this man who had shown up on the Terrace with the intention of maneuvering past the gate and having his way with me? Who was he, with his baby-soft skin and shortly cropped hair?

Oh yeah. It was my boyfriend.

Oh man. This is embarassing. My bad. See, the thing is that My Pablo went from Kenny Loggins lookalike to Shorn Hipster in one night. It was such a dramatic change that I barely even recognized him. Whoops, my darlings. I promised you something I could not deliver. I guess after all this time I still can't figure out how to both have a boyfriend and nail someone else with his permission. Well, nuts. Sorry to have gotten your hopes up. That's just the way life is, kid.

lessons. g

Triumphant Return

Let's get this out of the way.

I know I've been gone for a long time.

In fact, you're not even reading this the day I post it. You've stopped coming here regularly because you can't stand being let down anymore. The pain of seeing that entry from July 23rd over and over again hurts too much.

I get it. I've let you down, my darling.

The truth is, I have become bored with myself. Since last we spoke, here are the stats:

1: Bladder infection
14: Miles walked so far for Marathon training
1: New car purchased
1: Boyfriend still putting up with my shit/giving me shit to put up with
9: Families who have gotten a home thanks to the work of my department
1: New dog in the backyard that I can't stand
1: Friend Who Shot Himself
2: Toothbrushes used
2: Times I have done Capoeira, the Brazilian Martial Art

The car is great, I am excited for the marathon, I want to find a new loving home for this fucking animal, and a man who opened my life up to the possibility of Love is sitting on my coffee table in a sandwich baggie.

I feel fucked up.

I don't pay attention to what friends say anymore. I have little to no desire to teach and help people. I don't want to edit. I am helpless against the waves of nausea and revulsion that overcome me as I think about one of the only people in the world who knew me raw and unraveled's brains splattered across the wall of room 232 of the Days Inn in Little Armenia.

I think I'm entering the Anger Phase.

It makes me want to put on heavy eyeliner and take self-portraits.

All of a sudden I don't know what I want anymore. I don't know if I need company. Should I exercise or roll up in a ball in the corner and scream? Nothing matters the way it should. One lump or two? I feel like I'm underwater.

I can smell his deoderant. I remember when he took care of me during my very first anxiety attack. The time we played music for hours in his studio, attractively lit by Christmas lights. Our visit to the Statue of Liberty. That Thanksgiving where he wore the pink Ralph Lauren shirt. New Years Eve. The beach, both coasts. Mount Bonnell. Jack in the Box. The memories keep coming, like a faucet. They collect and leave me staring.

I wish it wasn't so late. I wish I didn't have to wake up so early. I wish he was still alive so I could see him sing one more time.

This is all so cliche. I hope you're not reading this. I hope you have bookmarked another blog, by some waiter who chronicles the tips he does and doesn't receive, or the one about the ever-changing hairstyles of Jessica Simpson. I hope you weren't looking for an epiphany, because all I have is something you have heard before from some other sad bastard who lost someone they cared about.

Put up your fists, and I'll just raise my glass. g

Darryl and Dogs

Paul Giamatti is a national treasure. Like Don Cheadle, Ellen Burstyn, and occasionally Bobby Brown, that performer should be given a "Thank You, Thank You, Thank You" award of some kind. The award, although not honoring the concept of brevity with its title, is entirely necessary and the very least we can do.

Of course, you must have guessed by now that there is a "but" coming. I am ready to unleash a scathing diatribe re: Lady in the Water, the latest M. Night Shamalamadingdong flick. Well, come to think of it, I'm not really going to unleash it because it's not really a surprise to anyone. I'm just going to kind of put it out there, let it languish, and sleep easy knowing I finally updated my blog again.

The movie isn't that good, my darlings. But that doesn't mean I wasn't compelled. As I walked back to my suite in downtown Minneapolis, I pulled the hood of my "Devious Honey" hoodie up (even though it's about 78 degrees out) for fear of being molested by some northerner. I used the time with my blinders on to talk to myself about the film and what it was that kept me from leaving.

It is a wonderful bedtime story. It is about faith and beauty and hope. It has white eyelashes, koreans in tank tops, and Bob Balaban. Kind of a perfect formula for forking over my per diem.

Really, the only thing that turns it into a complete and total wash is the clunky, ridiculously executed telling of the bedtime story itself. I've been reading a lot about how Disney passed this one up, even after 4 movies with M. Night and apparently a lot of coddling. Before, I thought "Wow, Disney, missing the boat. Disney, elected mayor of Lametown," in that Rob Schneider "making copies" voice. But now my faith in Disney as an age-old fixture in the entertainment industry is restored. They were right. The narrative device reveal is too on-the-nose, too clumsy.

It fucks the whole movie up. Even the Wizard Giamatti can't save it. It collapses under the weight of its own ludicrous reveal.

Since I want to go to beddy-bye, I can't even begin to go into M. Night's role in this one and how he should be banned from the screen. Seriously, SAG should stand up. All of you guild members out there, put the heat on M. Night to quit making you look like jackasses. Everything that Albert Finney did, M. Night is undoing.

You don't need to see the movie. Rent Splash instead and pretend that just offscreen there is a big, green dog licking its chops and getting ready to pounce on Tom and Darryl. And you can do it in your jammies--a much better deal.

narf. g

My First Time

In life, everything is a trade-off. I have learned this lesson again and again-- every upside has a down, every minus has its plus. And this morning I am reminded of that truism because apparently, every morning yoga class has its work shower.
Based on the rave reviews of a couple trusted sources in my office, I went to a bikram yoga class in the granola-smelling world of Silverlake. For the past month I have been feeling down and out, so much that I took a leave of absence from this column as well as my social life. Suddenly, the idea of doing something crazy to shake shit up was appealing. And if doing a series of 26 yoga poses twice in a 105-degree room isn’t crazy, then I don’t know what is.

