Tag Archives: hollywood

Pretty Dresses and Hard Goodbyes

Mid-December I felt cramps.

Dora said, “Let it all out. Let the stress bleed out of you.”

It did. I felt better. I felt more mentally and emotionally balanced.

Whether or not I liked it, my parents’ imposed April deadline made me feel that something will have to change soon. And living in a place with no central heat, where running a space heater the same time my roommate runs hers forces the electricity to knock out . . . keeps me really eager for that change.

Abe accompanied me to a Doggie Daycare holiday party, which was gloriously awkward as they all are. You get a group of people who are socially retarded and feel more comfortable around animals than people, feed them alcohol, throw in a women’s roller derby team and you have one of our typical parties.

One of the regular employees there greeted us wearing a leather sash with shot classes lining the front, holding a bottle of tequila.

He poured us each a shot. I sipped. Abe shot.

Sacha came face-to-face with Abe for the first time and said, “I love this. I just love (waving her hand around his face) THIS!”

Noah said, “Well, watch this.”

He threw off his hood and made his ears wiggle.

We went out back where Mitch was dancing alone with a cigarette and a bottle of Bicardi to raunchy hip hop music.

Sasha was tossed and throwing huge sarcastic statements into the sky. She opened up her whole chest and threw her arms wildly as she said, “I didn’t have time to change, so I have dog food on my pants. Veal, right here. And here.” She pointed at spots on her pants. “Which is . . . AWESOME!”

And, our boss- the most socially guarded of us all, has a stripper pole installed in her one bedroom apartment with a huge mirror leaning up against the wall facing it.

Taylor was there on his phone.

Sasha said, “Taylor is leaving for Florida. Don’t tell anyone.”

I said, “Permanently?”

She nodded.

My stomach sank.

Taylor’s brother shot himself in the chest about a month before. He went back to Florida for the funeral.

That was the greatest of many misfortunes he suffered in 2011. His girlfriend of 7 years left him for another man, the bar he was managing closed down due to the recession, and he was lost.

Once our boss approached the stripper pole, we all piled into her living room to watch. One of us videotaped on to a cell phone. Then she collapsed on her bed and vomited. Merry Christmas.


Now that I was single, I arranged for a meeting with Tom, the director I met 6 months ago while I was still with Alan. He asked that everything from now on be off the record, which is kind of tragic if I thought somehow seeing him would jump start my career.

I had a Werther’s Commercial Audition in Santa Monica, and we met up for a couple drinks. He took me to three bars in the one night I saw him.

The alcohol wore on me even though the places he took me to were fantastic, and so were their martinis. The waiters brought me free champagne and told me I was lucky to know him.

He said, “I know the lows in this business are low, but the highs are out of this world.”

This time I was very self conscious of my orange rain jacket. I was warm, but bulky. Words rung out in my head, funny enough from Alan and Jaq who were once a long term couple.

Jaq gave me one of her jackets once and said, “Here, have one nice jacket.” The sleeves were too short but it did become my one nice jacket.

And Alan’s words, “People get the impression that you are poor.”

Tom assured me the jacket looked warm. We talked about old movies with Paul Newman and James Dean. We talked about new movies that might make be remembered in the next ten years. It felt good. There was a relief that I could still hold my own with a sharp mind in my field.


The next day, I bought myself a nice new jacket from Forever 21. A Christmas present to myself.

Later that week, I had a background job with an American Express commercial in Hollywood. The wind was especially brutal those last few days. I didn’t even feel comfortable walking my dogs in the weather.

Doing an outdoor shoot in formal wear made me . . . uncomfortable. I was bleeding and I was cold. That’s generally a bad combination. So I wore my skinny jeans, a grey turtle neck and a big wool sweater. They mentioned there would be lots of walking, so I brought my Rolling Stones high tops.

Every other time I have gone to a job, I have brought options, but I knew they would put me in some flimsy dress and heels if I brought them. So I didn’t bring anything.

I was the fourth person in line for Wardrobe approval. This chick was some kind of olive skinned bitch with a British accent. She looked at me and shook her head, with that thick, exaggerated accent that would impress someone stepping off a tour bus, she said, “I can’t work with this. That sweater. Those shoes. No.”

I said, “Well, can you give me something from wardrobe?”

She said, “Stand over there.”

I did. Then she changed her mind and said, “Those shoes . . .” Yeah, they are Rolling Stones high tops. AND?

It was a 200 person call to stand and walk around in the background. No one was going to see my shoes. You were going to make me walk up and down the Hollywood Bowl in heels . . . why? To punish me for better skin care?

She said, “Go stand over there. I can’t deal with you now.”

So I did. I was a little emotional about it at first because I was bleeding like a stuck pig. It was the first day of my period and being singled out had me feeling nauseous.

Then I got lost in my book, “Divorced, Beheaded, Survived: A Feminist Reinterpretation Of The Wives Of Henry VIII”. I was on his last wife, Catherine Parr who seemed to lucked out in the end, because a warrant was issued for her arrest shortly before Henry died of natural causes.

I thought, Catherine Parr had bigger problems than wardrobe approval.

Wardrobe Bitch approved a few petite girls with one outfit on. She said, “Well, you haven’t given me a choice, have you? Go on.”

She approved a large black man wearing jeans and sneakers with no other alternates. She said, “Go on, what can I do? Just go.” He turned and hung a last bite of watermelon over his mouth as he walked away. That isn’t racist. That’s just what happened.

None of these people were bothered about it in the slightest.

The older woman next to me said, “She has forgotten you are here. Go back in line, get approval.”

So I went to the back of the line, and she saw me again and said, “I saw you sitting over there. I am not ready for you yet.”

I turned on my rubber heels and returned to my spot.

I was finished with my book now, and hungry. Craft service was open, so I headed on over for some fruit, nuts and coffee. Then I remembered I had another book in my car I just bought. While buying Trent’s Christmas present (My favorite James Baldwin book), I found one I hadn’t read, which seems impossible since I had made a list I read from just after Undergrad, and collected every book I ever knew him to write.

It was called “If Beale Street Could Talk.” While I was down by my car, I grabbed my nice new jacket I bought. I threw that on and dumped my Navajo design, super comfortable sweater with the faux fur around the hood and front V-neck back in my trunk. By the way, that sweater was purchased for $1 at a thrift store, cozy yet dapper. Hollywood hippy. Chi chi. Whatever. I like it.

By the time I returned to my squatting spot next to the trash can, the Wardrobe Bitch was gone. No one approached me. So I just resumed as I was . . . I kept reading and walked to set when called.

“The same passion which saved Fonny got him into trouble, and put him in jail. For, you see, he had found his center, his own center, inside him; and it showed. He wasn’t anybody’s nigger. And that’s a crime in this fucking free country. You’re supposed to be somebody’s nigger.”

The Assistant Director had us all sit in a section of seating facing the stage. He said, “We need to pick 10 people to move to the foreground for camera.” He looked through our faces, “You, you, you . . .” I pointed a finger at myself, “Me?” He nodded.

Wow. Eat that, Wardrobe Bitch.


The next day, Abe and I went to see a movie on my day off and ended up seeing The Descendents, which was very good.

I was emotional during the movie. Abe kept asking if I was alright, but I couldn’t stop sobbing. Now, in public, I try to choke on my sobs, which generally gives me a migraine. So after the film, I got a martini  and he a Saigon Iced Tea at Chi Dynasty.

The dimmed lights made the red in the walls bleed. Only two seats were left at the bar, and they were ours.

The bartender put the tall glass of alcohol and tea in front of Abe.

Abe, “This is pre-destiny.”

Me, “What is?”

Abe, “See how the alcohol and the tea are still on top of each other, but they are sinking into each other a specific way, but it could be one of eight specific ways for the drink to mix. Its like that ball game. . . on ‘The Price is Right’? The ball can land in one of several slots. Where it lands on that specific turn is pre-destiny. You don’t know until it happens, and it happens on its own.”

I smiled.

I said, “Sorry if my Doggie Daycare party was so lame. Our parties are kind of uncomfortable.”

Abe said, “Your party had a guy pouring  tequila with shot glasses strapped to his chest. A DJ blasting music in a backyard during the middle of the night with no complaining neighbors. A helicopter with a spotlight going up and down the driveway for 45 minutes. I have been to lame parties before. That was not one. Lame parties don’t have stripper poles, or Sascha or roller derby players.”

I think of Abe now, and how much I love the way he smells. The feel of his beard scratching on my skin. The way he hides his teeth with his hand when he laughs. God damn him.

After drinks, we went shopping at Forever 21. We were both tipsy, so I went around collecting garments, rubbing my temples saying, “I deserve all the pretty dresses! All of them!”

I went into the changing room, and Abe tried to follow me. The clerk told him he had to wait outside.

As I changed into my strapless, pink glitter mini dress, I heard a thump! I turned around and saw Abe’s head over the top of the dressing room door just before he slid down.

Clerk, “Sir! SIR! The manager can see you. Please leave!”

I picked up the dress, because I deserve all the pretty dresses but can only afford one.

Shortly after, I got a text from Taylor that we were meeting at The White Horse (a bar in Hollywood) as a final goodbye.

We got there a little early, and parked outside. I put my head on Abe’s chest.

He said, “You know, I am scared.”

I said, “Of what?”

He said, “I am scared of my feelings. I am sorry I keep running away.”

I kissed his cheek.

I said, “Its ok. We are just friends.”

His hand fell loosely around my shoulder.

We went inside and met with Ocean, her boyfriend Mississippi, a drummer from his band and Lori- the woman who lives at Doggie Daycare. I heard she used to frequent the White Horse back during Hollywood’s Drug Hay Day in the 70s and early 80s. Lori’s hair is somewhere between carrot and Clairol red. Her lips are thin and she talks so fast, it takes about 9 months to a year of working there to get the gist of what she’s saying.

She said, “I keep hoping I don’t recognize anyone.”

I patted her knee. “You won’t.”

I introduced Abe to Ocean who in turn introduced Mississippi, “This is my sexy, hot, rock star boyfriend.”

Me, “If hot is having a receding hairline, don’t worry, he makes up for it on his backside.”

Now, Mississippi and I go back on our venomous insults. Recently, I was trained for feeding the dogs and during training he said, “I don’t know why they are bothering to teach an old dog new tricks.”

I am on the older end of kennel attendants at Doggie Daycare. ha. ha.

I said, “You thought of a decent insult, Congratulations”

Back to The White Horse:

Mississippi, “They were training her feeding and I said, ‘I don’t know why they are bothering to teach an old dog new tricks.”

Me, “Wow, you DVR’ed your only good joke. I guess I would too if that’s all I had. You hold on to it. Its yours, forever.”

Abe got caught up in a conversation with a lone drinker at the bar. When I walked up to check up on him, Abe said, “Hey, doesn’t he look like the boy character in that movie we just saw, but without the long hair and beard?”

Me, “No, that guy was a teenager, and short, and Hawaiian.”

Abe, “Oh, well, you know me.”

During all of this, you may wonder where Taylor was. He was on his phone trying to get Sascha there, I am assuming. And I was on my phone trying to get Sascha there. She was reluctant and “bad at goodbyes.”

We all went outside to check on him, he was on his fifteenth cigarette. I didn’t want to smoke, so I went back inside.

That left Abe and Lori.

Lori said, “Are you into Astrology?”

Abe, “No . . . are you?”

Lori, “No.”


Lori went back inside with her whole cigarette.

Abe took it personally, I said, that’s Lori. Doggie Daycare is filled with emotionally damaged, substance abusing social failures with great hearts.

Sascha never showed.

The bar was closing.

I stood up and said, “Well it was great watching you chain smoke and stare at your cell phone, but we gotta go.”

A friend of his laughed in the background.

Taylor hugged me. Hard.

That hug lasted a long time. He held me close and didn’t let go.

I closed my eyes and felt the sting of saltwater.

He hugged me harder.

His friend was to my far left and I saw his smile fade, and his eyes turn down and away.

I said, “I am going to miss you so much it hurts. I can’t even think about it. Take my love with you, ok? Take it and go be happy.”

I kissed his cheek and broke away.

I ran outside and saw Abe smoking.

He said, “Everything alright?”

I said, “I can’t take it. I have to go.”

We got in the car and he said, “Why are you crying?”

Me, “I am losing another friend.”

Abe started the car and sighed, “Baby . . . he is doing what he has to do.”

I nodded. “I know.”

I got a text from Sascha 20 minutes later, “I am with Taylor now.”

I smiled. I never asked about their final nights together, but the romantic in me doesn’t want to be disappointed. So I will imagine soft kisses, sunrises and a soiled air mattress.

The next morning, Abe and I walked the dogs.

All of a sudden I broke down crying.

Abe said, “Come on over here, let’s sit down.”

We turned into the driveway of the local bar, completely abandoned at 10am on a weekday morning.

I crashed down on the pavement and said, “He was such a good friend. He helped me move. He helped me and never once hit on me.”

Abe lit a cigarette, “I know your sad. His parents need him. He has to be with his family right now.”

I sobbed, “I know, of course . . .”

Abe, “Can you tell me why your crying?”

Me, “It was a hell of a year. You know?”



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Ladies and Gentlemen, from Los Angeles, California . . . The Doors

Friday was a big day. I booked myself on an American Express commercial that was going to go 10 hours, giving me just enough time to feed my dogs and shimmy down to the Whiskey in an attempt to see Ray Manzarek and Robby Krieger play a tribute to The Doors without tickets in hand.

Now, I had done everything to get these tickets. Ideally, I would have bought them when they went on sale, but I never have money. I went down to the Whisky and offered to wash dishes to pay for entrance. They said a web vendor was handling all sales.

I contacted a DJ at a Classic rock station who said he might be able to get tickets to the Pacific Amphitheater, but I needed to see them at the Whisky. The Whisky made the Doors.

I looked up the actual Facebook profiles to Robby and Ray. I did the research to find the ones affiliated with the actual people and managed by their managers/agents or whomever.

I explained how they were my introduction to real music. They have been an obsession since I was 14 years old when I popped that first CD from my first BMG order, laid down on my living room floor and felt high for the first time in my life.

It was the Fourth of July and my neighbors were having a block party. When “The End” came on, I was paralyzed. I closed my eyes and I rose above that generic, white carpet. The song ended, I opened my eyes and I wanted more.

On Ray’s Facebook wall, since he can not receive private messages, I stated that I had a car, a uterus and a soul and was willing to use any to get tickets to his show. No response.

I am friends with someone who used to book for the Whisky. I am also friends with someone whose neighbor works security at the Whisky. AND, someone introduced me to a girl, CeCe, interested in dog rescue who is friends with the lead singer of the Tribute, David Brock.

It seemed like destiny was on my side.

So I showed up to the American Express commercial around 7am on a few hours sleep. I was out of weed, so I brought a potsicle. I showed up, checked in, sat down in actors’ holding (a folding chair in a parking lot) next to what appeared to be week old feces and ate half the potsicle. I texted Alan that I felt like I was growing immune to cannabis then felt my head lean back against a brick wall, my mouth open and sweet sleep overcome me.

I spent the day reading about Henry the VIII in an old, beautiful building downtown. I thought, if all I did for the rest of my life was get paid to read books in old buildings, I think I could be happy.

The shoot was going to go over our scheduled 10 hours, and well over 12 . . . in fact over 15 hours. Normally, I would love the overtime, but the Doors trump overtime. The actors discussed why the shoot was going on for so long when they had actors waiting for 6 hour blocks of time doing nothing. It was a concert set-up, hardly complicated enough to take more than 10 hours.

Actor, “The crews are stretching out the production time as much as possible so they can make more money with overtime.”

Me, “That’s why no one shoots in Los Angeles anymore.”

My booker agreed to let me out of the shoot early if I was discreet and kept in the back. It was my lucky day.

I drove home, fed the dogs, stuck what was left of my magic shroom in my back pocket and drove over to the Whisky. I also invited Frank, just cause. We had bonded the weekend before and I felt I regained a friend.

I showed up and found two hour meter parking two blocks away from the Whisky. It already had an hour and a half on it. Lucky again!

Outside the club were two Christian “activists” I guess you would call them. They were holding up big yellow signs with passages to the Bible. I didn’t really understand what that had to do with anything.

When I joined my people in line, wearing Doors t-shirts and holding up cardboard signs for tickets, one of the Christians crossed the street and said, “Did you hear about the guy who died right here an hour ago? He dropped dead from a heart attack.”

Someone in line said, “Really? Ok. (pause) What’s your point?”

Christian, “I am just saying, he came here and then he died.”

Person in line, “Are you trying to say he died because he wanted to see the concert?”

The Christian shrugged his shoulders.

I met up with CeCe and we started asking for tickets. I am terrible at panhandling and I had a lot of competition. Not only was there a line of ticket holders, but a line of music festival pass holders for that weekend’s Sunset Strip Music Festival- who had dibs after ticket holders. This was looking dire.

We headed over to the Rainbow Room to try and find David Brock and/or the band. We had to pay a $10 cover to get in and the doorman gave me a fistful of drink tickets (free well drinks). I told CeCe, I can’t have more than one drink. I missed dinner and I didn’t want to get wasted on alcohol. Of all the drugs out there, booze treats my body the worst.

So I had a glass of wine, rendezvoused with Frank and I offered him all my drink tickets.

He said, “Wow, it really pays to be a beautiful girl!”

I said, “No, he gives them to everyone.”

He said, “No he doesn’t. He didn’t give me any.”

I said, “Why don’t I ever realize that people are doing me a huge favor until after the fact?”

CeCe was working Craigslist and got a woman to agree to meet us at the Whisky at 9:30 to buy one VIP ticket for $125.

After speaking to the bartender, we discovered the owner of the Whisky and David Brock had already left the bar and headed to the Whisky for the show. So off we went.

CeCe kept telling people she and I would make out for 90 seconds if they sold us their tickets. Hell, I was would go down on her if that got me a ticket.

The first two men we approached really thought about it. They stared deeply into my eyes and took a moment of pause. I mean, a real pause. I was surprised. Then they said, “Awwwww, I can’t. I really wish I could.” Pause.

Then we moved on.

CeCe and Frank kind of hit it off and I am still entertaining the idea that they will fall in love and get married.

We worked the line. We asked everyone, and so did a few die hard fans next to me. CeCe already elected me the most worthy for the Craigslist ticket on its way to us. I wasn’t holding my breath, though.

There was a large, middle aged man behind me and I said, “Do you have an extra ticket? I am a huge Doors fan, they were the first band that opened my eyes to music . . . when I was 14.”

He looked deep into my eyes and said, “Sorry, I sold my extra ticket. I am so sorry. I really wish I sold it to you.”

I looked down, disappointed. I turned back to the crowd, some people left, more people came. Ugh.

He said, “How old were you when you discovered the Doors?”

I turned back around, “14.”

As I said this, I remembered when I was 12, and my father taped a piece of a Doors video for my sister, who was going through a Doors phase at 17. There was tension, and she said she had to go and couldn’t watch the video.

My father muttered something about her being ungrateful, and I asked to see the clip. I sat down and watched Jim Morrison sing “Break on Through” while holding his hand up over half of his face. One side of his beautiful face was lit, the other completely cast in shadow from his hand.

That was the first time I heard the Doors, and I didn’t know what it meant, or what it was, but I knew it was special.

Back on Sunset Blvd, next to an older man who sold his extra ticket, I turned and saw that he looked genuinely disturbed that I was ticketless. He said, “You have to get in there. I have a feeling I will see you in there.”

I said, “I really hope so. Its the Whisky.”

He gave a faint smile, “I know you will get in. I feel it.”

I grabbed my stomach and said, “I hope to God I do.”

CeCe and Frank were back, I think they were checking on her car. They were both very high on the night, East Coast energy and having a ball.

Again, we put the offer on the table to make out for tickets. Two men stopped in front of us, I put my arm around CeCe and she said, “Come on, we will make out for 90 seconds.”

I said, “On you . . .”

CeCe, “Ok, yeah, on you.”

I kept going, “And videotape it.”

I kissed CeCe on the cheek, and then she turned ever so slightly and we made “muh muh” noises as our lips grazed each other.

Again, the two thirty-something men stared deeply into our eyes and then let their shoulders sag.

He said, “I really, really wish I could, more than anything. You have no idea.”

CeCe said, “Then do it!”

He said, “I can’t. My friend bought me this ticket.”

A man behind them said, “I have a general admission ticket.”

CeCe said, “How much do you want for it?”

He said, “I paid $30.”

I said, “I only have $20s.”

CeCe said to the man, “Do you have change?”

He said, “No, but I will give it to you in there.”

I knew he wouldn’t.

I said, “SOLD!!!” I don’t fucking care.

We had one ticket. I rubbed it against my face, I really did.

CeCe kept asking, and Frank sat back and agreed to watch my car and feed the meter while I enjoyed the show.

He said, “Its your show. You deserve it. I will hang out and smoke cigars. You go.”

Just then, the girl from Craigslist, who we were frantically texting and calling, arrived and sold us the VIP ticket. We were in.

I turned to Frank, held his face and kissed his cheek. I said, “Thank you.” I gave him my keys and debit card to feed the meter.

Frank said, “Hurry up, get in there!”

Just then, the guy who sold us the original ticket for $30 came out and handed me my change, a $10 bill. I was already traumatized with joy, so I jumped up and shouted back at him as he turned and re-entered the Whisky, “GOOD KARMA! THANK YOU!”

I followed CeCe in who ran into a band member of Wild Child (the tribute band). She was chit chatting while i was vibrating and making nonsense noises.

Wild Child dude said, “Wow, are you just this excited to see the Doors?”

I said, “Mmmhhahurgwurguf”

He said, “Wow, that is really wonderful. So cute.”

I got stamped, ticket ripped and I walked through the doors. CeCe took the VIP wrist band since she was a drinker.

I walked to a corner and ate my shroom, then stepped towards the bar to get a glass of tap water.

The bartender said, “$2”

I just gave every last dollar I had to get in. “$2!?! For tap water???”

She nodded.

I walked away. Fuck that. I think that’s illegal.

I was concerned being on no food and psychedelics that I may pass out, but I would have to take the chance. I might try to run to the bathroom and drink from the faucet if I got dizzy.

So I faced the stage and just walked through 200 people. I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to do that. They weren’t on yet and I am just one small head. I said, “Excuse me, may I pass?” and got halfway up to the stage when a girl shoved her shoulder in my mouth and I repeated, “Excuse me, may I pass?”

She said, “No.”

Then her boyfriend pushed me.

Ok, I just took shrooms. I can not expose myself to negative energy or else it would ruin everything.

So I said, “Don’t push me.”

He said, “You are being inconsiderate of everyone here.”

I said, “I paid my ticket like everyone else. I would like to move forward, please.”

He said, “No. You are selfish.”

And then he shoved me again with his shoulder.

I am kind of a light weight type of gal, so a shove can throw me off my feet- again without food or water, I was easy pickings.