This morning was my third class. It was the first time I made it through an entire one without feeling like I was going to throw up, pass out, and implode. At once. You might think this sounds terrible, but for ailing HellCat, it really wasn’t. It gave me something to work for. How dare the distant cousins Heat and Stretching think they had power over me! I would conquer them. And for each one of the three times I walked out, I left feeling wonderful. Fresh air pushing through my bloodstream, sweat pouring down the small of my back…and everywhere else…

It’s like a new lease on life.

Anyway, my trusted source at work that I will identify only as Rock Star told me that the morning class has the best teacher and the least heat. I considered it, knowing that she was right. But my vision tunneled down to a point that disturbed me. At the end of that tunnel?

Showering at work.

My office building has a workout room and a shower. The facilities are nice and private, and the bathroom is tucked away so that few employees use it. But my mother’s Victorian modesty hovers over me… and as a result, I don’t like showering where I eat. The prospect was daunting.

As I walked with a mock casualness towards the abandoned bathroom, I slowly swept my gaze from side to side, checking to see if anyone was looking or planning on following me. No one. I reached the bathroom door, and heard stirring inside.
“Oh, Christ.” I thought. “The Executive Producer of the show is probably in there, washing her hands. She’ll see my big bag and know that I am going to be removing all my clothes and allowing my vulnerable body to be washed in this office bathroom water. I will most certainly be fired.”

I opened the door, and some woman was in a stall. I had to be discreet. I slapped across the tile in my flip flops and slammed the door to the shower shut. Mission failed. I heard the woman go, “Ehhh?” in her stall. Then she flushed. I sat there, waiting in panicked silence. I tried to hide my feet so she couldn’t identify me.

Apparently this girl was examining every pore of her face in the mirror, because she was taking her time leaving. I was hunched in an uncomfortable position that I could only hold because my muscles were loose…but when she left I breathed a sigh of relief that shook the walls. I undressed rapidly, lathered, rinsed, repeated, and prayed that no one would walk into the bathroom while I was in mid-shower.

I kept picturing what was happening outside the door: a woman about 5’6”, 110 pounds, blonde haired and blue eyed, perfect California girl in every way, hearing the shower and looking at her co-workers like she had just smelled something foul.
“Who is taking a shower here?” she would say. Her co-workers would shrug and make the same face in an attempt to be more like the California girl. Being Armenian and wearing pantsuits, it wouldn’t work, but they tried nonetheless.

Cali girl would tiptoe up to the bathroom door, and all of a sudden she would bust in with a Polaroid camera and take a picture of me while I was rinsing yoga sweat out of the crack of my bottom. Overjoyed at her expose, she would flap the Polaroid wildly, not caring that flapping them makes no difference. She would take it back to whoever was listening—which would mostly be the people clearing out the offices of the Jamie Kennedy Experiment. She would proclaim “Look! This is the girl who showers here! She must be homeless, or maybe her family hates her and makes her leave the house before everyone is awake!” The Armenians would laugh, shaking the bell-bottomed cuffs of their pantsuits, and I would slink out of the shower, shamed forever.

I would immediately be fired, of course. Then, having no income, I would soon be found not at the Treehouse, but in the gutter of the Zankou chicken pointing my fingers in various directions and then grifting people for Parking Attendant Tips.
I was shocked when this didn’t happen. I toweled off, dressed, put my contacts in, and mussed my hair. A woman came in, said Good Morning, did her business, and left. She didn’t silently judge me at all. It was amazing!

Now I am considering only showering at my office. I always work out in the mornings, and it would save me both gasoline and water. In fact, maybe I'll just move in here. Get an air mattress, an electric blankie. I could use the water heater room as my personal storage, and eat the food at craft services for breakfast. Let's consider this a plan.
planned. g

Go For Guillermo

There's nothing that I could really write that would do Guillermo justice. The fact is that he is an amazing man. He always managed to make me feel loved and taken care of. He made me laugh all the time. Just knowing that he was around comforted me.

I am stuck in Minneapolis, exhausted, with salt-soaked eyes, and have nothing inside of me to write with. So bear with me, Memo, because this is going to be one messy love letter. It all sounds so stupid, written in some blog on the internet. There's no poetry to it. But it's still how I feel, so that's something...

Remember when we filmed a video down in theater 7? You had a million other things to do, but instead made sure we had the right power cords, clip lights, and angle. You watched me setup the camera and asked me about filmmaking while you were eating all of our summer sausage and cheese, which was our only prop.

There was the time that we were discussing King Kong in the lobby...and you were saying that "it looks long, but I like the idea of a big monkey." It made perfect sense to me.

I remember discussing your concerns with your children and their safety while you were working. You said that your schedule stressed you out, but that you were going to make it work. Then you went on and on about your great kids, to the point where you were beaming. You made us all smile with you, even the people who had been at Guest Services for hours and wanted to kill themselves.

Every time I would come into the lobby, even if you were in the middle of business, you would excuse yourself, come over to me, give me a kiss and hug, and then walk back. You always managed to make me feel like I had a place in this world, somehow. If you weren't busy you would come back over and I would always ask, "Are they taking care of you at this place, Memo?" and you would wave your hand and say, "Oh, you know how they are sweetie. But it's always getting better."

When you would glide past the concession stand, you would always say something like, "Nice work, kids! Keep it up. Let's make ArcLight some more money! Mush, mush!" and then you would laugh all the way down the hallway.

You loved elbow milkings.

Remember when we drank beers on the ARC patio together that one summer night? I sighed happily and leaned back in my chair. "Good conversation, good friends," I said, and you added, "and free parking, my lovely."

I love you. I miss you already. And I won't forget you.