So I stood my ground. I stayed there but didn’t engage. We were all packed in like sardines. I couldn’t stand with my shoulders square to the stage, there were just so many people. All sides of my body were being touched by various strangers and the smell of body odor was stifling.

Then the lights went out and the Doors were introduced.

I saw Ray’s feet ascend from the stairs with his hand shusshing the applause. Then Robby, whose hair is totally white now. My heart thumped.

They took their seats and “Roadhouse Blues” rupture on stage. All the nasty looks, shoving and pushing went away. Everyone was smiling.

The lead singer, David Brock, came on in a casual outfit. No leather pants or anything indicating he was “doing” Jim Morrison, other than his hair cut. He was not attractive but his voice was similar to Jim’s.

He mimicked the way Jim held the microphone to his mouth, and his other hand to his ear, with the cord coiling around the side of his face. He also would flicker his tongue over his lips in what I found to be a kind of old-man-alcoholic way. I found that rather unappealing.

I watched Ray, his head was big. He was smiling and rocking his head back and forth.

Robby looked small, like he was struggling to hold up his guitar.

David sang, “I woke up this morning and I got myself a beer .  . .”

Outside, Frank was hearing the music with everyone else left behind.

“I woke up this morning and I got myself a beer . . .”

A hippie in a wheelchair on the sidewalk said, “Yeah man, that’s why you died.”

I let the music wrap around me, the keyboards and guitar were so masterful, I have never seen anything like that up close. Psychedelic music has all these layers, and when Robby stepped forward for his solo, I tried to follow his fingers through each layer, but I couldn’t.

I saw Tom Petty and ZZ Top live, and that is superb guitar playing, but this was on some other level, it was almost god-like. On the fuzzy end of this lollipop, Ray and Robby might as well have been checking text messages or playing cross word puzzles while performing. It wasn’t fresh to them, how could it be . . . but in their ease to slip into auto-pilot, my experience somehow suffered.

They weren’t present for the music, it was just flowing out of them like band practice. It didn’t matter that we were there, or that they were in the Whisky or that it was magic, even if that was a long time ago. It was now recycled magic, rehearsed and packaged for an event.

“Love Me Two Times” came through and then there was a break to address the crowd.

Ray and Robby shared the story about how they were kicked out of the Whisky when Jim sang, “Father, I want to kill you . . . Mother, I want to fuck you.” The crowd cheered.

Ray said, “We were called every dirty name in the book and then told never to come back again. That’s when Robby said his famous line? It was a Thursday and he said, ‘The weekend is coming up, man. You sure you want to fire us?’ Then he said, ‘Ok, play Friday and Saturday, and then you are out of here.”

Ray then introduced “The Alabama Song”, first by stating he was thirsty and Jack Daniels “or someone” was hosting the event. Two pie faced (rather mediocre looking) models with great legs came down and poured him a shot of whisky.

The crowd cheered like utter morons.

As the women carefully climbed the stairs in heels back to the upper level next to the stage, Ray lifted his glass and said, “Looking good ladies.”

I rolled my eyes.

The two ladies came back down with a full bottle of Jack Daniels and Ray joked that he could never drink all of it. David grabbed the bottle and said, “Let me help you with that” in a gravelly Jim impersonation.

The crowd cheered louder.

I mean, come on, where are we? Vegas??? I will say this once, and only once . . . Jim would not have liked that.

Then they jumped into the “Alabama Song”. David sang and I watched Ray occasionally chime in, leaning forward, holding an intense gaze with Dave as if to coach him along the way he wanted him to.

I know Ray is a very picky business man and artist. I could sense there was tension. And David, who is used to imitating Jim with Wild Child, was playing things fairly straight. I could see he was desperate to please Ray, and working to keep in time the way Ray wanted him to. I felt sorry for him.

Then, they did “Peace Frog”, one of my favorite Doors song. I sang with the crowd, including the couple that pushed me. I looked around and saw that everyone around me had changed. It didn’t matter who I shoved by to get my spot in the crowd, people were moving and shifting. The pit of my stomach was lifting into dark butterflies. The shrooms were in my blood now.

With the strobe light, occasionally I could imagine the silhouette of Jim. It was not Jim though. What made the Doors magnificent, a phenomenon, was the lyricism and the live performance. There was unpredictability, improvisation. They would test the boundaries of the crowd, bringing the song to life. The audience carved the song, with Jim at the helm. All of that was gone now.

I could see why John Densmore didn’t want to be there, to repackage rehearsed songs while promoting Jack Daniels. Jim wouldn’t want to be there for that, either. But what am I going to do, complain? This was the closest I was ever going to get to my favorite band in the original venue. It was all that was left, and I wanted to hold on to it before it disappeared completely.

From “Peace Frog” they went right into “Blue Sunday” which is honoring the structure of Morrison Hotel (the album). The two songs were built into each other, which is interesting since one is inspired by abortion and the other love and allegiance.

Outside, CeCe was holding a straw through the fence so Frank could suck Jack Daniels out of her glass. A security guard broke it up.

When he circled back around to the front of the venue, a woman was arguing to get in when a 17 yr-old said, “Hey, lady, there are real fans here, ok? I know you can hear me. HEY LADY!! I know you can hear me cause the guy behind you is laughing at me.”

Inside, Ray was telling the story about how he and Robby visited Jim’s grave on the anniversary of the passing from this realm, or some poetic string of words to define the day he died. He said they all sat around his grave and sang songs in Paris, “it was a good group of people.” I feel like that performance may have had more heart in it. Maybe not. I wish I could go to Paris.

I also wish I could recall the exact song line-up. I know they did “Strange Days”, “When the Music’s Over” (apparently Jim’s favorite song), they did “The Changeling” which I knew all the words to and lost two-thirds of the audience. When they did “Hyacinth House” I was the ONLY one who knew all the words on the ground floor and therefore felt I earned my spot to be as close to stage as possible.

When Robby came up for another solo, the strobe light went off on him, with his white hair blowing back and a grin on his face, he looked so much like a witch, flying through the night on a musical broom. Yeah, I was tripping.

Then came “Not to Touch the Earth”, which I still knew all the words from after writing them down in my 9th grade notebook. I had to copy the lyrics from a scene in the movie, since I didn’t have money to buy the album.

I couldn’t stand David Brock’s tongue flickering out of his mouth like a snake. It seemed to be some kind of trademark, but I have never seen Jim Morrison writhe his tongue in and out of his mouth, or wagger it around like a trucker passing an all girls school.

I closed my eyes and saw my Cathedral. The music. This music shaped my mind from such a young age, and such a dark time, it is in my blood. Maybe more than my own family. I saw the outline of a green Cathedral in my mind, built on the walls of the music and I heard Jim’s voice say, “I’m here. And I know you are here.” And it was gone.

I kept closing my eyes again, to hear his voice again, or what ever voice my imagination and magic mushrooms conjured out of obsession, but I couldn’t. It was gone, and so was my one moment with Jim.

I looked at the portrait they have of Jim hanging next to the stage. He is smiling in it. I bet he fucking hates the owners of that place.

The band went back to the crowd favorites, “Touch Me” and “Riders on the Storm.”

David shouted out to the crowd, “Gene said you guys are boring!!” (Gene is the drummer)

The crowd roared.

Ray said, “Who is boring? Gene is boring? You are boring? I am boring? Who is boring?”

David stumbled a bit, “No, um . . . I don’t know man . . .”

Ray was really on this guy, I mean, it was subtle, but anytime David tried to really perform, I could feel the hand pull his collar back and whisper, “You are not Jim.”

And he wasn’t.

Not only was he not Jim, Ray and Robby were not the Doors. The sacred circle is broken, and whatever dark mystical line they caught a hold of in the late 60s-early 70s was dropped and is now hanging loosely from the sky.

In my mind, I heard the words from one of the songs on LA Woman, “I love the friends I have gathered together on this thin raft. We have constructed pyramids in honor of our escaping. This is the land where the Pharaoh died.”

Ray and Robby pumped the re-release of LA Woman for the umpteenth time, Robby always looking down when addressing the crowd. Ray was more casual, smiling and speaking slowly like he savored telling these stories to people all the time.

Two men behind me held up an original Doors vinyl album, the original, with a sharpie. Ray and Robbie saw, but ignored them.

When “LA Woman” started, they played the hell out of it musically. Ray, however, was looking through the crowd, desperately, trying to find someone while his fingers flew over the keys. Robby looked tired. I knew it was their closing song.

I felt someone grab my elbow, I turned around and saw Frank. He was dancing and bobbing his head to the music . . . I guess like I should have been. I smiled, weakly, and turned back to stare at the stage.

The music was so loud, I could feel every molecule inside of my thump to the notes. The music engulfed me, and my ears and blood pulsed and hummed with every memorized note. I liked that. And then they left the stage.

Often I forgot to applaud. This time, I didn’t. And I clapped watching their shoes climb the staircase up the side of the stage into darkness.

We stayed, and chanted, and clapped. I kept saying, “The End” . . . my other favorite Doors song.

After several minutes, they came back down. Then introduced “Light My Fire”, pardon me but SNORE!!!! Gawd, my least favorite Doors song and the one I am forced to listen to constantly on the radio. Played to DEATH!

Whatever, like I said, what am I going to do . . . complain?

They did an amazing performance (musically) of “Light My Fire”. I mean, at certain points, Ray played the keyboard with his feet. That was pretty awesome!!

David flung his tongue out a few times, bent over and flickered it at a female fan in the top booth. I frowned.

I looked away and turned back on the stage to see David shrugging his shoulders and blushing like a guilty schoolboy. I wonder if Ray pulled back on the reins again. Then David made eye contact with me and saw my frown. Just like a recipe needs a dash of salt, our shared moment was a dash of disappointment. He looked away.

The song finished, the house lights went back up and the roadies came down to take away the instruments.

CeCe appeared and grabbed my arm, telling me to stay with her. She introduced herself to the security guards who flirted with us, while firmly telling the drunk buffoons to get lost.

Frank said, “That was great, your friend got me in for free. I missed the first few songs, but they were great.”

I said, “ . . . yeah.”

Frank said, “Geez, I feel like I had a better time than you.”

I said, “No . . .  this was good. How is my car?”

Frank, “I have no idea. I am sorry, she got me in and I just jumped in there.”

I said, “Shit, I hope they didn’t tow it.” The Sunset Music Festival was starting and new parking violations signs were up, tow trucks were parked outside while drivers chewed on hotdogs, waiting to pluck their victims.

The Roadies started throwing out sheet music. I just politely raised my had and said, “Please?”

Frank said, “This would mean a lot to this girl. She deserves it.”

The last one thrown towards me was ripped out of reach by a very large Hispanic man whose head landed on my lower lip. He almost fell to the ground and stammered some victory speech about getting it before me. (He also destroyed it in the process, and pieces of it flew to the ground)

Frank pushed me gently out of harm’s way and kept saying, “Have a good night, man.”

The Hispanic man smiled at me with some wild go-tee and huge pupils. I gave him a thumbs up.

How in the world can I be far more in control than everyone else on a hallucinogenic than these low class boozers? BASE BEHAVIOR!

So, I stood in front of the stage as everyone cleared away. I told CeCe I just wanted to touch the stage. She was talking it up with the cute security guard and kept insisting I stay nearby.

My fingers crawled over the old maroon carpet.

I backed up and found myself standing alone, staring at the stage with my head tilted. Coming to, I realized a roadie was standing on stage staring back at me. He smiled and winked at me. I smiled back.

CeCe was trying to negotiate for a guitar pick. The roadies said everything was gone. So I said, “Wait, so are they coming back to do ‘The End’?” The security guard laughed and said, “No, darling. Once they break down the equipment, its over.”

I turned to Frank and said, “Oh. But . . . how can that be? ‘The End’ is what got them kicked out of the Whisky and got their contract with Elektra Records . . .”

Frank said, “It must be a Jim thing.”

I said, “Yeah . . . huh.”

We went out to check on my car and I ran. Frank said, “Running doesn’t change anything!!”

I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t towed. I picked up a parking ticket off the windshield. $53.00. I waved it in the air and danced my way back to him in front of the Viper Room and said, “It’s not that bad!! It’s not that bad!”

A couple drunk strangers laughed over my celebration.

I offered to drive Frank back to his car but he wanted to buy another cigar first. He asked if I was ok to drive. I said I was.

I looked at my phone and the icons were dancing and vibrating. I was still tripping.

Frank kept saying, “I feel bad that I had more fun than you.”

I said, “No, don’t. It was a different experience for me. It wasn’t about fun. It was just not … I don’t know. I guess Jim really did make the Doors. He was so much about the performance, about the poetry and the shock value. Always testing the audience. None of that was there tonight, it was just the music.”

Frank said, “You needed Jim, huh?”

I said, “I guess I do.”

I drove him to his car just fine. I couldn’t listen to any music on the radio. I wanted more Doors, nothing else could ease my mind, so I shut off the radio.

Then I drove home to Alan, who was waiting for me. As I flew down the roads, I felt like the walls of the night were falling down, like the Earth was stretching into a pancake. Trees overhead looked bigger. I like this world. I like seeing the world reshape itself so I can discover more.

When I arrived home, I was just happy. He forced a smile, coming down from adderall and exams to clean up dog shit after a 2 hour drive didn’t have him in the best of moods.

We sat and spoke for a while. He said, “Everyone else probably did have more fun than you. I think you are too much of a Doors fan to really have enjoyed that show.”

I nodded heavily, “Yeah, but its the only time I will see them, where I wanted to see them. I will never see them perform again. I wasn’t expecting magic, I mean . . . I missed the magic. It was before I was born. But look, its not like I am complaining about any shortage of magic in my life. I have magic all the time with you . . . its just tonight there was none. And that’s the way of things.”

We went to bed and I made love on shrooms for the first time in my life. The pattern on my bed sheets spread out underneath Alan’s head, his skin is so white, it practically glowed in the dark. It felt like my orgasm was growing out from underneath him, like roots from a tree.

We held each other until he drifted off into sleep- and I kept my eyes open, still waiting to hear Jim’s voice again. I wanted to hear it again, say you know I am here. Say you are here. Say my obsession and your music mean something. Tell me I am closer . . .

I didn’t hear anything. I just fell asleep.

The coming weekend would bring a stew of frustration including my first fight with Alan. But that night I learned that chasing my ghosts won’t give me life . . . my life, my magic, my audience, my performance is right now.

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Let Vomiting Dogs Lie and Never . . . Ever Do Cocaine

Let’s go back to a week ago, when I was in Alan’s apartment on a misty Friday morning and I received a text message from Trent. He and Kent got into a fight, the cops were called, and Trent was hurt again. He asked if I was up, which I was because Alan had class at 7am. So Trent called and we spoke.

He was in a bad place. The two of them, locked up in a one room apartment with cocaine, adderall and alcohol finally exploded. I don’t care who you are, if you are in the same room for a long time with one person, even if you are in love, and you are putting that shit in your body endlessly- it will explode.

Trent has been living there for the last few months, and because his hand and wrist were so badly injured, he has been out of work. School was out of session and Trent got lost in Kent’s life. Its ridiculous that their names rhyme but I didn’t catch that til after I already established Kent as a character. Trent doesn’t have a car, didn’t have a job and lived inside of someone else. In the end, I think he felt like he lost control and lost himself. I can’t speak for Kent other than I know that I love him, Trent loves him. Whatever happened between them is their business and I don’t believe in judgment or sides or defriending or any of that bullshit. People are people, and we are all held hostage by emotion and circumstance. We all do our best to do the right thing, and if there was love, there is worth.

I knew the state of mind Trent was in. He had just broken up with his first real love. He had to move back in with his mother.  He thought he was lost, but I still had my hand on him in the dark. I tried to remind him of the light up ahead.

I was stuck in San Diego too far away to comfort my friend, who was crying on the phone. He was mumbling and slurring, so I couldn’t hear him very well. I kept saying, “I wish I was there.” And Alan would listen within earshot, as he packed his books and walked the dogs. It was just a sad morning.

All I could do was tell Trent things would get better once he slept. He hadn’t slept in days, I think.

That night, when Alan and I made love. There was blood. I’ve been spotting for 3 weeks, part of being on the pill. He saw it on his hand, looked up at me and said, “Yeah, I’m done.”

Well, I wasn’t. So I said, “Don’t talk to me.”

I showered and went to sleep. He claimed I horse kicked him a couple times in my sleep. I have no memory of that- but sometimes I do things in my sleep.

When we woke up, we kept a respected distance. He made a joke, he explained that he was squeamish, and I shut down. Any form of sexual rejection for a girl is kind of unacceptable. It is on such a rare occasion that when it does happen, you feel like your vagina (and soul) is covered in slime.

He took a volcano bag into the bathroom with him for a good hour while he showered and I thought as I bled. Everything was so intense. I was still processing losing Em’s friendship and now possibly Kent’s. You feel those walls build up around you and block your vision. So I took half a valium and smoked a bowl.

When Alan came out of the bathroom to study, I crawled in his lap and surrendered. No more wars over silly things, I must keep our flame cupped in fleshy sanctuary.

When I got back home, I spent two weeks working at Doggie Daycare and arranging a move. A girl at work was willing to sublet a room with a private entrance to me, I get to keep my dogs, I get to live in the mountains and it will only cost me a fraction of what my rent costs now. It will save me, even if my unemployment benefits are severed.

I waited until it was 100% before telling Brian, my roommate, who complained that he couldn’t stand the sound of my fingers tapping on the keyboard at night, who left bags of trash on the floor and squeezed between appliances along with a very distinct odor on my stovetop that reminded me very much of vomiting up cheese popcorn on the car ride back from Girl Scout Camp in the fourth grade. I had to clean it up with McDonald’s napkins while everyone stared at me.

Brian’s needling was wearing on my nerves.

The first “fight” we had involved me coming home just to check my email. I could always feel tension from coming home and taking my computer away from him even though he never threw any money towards the internet bill.

Esther threw up earlier in the evening, and Brian felt the need to repeat, “These dogs need to see a vet.”

I said, “I don’t go see a doctor when I throw up.”

Brian, “These dogs NEED to see a vet.”

I said, “Do you want to pay for it?”

Brian, “No, they aren’t my dogs.”

I said, “That’s right, they are my dogs and I am telling you they are fine.”

Esther had been licking a scab on Maggie’s head that appeared during the weekend I was gone. When I asked Brian what happened, he simply said, “Yo, I don’t know.”

He doesn’t know jack shit.

He would say, “Yo, that cat looks miserable.”

And I would say, “She just spent 10 days roaming the neighborhood rooftops with other cats and squirrels. Trust me, she is not miserable. She is sleeping.”

Now he was pressing about the dogs and I was sick of it.

I said, “I am so sick of boys with no responsibility criticizing other people with full responsibilities.”

Brian, “Are you saying I don’t have any responsibility. (raising his voice) Yo, YOU DON’T KNOW ME, I GOT RESPONSIBILITIES!!”

I said, “I would love to go live on someone’s couch and save up some money. I can’t do that, I have to take care of them.”

Brian, again, “Yo, you don’t know about my responsibilities! I got homies, I got bills, I got my own thing.”

I raised my voice, “THEN FOCUS ON YOURSELF!”

Brian, “I am just saying, maybe the dogs would be better off somewhere else.”

Me, “Like where? A shelter? Cause that’s where they would end up. And they would be put down.”

He shrugged his shoulders. Dip shit.

He said, “Let’s turn down the tension here, let’s work this out.”

I was done with this kid. I don’t need to work anything out- I just needed him to shut the fuck up and sit in the corner until I was finished with my email and dogs.

He said, “I didn’t mean to hit a nerve about the dogs, I just like them and worry about them.” He did mean to hit a nerve.

I said, “They are more important to me than anything, so yes, it hits a nerve. I bust my ass all day long trying to pay for this house and yard.”

He said, “I know they are important to you. Are they more important than acting?”

I said, “Yes.”

He said, “I thought so.” He said it with that weight like . . . then you aren’t a real actor. There is a mentality with actors and anyone in LA who hears you say, “I am trying to be an actor.” Everyone behaves like you have to make this one elected career field more important than any other aspect of your life.

Well guess what, LIFE is what feeds the ACTING and the WRITING. Without life, there is no art. You isolate from life, you are nothing but a want-to-be celebrity.

Ask Julianne Moore and Meryl Streep if they love their kids more than acting? Do you think it compromises their craft? Of course not, you moronic piece of trash!

But, what am I going to do? Argue with some degenerate from Baltimore whose loud voice and poor grammar were belting out my living room window in the middle of the night. He was making my small haven low class and embarrassing me in front of my neighbors.

I turned my back to him and furiously played Scrabble. But he had to keep going.

Brian, “You like dogs more than people, don’t you?”

I was in a bad mood but the half honest answer was, laugh, “Yeah.”

Brian, “Isn’t that like a mental disorder? Its not schizophrenia but . . . somethin’. Its got to be something.”

I turned around, “Are you trying to say I have a mental disease?”

Brian, “Nah. I am just saying that might be something you should look into.”


Me, “Um, I have loved animals since I was four years old. Its one of the first memories I have, its just who I am.”

Brian, “Yo, do your thing! That’s cool. Do your thing.”

I turned around again, “Oh thank you, can I? Thank you so much.”

He said, “We gotta break this tension.”

I said, “Look, I don’t go around telling people whats wrong with them or how to live their lives. I don’t know how people like you find the time.”

Brian said, “You are critical all the time of everyone.”

I never talk to him, he doesn’t know what the fuck he is talking about.

I said, “The only people I can think of whose lives are in need of serious readjustment are people who hurt other people or themselves. That’s it. I can’t think of anyone personally I know who needs to change their life. I just assume everyone is doing what they need to do.”

Brian, “That’s cool.”


Brian, “I got to put on some music or something.”

Me, “My Pandora is now maxed out for the rest of the month, so I’m sorry. No music.” He played my profile until my hours expired without apology or afterthought. He even added a few channels tailored for his own musical taste. He must have been very comfortable here.

Brian, “I thought that shit was endless.”

Me, “It isn’t.”


Before heading down to San Diego for Alan’s birthday, I wanted to pick up Murray Man’s ashes (my cat who died in late January). I had been stalling for six months and don’t want to expose Alan to my misery quite yet. I want to feed him my darkness in small doses, so he knows there is something worth while in me first, before checking the price tag.

Frank offered to take me down to the Pet Crematory if I needed a friend. Though things between us were left hostile and broken, I took up the offer. There is a levity to Frank and I also don’t have to see him afterward if I lose my shit.

I didn’t lose my shit, but I broke down crying in the parking lot. I don’t remember much, just holding Murray’s ashes in a red cigar box and weeping that it was all my fault. My dogs hurt him so badly it triggered liver failure, and I forced him to live in a home where there was ever present danger.

Frank took me back to his place to kind of cheer me up. I kept texting my drug connection for valium or xanax or something- but she wasn’t answering. I guess she was at a baby shower. Even drug dealers go to baby showers.

Frank made a call, the only connection he had was for coke and he bought me a bag. I agreed to it in the four minutes I was asked because this particular dealer has a cut off at 10pm. I thought this to be a poor business decision until I tasted the coke. $50 and exquisite quality. Of course, free to me, which is equally good and bad for a poor girl.

The pain stopped almost immediately and I was gone. I played music. I climbed on furniture. I sipped wine and told Frank things I really hope he doesn’t remember . . . random dark things about myself or my past or my sex life with Alan. Whatever. I was blitzed.

We hashed out the blogs that upset him. He felt I misrepresented him. I explained that any male aggression or anger is perceived as a possible threat to my safety. He said he understood, but he is still struggling to swallow that last blog I wrote about him.

One thing I will say about Frank that will always carry my respect, he never crossed a boundary with me. I told him I was in love and committed to Alan, despite slinking around his apartment in little clothes like a groupie at a back stage party. He was a gentleman the entire night I did blow, and I really can’t say that I know many men that would be. Its nice to know I can trust him, even when totally out of my mind.

I don’t remember a whole lot about the evening, other than I lost myself in that shit all over again and it was heavenly . . . until I realized it was 9am and I couldn’t get anyone to cover my afternoon shift at Doggie Daycare.

Cocaine is the only drug where just discussing it reignites its powers. Coming down is rough. Its a bumpy road, man.

There was still some coke left but I had to get my shit together to go back into work. So I weaned myself off for the remainder of the day. Took a couple shots of tequila, smoked cigarettes and kept calm.

I made it. Even now, a week later, I crave that feeling again- feeling sexy and smart and ok about all the nasty shit spinning around me. Its just a feeling, its fiction and its borderline evil. I looked at the white bag that morning and said, “You are a demon.”

It took a whole day and a half to feel my upper lip again. I was blowing crusted coke and blood out of my nose for four days. All those bad memories and sentiments flooded through my kinked sinuses twice as hard as it would have if I never touched the stuff.

I texted a friend who went through a coke & rock phase in the 80s. He talked me through feelings I had about Em and the friendship, and I felt grounded, sober and good again. The cat I can’t fucking deal with yet.

I packed the quarter bag in with my other weekend goodies I would be bringing down to San Diego. And the night before leaving, Brian stumbled into my living room. He went through a bottle of rum every few days.

Brian, “What up?”

I mumble something indifferent.

That morning, Maggie had diarrhea all over the living room floor. As soon as I heard, I came in to clean up. He complained like somehow I threw shit in his face instead of serving him a cup of coffee, which somehow I think he always expected.

As I scrubbed feces off his free weights, I said, “Hey, that’s life.”

He grumbled, “Yeah. That’s life.”

I said, “Go write a blues song about it.”

He angrily gathered his back pack and stormed out of the apartment.

Now we were back in my living room at 10pm, me at the computer, him on my couch stuffing his face with fried chicken, beer and rum.

Brian, “Yo, why did Maggie get sick like that?”

I said, “She has a very sensitive stomach. It must have been something she ate. I moved your trash off the floor into the kitchen.”

Brian, “There was no food in there, though.”

Now Brian lies. I don’t know why because it makes no sense. He lied about breaking my drinking glasses after I discovered hidden trash bags of them around my kitchen.

Brian, “Yo, I think someone is breaking into your apartment and breaking your glasses.”

He lied about having weed while trying to bum some off of me. Esther, my deaf dog, pulled his stash out of his backpack. (Good girl)

Then he lied about having a bottle of rum behind the couch.

As I stare at it, “Oh, you have rum.”

Brian, “Nah.”

Me, “No, its ok. You have a bottle of rum.”

Brian, “Nope, only the beer that’s in the fridge.”

Me, “I am looking at it, you have a bottle of rum.”

Brian, “Oh yeah. I forgot about that.”

Brian lies. It doesn’t matter because I think he is a parasitic bum anyway.

Back to the living room, the computer, the confrontation.

Brian, “Yo, there was no food in that trash, though.”

Me, “Yes there was. Twice they pulled something out of there to chew on it.”

Brian, “That was the shit you gave them, not my shit. That was your shit.”

Me, “Whatever.”

I went to bed, and in the middle of the night I heard Brian shout, “Maggie THREW UP!”

Waking up, I stumbled into the living room and saw Maggie was sitting in front of the door, coughing up a puddle of kibble.

I cleaned it up and rubbed her tummy.

Brian, “I didn’t sign up for this! You should be paying ME to maintain these dogs!”

I laughed in his face.

Me, “Pay you? HA!”

Brian, “I did NOT sign up for this.”

I said, “You knew exactly what you were signing up for.”

Brian said, “Yo, can she sleep outside tonight? I can’t have her throwing up while I sleep.”

I growled, “You are not putting my sick dog outside.”

Brian, “What the fuck! I am not going to sleep next to her.”

I said, “She is sick, she is staying.”

The blankets for the crate were drying outside after being hosed down from the morning diarrhea, and all I had were a couple towels and my bathrobe laid down for my two pittie princesses.

I went back to bed and I heard him say, “If it happens one more time I am throwing Maggie out.”

Through the wall, I yelled, “What did you say!?”

Silence, then the sound of fiddling with the crate. I said, “You are NOT putting Maggie in a crate!!”

I came out and he had Maggie in the crate, sitting on the bars with only my bathrobe to sleep on. Maggie, making the most of it, was trying to kick a bed out of the 3 feet of cloth.

I said, “NO! NO!! NO!!”

We started shouting.



Brian, “Hey, I didn’t leave shit.”

I said, “I have been cleaning up after you and four animals since you moved in here.”

Brian, “Cleaning up after me!?”

Me, “HA! YEAH!”

Brian, “Yo, I am way cleaner than this place.”

Me, “Please.”

He was shouting, and I said, “LOWER YOUR VOICE, ASSHOLE! I HAVE NEIGHBORS.”

I didn’t consciously mean to call him an asshole to his face, but it slipped out so effortlessly.

He got in my face, “Who you calling an asshole!?”

Me, “If you don’t lower your voice, I am calling the cops.”

Brian, “You are gonna call the cops on a black man?”

I held up the phone.

Brian, “This is fucked up shit.”

I said, “You keep your voice down, or I am kicking your ass out tomorrow. You don’t threaten my dog.”

Brian, “I didn’t threaten her. I said if she throws up one more time, I am throwing it on your bed.”

Me, “You are ignorant.”

Brian, “You are calling me stupid, why, cause I’m black?”

Me, “No, because you are stupid.”

Brian, “What? I am not as cultured as you?”

Me, “You just have no common sense.”

More bickering and then:

Brian, “I am not goin’ nowhere. Check the law, lady.”

Me, “You have only been staying here for a month. You have no legal rights until after two months of residence.”


Brian, “I am calling my homies now. They know what’s up. You can’t kick me out.”

I walked out of the door to smoke a cigarette. I was shaking. Its that feeling where someone yells at you and you are boiling with rage and shock and general FUCK YOUs, that you need to collect yourself.

I texted Frank and Jerry, asking for someone to come and take care of Maggie & Esther while I was out of town.

Jerry was asleep. Frank was playing poker at a casino and was wide awake at 2am.

I asked him to come over. He said, “You are doing me a favor. I am down by $50, I will be there in an hour.”

I walked back in and saw Brian on the couch, furiously texting away.

Me, “I will do you the courtesy of letting you stay the night, but you are going to clear out of here by tomorrow morning. I have a male friend coming over to spend the night.”


Brian, “Ok.”

I went back to my bedroom and waited, staring at my phone until Frank showed up. He did. Neither of us knew how to handle it, like should he come in punching his hand or reasoning with the guy . . . Brian made it easy, he shut out the light and went to sleep.

Frank laid in bed with me and made me giggle- he said, “You on coke, wow, you um . . . put on a show.”

I said, “I warned you, I get a little out of control on that stuff.”

He said, “Well I had no idea, you crawling around on my living room floor was .  . um . . . you are a lovely girl.”

We woke up at 10am, I got up and asked Brian to clear out.

He rubbed his eyes and said, “Why do I have to leave again?”

I said, “You threatened the safety of my dogs and my property. You must leave. Its my residence.”

He said, “And what about the money I gave you?”

I shrugged my shoulders, “I don’t know what to say.”

I actually did, ASSHOLE TAX!

He cleared out all of his things, held my key ransom until I gave him back the few hundred he gave me, then he sent me threatening texts for the rest of the day claiming he would report me for animal negligence (which he misspelled).

I would love to see the caseworker assigned to visit my slightly overweight dogs as they freely romped in their yard, porch and living room. My place is so dog friendly, its almost illegal.

Frank agreed to stay for the weekend and dogsit while I visited Alan for his birthday. It was weird; the coke, the cat’s ashes, the roommate crisis all had me bonding with Frank instead of my boyfriend. It bothered me a little. This was the type of stuff that binds a couple and creates a history, weaving trust in with all the other sticky wonders of falling in love.

Its just not possible with Alan studying in San Diego.

Still shaken up by the Brian fiasco- I drove down to Alan.

Frank was revising his screenplay in my treehouse. He texted, “This place is really conducive to writing.”

I wrote, “Yup. Warmed it up for you.”

I showed up, smoked a bag of ganj and slipped into bed with him. When we made love, I could see his eyes crumpling a lot in thought. There was a distance. My mind was in my apartment that I loved, that I will be giving up, and the dogs and cat I furiously try to support.

The storm was clearing, there was a new place for me to run to that no one knows about, Trent and Kent are on the mend, everyone on Facebook is either moving or getting married. The transitional phase rattled my cage, but the dust is settling now.

The next day, I relaxed. I drank coffee. I caught up on all my television shows while Alan paced with his case studies.  All the adrenaline and anxiety was finally draining out of me. And though I was scared Alan would be grouchy on adderall and stress from finals, he was gentle and sweet with me.

When his birthday morning came around, I planned on cooking red velvet pancakes (he had a picture pulled up of some gourmet red velvet pancakes on his computer the last weekend I was there.)

On the third try, the pancakes were edible and actually pretty good. He came in and cradled me, as I spread Red 40 all over his kitchen and we laughed.

I tried

We drank mimosas and watched The Soup. Then I baked him a Smores’ cake, also on the aforementioned website.

Here things got fuzzy. The champagne was kicking in.

He blew out the candles, ate a piece of cake and then we started making out hot and heavy. I told him I couldn’t stop thinking about sex with him on cocaine. Honestly, going through that bag earlier in the week and not having intercourse felt like a waste.

He said, “I think we should have one more nap first.”

We skipped the nap. He poured us shots of rum and set up the remaining lines for me and I had possibly the most amazing sex of my life. I only remember a portion of it. I remember us both declaring the other as the best lover of our lives. I remember he said he was in love with me.

There wasn’t a lot of coke left, and I grabbed two halves of a Valium in his drawer. Then he gave me a xanax.

Its almost a shame because after asking him to talk dirty to me (which I’ve NEVER done and am honestly rather embarrassed by) I have no memory.

Apparently I had sex with him and got up to answer a text message, than came back, remounted and resumed.

Then he complained that in the middle of his birthday blowjob, I passed out on his hip bone. (I guess the 4am birthday blow job didn’t count . . .?)

I woke up in the morning, stood up, put both hands on the door frame, my hair was eating my face and I stared at him as he studied. My head was pounding.

He smiled at me, calm and clean, “How are you feeling?”

Me, “Shitty.”

He filled a bag for me to inhale and I went to the kitchen for something . . . anything.

He came up behind me and said, “You were saying some pretty dark things during sex last night. I liked it. Normally, I don’t like talking dirty.”

I looked away, “Me either.”

He hugged me from behind and I felt and still feel like somehow Alan is discovering a version of myself I never really acknowledged before. Look, couples talk dirty, no big deal. But I was unveiling a part of myself that even I am not able to fully process. And I am playing catch up with my whole identity when he is around.

Then we had more sex. I felt better.

He said, “I figured all you needed was some pot and an orgasm. Fix you right up.”

Me, “Did I clean up after baking that cake? I can’t remember.”

Alan (laughing), “No . . . I did. My anal side came out.”

Me, “God, are you going to be able to live with me?”

Alan, “Yeah. I will just need my own room, with my own stuff away from the dogs and cat.”

Me, “Did I end your birthday too soon? I mean, was the sun out by the time I passed out?”

Alan, “I have no idea.”

We decided to stop off at a sex store, it was on the way to Taco Bell. It was kind of a comfort, the suggestion to look around at sex toys and clothes meant that he still embraced me as a sexual partner. That whole day I worried I scared him off.

We got food, went home and watched South Park. The xanax made coming off coke easy, and I slipped in and out of consciousness to whatever that smell is .  . . laundry detergent, male deodorant and Alan.  I am so so in love.

I went back to work on Monday morning, but working at a Doggie Daycare is pretty much the best job to come back to after a sex/drug/love fest of a weekend. All my favorite dogs were there, Atticus the one-eyed doberman was coming back now and I was happy to have my home back.

The girl at work asked if I was still moving in, and I said I was.

We talked about the new overnight girl- who reminds me very much of little girls I played with in elementary school who I got to do scandalous things like sneak into rated-R movies or kiss a boy, and later ratted me out to her parents without provocation. She looks like she has never partied, wears spandex and flip flops to work and sometimes a little too much make-up.

I said, “Something about her is a little off.”

Dora (the girl I will be subletting from at work), “That’s cause she did too much LSD in high school.”

I said, “What!? HER!? I don’t believe it.”

Dora, “Yeah, that’s what she told me.”

Me, “I have a hard time even believing she smokes cigarettes, I can’t believe she did mass doses of hallucinogenics.”

Dora, “Yeah, that’s why she twitches and stuff.”

Later, we were chatting with Baye, a Korean dude at work, and we were talking about whether or not Jim Morrisson knew he was snorting heroin when he died, or if his lover lied and told him it was cocaine to avoid a spat about having heroin in the house.

Baye said, “I left behind those days of doing coke, long ago.”

I said, “You’ve done coke?”

Baye, “Oh yeah, I did a lot of it. I don’t really remember my graduation. I just remember going back and forth to my dorm, snorting a line, having a drink and going back. Apparently, I grabbed the microphone away from the Dean and said some nonsense. Then I walked around for the rest of the day in a cowboy hat while chewing on a ratted out cigar. Yeah . . . my mother was . . . disappointed.”

Me, “Does everyone who works here have a drug problem?”


Frank has been hanging around since I’ve been back. Its nice to have a buddy, after all the emotional chutes and ladders.

We go grab coffee or hummus at a local Armenian cafe and occasionally I will say, “Coke.”

Its still in me. Nothing good can come of it, but that shit really grabs me.

Frank occasionally will feed me stories about his coke days in New York.

Frank, “I was at this party, and I didn’t really know anyone. I went into the kitchen and this smokin’ hot red head just said, ‘Slap me in the ass as hard as you can.’ And without flinching, I slapped that ass. She turned around and slapped me in the face. Just before she walked away, she said, ‘You are kind of cute though.’

That weekend, we had this insane sex, I mean, awesome sex. And at the time I was just thinking about impressing her so when she said, ‘Is that guitar expensive?’ I said, ‘No, but that one is.’

She disappeared for a couple days and then asked me to meet her in an alley. I was blitzed out of my mind, so I was just following her, and I saw this car at the end of the alley with its lights on. I said, ‘I don’t know whats going on here, but good luck.’ And I swear she gave a signal to the car, he cut his headlights and she backed towards the car saying, ‘You’re missing out.’ Later they robbed the comedy club of like $16,000.”

I laugh. Shake my head. Walk the dogs. Then when I pull into a parking spot, I will deeply inhale and say, “I smell cocaine.”

Then Frank will launch into another story, “I was friends with this kid in grade school, you know, I kind of felt sorry for him. He was this really awkward red head kid, a little slow. And we would play this game called Girl Power. We would pretend we were being chased by girls and if they touched us, we turned into girls. It was his game, you know, I just went along with it. So we are running along and he would throw up his hands and say, ‘Uh oh, a girl got me.’ Then he would get down on the ground and hump the ground, like he was trying to rub off his penis. Later, I discovered there is a whole mental condition for that.

Anyway, once in a while this guy finds me and calls me on my birthday. He will come by with some ugly woman . . . hideously ugly women, with a bottle and hang out for a day. One day he comes by alone, with a bottle, a bag of coke and small black bag. I didn’t think about what was in the bag.

We snorted lines and talked for a while. Then he slips into the bathroom and comes out wearing a small black dress. This tall, weird looking man in a small, black dress with tufts of red hair . . . it was just (shakes head) weird. I mean, picture it, I am snorting lines off the coffee table, then looking up and suddenly seeing a man in a black dress descend out of my bathroom.

And he opened up to about how he believes he is a woman trapped in a man’s body, how he is saving up for an operation, you know, all of that.”

I said, “And then what happened?”

Frank, “Well, I finished his coke and then politely asked him to leave. He was cool about it.”

Me, “Does this coffee taste like coke? Taste it.”

Frank sips it.


Shakes head.

Frank, “No.”

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Modeling, Narcotics and Gay Porn

Two weeks ago, I had a model audition. I hate those auditions. Models are like actresses but cattier and not interesting. My model booking service always sends me to the same studio for auditions, I don’t think it’s the only company they work with, but it’s the only company that calls me in. The studio is very clean, a large big screen plasma TV, a white shag rug and lots of glass. Glass walls, glass doors, glass tables.

Last time I was there for an audition, I saw two people walk into the waiting room and scope out the girls, pinch their faces in disappointment and shake their heads. Shortly thereafter, I was told by a red haired woman with a pointy face that she couldn’t work with my hair type and excused me in a room full of bitches. Other girls were excused before me, but something about the moment turned me off to those casting calls. I am not a model, I can’t walk, and the only knowledge I have of modeling is from watching every episode of America’s Next Top Model at least once. (Yes, I have.)

So that particular morning, I thought about skipping the audition. The studio is all the way out in bumfuck Woodland Hills, it takes gas to go out and be rejected in person. Its part of the business, I get it, but it reminds me a little bit too much of picking teams in gym class. Though I was the most athletic girl, I was the least popular. They never let me forget it. Here I am again, updating my Facebook status, leaning up against the back wall trying to stay upright on heels.

We were called back and the clacking of high heels on linoleum filled the building. Then, we were pulled into a presentation room and a very sweet Latina gestured towards me first. Me? First!

She asked me to step aside with one other girl, and then we were asked if we would agree to a specific haircut and color. She showed me a spread called Glamazon featuring an Asian woman with long flowing hair and bleach ends. I said, “Yeah, I am fine with that.”

Immediately, the two of us were ushered into a salon parlor where I had to sit on my bony ass for 4 hours as my hair was cut and dyed while being forced to listen to bad pop music. The other model was friendly enough; she had very short hair that was being chopped even shorter. She said, “I book these jobs often enough to make good money, but I am a commercial actress and they always give me hair cuts that aren’t very marketable.” They cut one side of her hair at a strict angle over her ear, left the other side long and dyed portions of her bangs green, purple and frosty blonde. The rest of her hair was a deep black. I loved her look.

She was reading a book and didn’t talk much.

The beautiful Latina working on my hair was conducting a live webinar on the 2 styles- both looks for the fall.

She cut my hair and asked, “When was the last time your hair was worked on?”

I said, “Here on another job in January. I can’t afford haircuts. Well, I can at Supercuts but I don’t know what’s so God damn abstract about asking to look like Lindsay Lohan. Billowing layers. They always only give me two, long bangs and a trim.”

She said, “Well this is better, getting paid to get your hair cut.”

I said, “Yes, its ideal.”

She said, “I chose you in the waiting room. I wanted you as soon as I saw you. If you were here for another casting call, I was going to wait around and try to nab you.”

I blushed.

We discussed dating.

She said, “Anywhere else in the country and I would have a boyfriend. But dating in LA sucks.”

This hair stylist was gorgeous, I mean, she looked like a softer Jennifer Lopez.

She continued, “Now I am finally at that age where I can date someone in their mid-40s and not feel weird about it.”

I said, “Where are all the guys our age?”

She said, “I don’t know where they are.”

I booked this job for $400. That’s the most I have ever made on one job before. Of course, I don’t get paid for 60 days.

When my hair was blown dry, I looked in the mirror and looked different, almost elegant. I have never been that pretty before.

I updated my Facebook status, “Don’t believe what the media tells you about age. I just looked in the mirror and am prettier now at 33 than ever before.”

We were fitted for wardrobe, and the other model came out in a jet-black bob and a black vintage dress, I said, “Wow, you look amazing.”

She was suddenly cold with me, barely looked over and said curtly “Thank you.” Swiftly, she turned around and walked out. Jesus, don’t hate me for being beautiful.

When I drove home, I was high on the whole thing. I knew that eventually I would start getting jobs. There have been some great, well paying prospects calling, auditioning.  . . But no bookings. Sooner or later, I had to book something.

I called my parents. My mother didn’t pick up. She’s mad at me.

Two week before, she was pushing me into moving back to Washington again. What would I do there? My life is HERE.

She said, “But you are miserable there.”

I said, “I am not miserable, I am heartbroken. I was heartbroken up there too. I was miserable when I was stuck in a lease with a boyfriend who was beating me up and my bosses were torturing me. I asked to move back then. You said, ‘Tough Love.’ TOUGH LOVE. I started over on my own and I am not going to give that up.”

She said, “Oh, I see. You are going to bring this up. We gave you that car years ago and I send a couple hundred a year when I can. I . . . I have a headache. I have to lie down.”

I was tipsy but WTF . . . if Jennifer Lopez can move into her father-in-law’s ranch in some Robert Redford movie, I SHOULD BE ABLE TO GO SOMEWHERE TOO. She wasn’t there for me. That is when I stopped calling my mother once a day, and stopped caring what she thought.

She pushed me into grad school. She pushed me into getting married. She pushed me into office jobs. She pushes . . . with no foresight. When I reach for her, she lets go entirely.  I can’t take that anymore.

So here I was, with great news and she was going to turn her back on me again. She and Abe have a lot in common.

I called Alan and left a voicemail. He was in the process of buying a car and finding a new apartment. It seems like everyone is in a major transitional shift. I left a message on my sister’s voicemail and then I rushed over to Trent’s to take him to the doctor.

Two weeks before, Trent got in a fight with a taxi driver. The driver wouldn’t accept credit card for payment, so they were driving around for an ATM but Trent didn’t want to dish out extra cash for gas while they were looking, so tempers simmered. They found one; Trent was tossed on whiskey, wine and tequila. He ate a sandwich, got in a fight with the driver and smeared the sandwich all over the back seat of the car. Pushes came to shoves and they got in a fistfight.

Trent’s lip was split and his hand was swollen to three times its original size.

One week later, he was sitting on his boyfriend’s lap in the back of a car sharing the seatbelt. The car of intoxicated twenty-something’s erupted in an argument of sorts and the car smashed into a barrier off the freeway.

Trent’s wrist popped on his swollen hand.

He is beating himself up.

I told him I would drive him to the “free clinic” which is actually $40. I was late, trying to fit in a free lunch with fridge food back at my place in the middle. I fucked up.

As I was driving him, I said, “I am worried about the people you are hanging out with. I heard you were dragged by a car once a couple months ago . . .”

He said, “Oh. Yeah. Persian guy.”

Trent likes to seduce men who are on the fence with homosexuality. When he gets them to turn, he loses interest. I guess you could look at that as evil, but I think he is doing a public service. I mean, at least now they know they are gay.

We were 2 minutes late and they said the doctor left for the day.

I called around other clinics, but no one could give me a straight answer on whether or not Trent would have to pay, they all just referred us to Urgent Care which is at least $100.

We sat in my car and Trent told me not to worry about it. It was hard making an appointment, he hated the clinic and its the bureaucracy and would rather just drink a bottle or two of wine with me.

So that’s what we did. We grabbed a couple bottles of white at a liquor store and went back to his boyfriend’s place. Kent, the BF, is a high school teacher and wasn’t home from school yet.

Trent said, “At work we see how these boys hurt your feelings when they don’t call back or whatever. It hurts us. You are smart, gorgeous, and really funny. You can’t let them hurt you.”

I hung my head and gave a slight nod.

Trent said, “I really like the blog and I am a total snob. I think you are going to end up being one of those artists that isn’t appreciated until after you die, like Emily Dickinson.”

I said, “Yeah, I don’t really mind. I think it’s my calling to document a life of struggle right now, at this moment in time. And I have to live it to capture it.”

We exchanged some secrets, which easily rolled out of my mouth onto the bed where we sat. Trent smiled and nodded. I did the same. No tears or bursts of confession, we were just kicking in the drywall. We knew each other already, the details don’t matter. Its ok.

Kent came in, cute, early 30s, a little shorter with a full beard and glasses. I hadn’t met him yet, so when he walked in we were pleasant but studying each other from a cool distance.

Trent said, “She is like my soul mate.”

Kent said something to the effect of, “SHE’S your soul mate. Oh, then shall I leave you two alone . . .” or something. It was playful but not.

They invited me to a drug dealer’s house to pick up narcotics for the Gay Pride Parade in West Hollywood the next night. It’s a pretty big deal down here.

While Kent got ready and the boys kissed, I emailed Alan. Buzzing from cheap wine I wrote . . .

Me: June 10 at 8:08pm

“I just looked up how long it takes for all the body’s cells to regenerate because I don’t want Jaq’s vagina on my vagina. It’s 7 yrs. :-/ ” (Jaq is his ex-girlfriend and my ex-friend).

Alan: June 10 at 8:09pm

“Of all the arrangements of words I had not wanted to see tonight, I think that one might be at the top of the list.”

I wrote: June 10 at 8:32pm

“Let me redeem myself: I think about you all the time. Half the time I think about having lots of sex with you and even going down on you (which I never fantasize about) and the other half I am thinking about how to make you happy. Maybe I will learn how to cook.”

Alan: June 10 at 8:53pm

“Nicely done. And I saw your kitchen! You know how to cook! You just have to know how to cook for me. (hint: it involves a drive-thru) ”

Me: June 10 at 9:17pm

“Going to a hippie drug house soon. I want to slow dance with you. And eat Thai food. And be your girlfriend.

Does that scare you?”

Alan: June 10 at 9:22pm

“Well hippie drug houses scare me. Baths really don’t offend Mother Earth. Other than that, no.”

I followed them to this house, and a middle-aged woman in a short black bob, purple (almost stylish) short moo moo and knee high pink socks in pink converse greeted us at the door. The wall to my immediate right was full of vintage Barbie dolls, from floor to ceiling. A room straight ahead appeared to have a red couch in the middle of green walls.  She guided us to the kitchen, which was wall to wall of sci-fi toys still in their original packaging. All the toys were grouped by brand, “AstroBoy” “Jetsons” . . . stuff I never heard of. The toys were the wallpaper.

The ceiling had stars and planets painted as a backdrop with the occasional space ship toy hanging suspended in the air, facing off with another similar model craft. A few of those laser toy guns, like Flash Gordon, lined the wall over the doorway. It was extravagant.

The cabinets had no doors, so you could see vintage glasses and bowls from the 60s in perfect order. A Vintage B-Movie poster covered the entire fridge door.

The woman, Marcia, was nervous. She didn’t make eye contact but was very direct. “What do you want?”

They said xanax, cocaine, adderall and Mollys (pure MDMA). Trent offered to buy me something. I said I never tried adderall. He got me a pill.

We left and walked back to Kent’s apartment.

Once the second bottle of wine was opened, the mood changed. It became an emotional free for all.

I told them about a lover I had in college, and how once I asked him to wear his boy scout uniform and gave him one of the first blow jobs I had ever performed. Kent had a boyscout uniform, put it on and I took pictures of him making out with Trent. It all felt very natural in the moment.


Trent, “Yeah I was in a porn. I was young, really young. I didn’t know what I was doing. You can see me though.”

I said, “Did you get paid well?”

Trent, “No, I accidentally left the check for $600 in the car when I argued with this guy on the film. I asked for the check back but he said that was it. So I didn’t get the money and now my ass is out there. Whatever.”


Kent, “My brother’s friends used to bully me all the time. I was forced to drink my brother’s urine.”


Me, “I had sex when I was 14 with someone older, in his mid-twenties. It was horrible. It was a terrible experience. I was uncomfortable, there was this black light, it hurt and I didn’t know him very well. I ran into him when I was an adult and he asked me if I regretted it. I said I did. He said he didn’t because it was a beautiful thing. I shook my head. I wanted him to know that I hated what he did to me. 14 is young, you forget how young until you actually meet a 14 yr-old.”

I still tell people I lost my virginity at 16.

I never really tell that story because I am ashamed of it. Somehow with them, in this tiny little apartment, I felt like I could say anything and there would be no judgment. It would never be held over my head later. They just knew what I was talking about, in a way most women I know don’t.

We took half a pill of adderall and then I saw the beautiful white lines of coke lined up on the glass table. Kent offered me a line.

I looked down at it and said, “Hello, old friend.”

The snort of white powder tastes like aspirin. As it crawls through your nasal cavity into the back of your throat, your heart starts racing. The real high is about to hit as it slowly drops down the back of your throat into your heart.

I sat down in Kent’s massage chair, the only chair in this studio, which violently rolled into my back. It was painful but I thought it would help work out the kinks in my back. Unfortunately, thanks to the drugs, I sat there for 5 whole hours while my flesh was beaten into rubber cement. My mouth hung open in excruciating pain thinking and emailing. Oh God, the emails . . . WHY!?!? While the chemicals were still merging into my blood stream, I started emailing Alan.

Me: June 10 at 11:50pm

I want u

Me: June 10 at 11:52pm

I want to give u the best sex of Ur life. If I concentrate I think I can.

Alan: June 10 at 11:52pm

Me: June 11 at 12:06am

I am trying to learn about blow jobs for you.

Me: June 11 at 12:44am

You are beautiful. I want to make you a vegan milkshake, give you a Bj and then kiss you.

Alan: June 11 at 12:46am Report

My umm… tastes change with my mood. all of those tastes include you though. now I’m off to dream about you.

Me: June 11 at 12:47am

We are talking about genocide. I wish u were here. Or just awake. Law is more important than drug escapades with me. But u Are amazing enough to make this even more interesting.
Alan: June 11 at 1:18am

Woke up long enough to tell u I miss u already.. bed seems empty.. talk to you tomorrow.. take care of your gays 😀

Me: June 11 at 1:50am

I miss you. Stuck with the massage chair while they discuss higher intelligence and Mayan culture. Always thinking . . . about you.

GAWD, did I send that? For SHAME.

Sometime after, Kent was on his phone, scrolling through a community website trying to recruit a boy for a threesome with Trent. They had tried a threesome earlier in the week, but Trent lost his erection when he realized that he was jealous and asked the boy to leave. The boy picked up his clothes and ran out. Kent thought it rude but this may be Trent’s first love. He must experiment to know what makes this affair different than the others. Experiments must come with failures.

Trent knew what Kent was doing on the phone while I typed away.

They got in an argument and I mediated.

I said, “Trent, what Kent is trying to say is that because the Prozac makes it difficult to keep an erection he wants to bring someone else in the mix so you are sexually satisfied.”

Trent said, “Really?”

Kent said, “Yeah.”

Trent, “I am sexually satisfied.”

I said, “Kent, Trent gets jealous in threesomes.”

Kent said, “Really!? I didn’t know that.”

I said, “Yes, Trent is in love with you.”

Kent said, “I know . . . ”

Trent said, “I love you.”

They kissed. I resumed emailing, but branched out to men I had unfinished mental business with.

To Cabby (my first love from 10th grade). June 11 at 3:21am: “Why did you really break up with me?”

To Atticus (one great date and no call back) June 11 at 3:22am: “Did you read the blog?”

To Kashul (two nice dates and no call back) June 11 at 3:23am: “Did you read the blog?”

To The Prophet. (the most intense love affair of my life) Sat, Jun 11, 2011 at 3:26 AM: “Do you read the blog?”

I didn’t email Abe, nor had any desire to. That’s when I knew I was really over him.

Kashul emailed me back right away, June 11 at 4:09am

“Send me the link… ”

I wrote, “June 11 at 4:35am

“Nah. Just checking. 🙂 ”

He wrote, June 11 at 4:35am

“Checking what…?”

Cabby wrote back, June 12 at 3:57am

“Social pressure amidst my delayed maturity the result of my first TBI.” (Traumatic Brain Injury) Cabby was hit by a car in the 7th grade and in a coma for two weeks. They actually had to staple the top of his head back on. When he woke up from the coma, he cruised through college, got his Bachelor’s Degree and resumed high school so he could be a normal kid and got caught up with me. He will never be normal.

Now he is a Registered Sexual Offender for initiating a sexual relationship with a high school student. I always joke he never got over me.


While Kent and Trent continued debating experiences with botched threesomes and their night in a sex club, stating who was jealous of who, and who wanted Kent and not Trent or Trent and not Kent- I would step out for a smoke.

One would follow me out and we would continue talking. Trent and I got on the subject of attempted suicides, we both had done it and were both institutionalized for it. We really do have a lot in common.

I said, “And what really sucked, is in the mental institution they wouldn’t give me vegan food.”

Trent, “That’s why in jail I exchanged apples for burritos.”

We went back inside, and we finished the coke. I thought about the Prophet, it is my only association with cocaine and part of why we bonded so intensely . . . just like Kent and Trent were bonding now, and I with them. Drugs can corrupt the mind, but they also bind souls.

Kent said, “You are so pretty.  So is Trent.  So pretty.  There is so much pretty in the room I can’t take it.”

I straddled Kent, squeezed his cheeks and said in a baby voice, “You are a cutie pie. Whose a cutie pie? You are. Yes you are.”

Kent asked to put on a video one of his students gave him, it was Pink Floyd Live. Trent didn’t want to watch a video of Pink Floyd, and I even think there was mention of who was jealous of which Pink Floyd band member. Trent wanted to put on gay porn and was describing a scene to me. I asked to watch it and crawled in bed with both of them, sitting at the end of the bed between their feet.

In went the DVD and I watched two scenes of men dominating and degrading each other. It was interesting; I hadn’t ever really seen men do it to each other.

Now watching porn isn’t exactly erotic for me. It’s more like watching Discovery channel but porn moves a little slower and offers less information. The men were angular and blocky with one incredibly feminine man; they call a Twink, always in the mix. Trent is a self-described “Twink.”

Via Wikipedia: “Twink or twinkie is a gay slang term describing a young or young-looking gay man (in his late teens or early twenties) with a slender, ectomorph build, little or no body hair, and no facial hair.  In some societies, the term chick or chicken is preferred. The related term twinkle-toes, which implies that a man is effeminate, tends to be used in a derogatory manner. The terms can be complimentary or pejorative.”

After two scenes, I waited it out until all three men orgasmed on the one guy and then said, “Ok, its 6am. I’ve got to go home.”

In unison they said, “Noooooo! Stay!”

Kent said, “You have a very calming energy.”

I wanted to go home and give myself a few orgasms before the coke wore off, and I would assume they would want to do that to each other. Not to mention, I had an audition in four hours.

Trent walked me to my car and said, “Now you are a really Hollywood starlet.”

I sniffed up one nostril and said, “I’m ready for my close-up.”

We laughed and I went home. I gave myself about 12 monster orgasms. And I don’t use that term lightly. Between masturbating, I played some Pink Floyd and flirted with Alan on-line some more. I don’t know when that kid sleeps.

I wrote: “Sorry about the emails. I didn’t promise you I would learn to cook, did I?

Then I wrote, “I’ve decided after this evening with my gays, that a couple just starting out in love should not go to sex clubs or have threesomes.”

The adderall remained after the cocaine was soaked up by the morning light. I felt worried about nothing in particular and I was shaking a little.

Alan wrote, “Yeah, you are going to want to do a lot of things, but your body will be useless for the rest of the day.”

He was right. I missed my audition, and from that point further, I promised myself never to let the drugs interfere with my career again.

It took me about two days to recover. I couldn’t sleep at all that night and I worked the day after, and then I had my modeling gig. I am getting to that age where looking tired could ruin my career. So I slept a lot, and drank lots of grapefruit juice.

Monday morning, I went in for my first modeling job. I couldn’t afford a latte and the coffee maker I bought for $2 at a second hand shop was broken already, so showing up at 6:30am uncaffeinated was brutal.

Then, to have to sit in a chair and stare at yourself for hours on end while two people whip your hair about … is maddening. I thought about sex to keep me alert.

The woman who rejected me at the last casting call because she couldn’t work with my “hair type” came in to help. She said she entered into a beauty contest to help give her a title, so it would be easier to book hair seminars. She kept saying, “I was way out of my league. One girl gave me something to keep my bathing suit from going up my butt and it was super glue. Another girl said, ‘Congrats on making the top ten. Oh yeah, you didn’t.’ And walked away. They were so mean. So I never did it again.”

That’s why she was so cold to us at that last audition. The thing is, we are all exposed to pretty bitches. It made her want to be one. It makes me not want to be one.

When I left to change into wardrobe, with my hair and make-up done, I looked in the mirror and said, “Never in a million years did I think you could look like this.”

We did the first webinar, which was sickeningly boring. I sat there and let someone display my hair with a very medium smile on my face. They asked for a soft, no teeth smile, keep our face relaxed and not look into the camera during the webinar because it makes viewers “uncomfortable.”

We didn’t rehearse, so during the live taping I was brought in with the other model to show off the final hair style. In heels, I am well over 6 feet and I couldn’t fit on the screen standing up.  So they gestured for me to crouch and hover over the other model.

We had two webinars with a three-hour break in between. We decided that I should not only do the next show barefoot, but also sit in the chair with the other model standing behind me.

During the break, I started talking about my sex life to keep my mind going and engage the others. The other model chugged a 5-hr energy shot and started turning red on any part of her body that was touching the seat or a surface. She had alabaster skin, so the red really freaked her out. I told her to drink some water and flush it out.

The Make-Up Guy became a confidant with the other model. I told them about the director who kissed me during the audition.

Other Model, “Ew, gross. I would never take that role. Ever. ”

I said, “I am taking it, I don’t know, as long as he isn’t the lead actor. I like the script and haven’t done a short in a while.”

Other Model, “Eugh, I don’t think it’s worth it.”

Then I told her about Joel and the $100 check. The Make-Up Guy, a big, black and very feminine man gave the old gay, closed mouth, “Nuh uhhhhhhh.”

Other Model, “What does he do?”

I said, “He is an actor but he also bartends.”

They both laughed and she said, “What is he going to pick up another Saturday night shift so you’ll be his girlfriend. That’s pathetic. Tell him, ‘Hey Asshole, I make more than that just so people can do my hair.”

I get that I was supposed to feel shame and outrage. Everything is complicated though. Joel liked me in a way that made him feel desperate enough for a grand gesture that had nothing to do with his heart and soul. And I felt badly about that.

Other Model, “Thank God I am not hot. I don’t have to deal with directors trying to kiss me or men paying me for sex.”

She thought I was hot? Please.

I said, “You are married. You are in a different category.”

She said, “I don’t bring my wedding band to auditions, but I guess that’s true.”

I said, “I think men can smell that I am vulnerable.”

The Make-Up Artist shook his head and said, “Its hard dating out here. Its because no one is called out on their behavior. You can be whoever you want to be.”

After the second show, I sadly took off the dress and left to deal with more audio grief on my project. It always seems like a waste of pretty to go home alone after a shoot.

The emails came back to haunt me. (Preface: Atticus sent me a puppy rescue story about a dog who shared my first name a week or two ago.)

Atticus emailed back: June 14 at 3:11pm

This may be a stupid question but what blog? Also I should probably mention I have a girlfriend at the moment, so after you tell me about this blog we should maybe go back to our no-talking-during-relationships situation. I know I know, I initiated this one, but that puppy story was just too cute.


I wrote: June 14 at 3:31pm

Oh if you don’t know it’s irrelevant. I was not of sound mind or body when I emailed you and a few others that night.

I figured you had a girlfriend. I am also dating someone but in my relationships emails aren’t a threat. Being adults and all.

Why don’t we do one better and defriend? That way you can feel much more secure in your relationship.

Atticus wrote: June 14 at 3:57pm

Dude, I’m an adult, come on now. I know emails aren’t a threat but I can imagine a saucy email exchange somehow biting me in the ass months later, so I dunno…just being courteous.

If you would like to defriend, no judgments. I have no desire to defriend you.


I wrote: June 14 at 11:09pm

I wanted to go home and smoke a bowl before responding to you.

A) I would not have a saucy email exchange with you because I am seeing someone I think is special, and out of respect for him and disinterest from me, there is no need.

B) Courtesy, Atticus . . . courtesy would NOT be taking a girl fresh off a break-up out on a date and then asking her to come home with you while having no intention whatsoever to call her. You were not forthright with me, and though it worked out for the best, I am seeing now that you didn’t respect me as a friend, as an individual or as a woman. For all I know, you had a girlfriend at the time.

I called you after my break-up to meet because the relationship made me feel cynical and lonely. I thought spending time with someone I connected with and was attracted to would remedy the emptiness. Your behavior only amplified it. And then to find out you miraculously recovered from heartbreak to form a relationship with someone else, when the truth is, you just wanted me for that night.

I am a girl with a heart and mind. And the “diss” I guess is the right word for it was burn on top of fucking gushing blood from Abe.

I spent a few days wondering what I did wrong and concluded you read my blog and didn’t contact me because of it. Which I would actually kind of understand.

As far as I am concerned, I dodged a bullet with you. I am glad I didn’t sleep with you and even happier I didn’t get to know you.

You are a douche bag, Atticus. The new guy is making up for it though, you are lucky. Otherwise, I would be really pissed off right now.


He wrote: June 15 at 1:01pm

Your contempt for me lies in the assumption that bringing a person home for some physical fun is somehow immoral, that good people, male and female, don’t do this all the time without assuming it’s somehow a precursor to a relationship. I resent the notion that this makes me a bad person. If I had somehow lied to you, that would be a different story. You told me you don’t have sex outside of committed relationships, and I respected your boundaries. (Not true, I was on my period, which is why we didn’t have sex)

You were respected. You know what a rebound is, and you know that everything about that night has the obvious markings of one. To quote you:

“I called you after my break-up to meet because the relationship made me

feel cynical and lonely. I thought spending time with someone I connected

with and was attracted to would remedy the emptiness.”

If you didn’t want it to be a rebound then don’t talk about your recent breakup, and don’t go home with your date. I owe you nothing but the respect a good person deserves, a respect you seem to think that I do not.

Very sorry to message you. I’m glad to hear you’re seeing someone who makes you happy.


I wrote: June 15 at 1:13pm

I have had a lover since and was open about what I wanted from that relationship before we got physical. That is the difference between you and me. Not the act, the means to achieve the act.

I liked you. You knew that. You blew me off.



My email exchange with Cabby pretty much ended with his offer to buy me a plane ticket to Hawaii and give him a chance to sexually satisfy me. Something he failed at when he came to visit LA in 2006.


And then Joel, after not hearing from me in a week and change, he read my blog and wrote me a painful email. Per his request, I cannot include it in the blog. I felt badly though, and I think I owe him a conversation.

The blog continues to stack cross winds into a tornado of dry, hot emotion. My personal life was bloody last week, but at least my career was doing well.


My sister took leave from her 9th grade English class and came out for a Joyce conference in Pasadena to stay with me for two nights. I asked her about the man she was seeing, who she was so excited about during her last visit.

She said, “Something’s off. We have gone on 8 dates and not gotten passed first base. He always walks me to my car, is always the perfect gentleman . . . but I think he is either living with his ex or still married. Unless he is still too hurt about his last relationship to get physical.”

I said, “Men don’t work that way. Women do, but not men. Sex is their motivator for almost everything.”

This made me profoundly sad. My sister has not been in love for years and hasn’t had sex in four. Love is magic, when you don’t see it or feel it, you stop believing it exists.

I told her that I partied with a high school teacher who does cocaine. She said, “I don’t blame him. I drink every day, I have to or else I couldn’t bare my job. I gained back all the weight from the surgery.” (She went through two liposuction treatments, which were frankly grotesque. I nursed her back to health after the first one and I never want to see blood and fat ooze out of tiny holes in my sister again.) She said, “I gained back all of it. But I am going to keep drinking.”

That morning, she woke up suddenly and said, “I don’t know why I always have angry, violent dreams.”

She isn’t happy. God damn it.

Before work, she asked me to pick up some marijuana lollipops from the clinic. To my knowledge, my sister doesn’t smoke at all. I think it will do right by her, so I did.

She hated the conference and felt like it was a waste of time, so when I came home after work with the lollipops, there were 6 empty bottles of beer and Mick Jagger singing on my computer screen. I looked at her and she said, “I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t find the remote.”

The next morning, I woke up from a dream where a strange man was pressing into my back hard like the massage chair. I said, ‘That hurts, stop!’ And then I was restrained while he pressed harder. The pain was unbearable. The thought I had in my dream was ‘Let go of your body and leave. Die.’ I woke up with a breathless gasp. My sister touched my arm and said, “It’s ok.”

She picked up her phone and scrolled through the news. Information before breakfast.

My Sister, “Looks like Weiner is stepping down.”

Me, “Its about time. Jesus.” He shouldn’t have lied, looking back; maybe he shouldn’t have resigned either.

My Sister, “And his wife should leave him, but she’s pregnant.”

Me, “So?”

Sister, “She should give it up for adoption. I wouldn’t want any connection with that piece of shit.”

Me, “A baby is more than a connection to the father, it’s a life growing inside of you.”

My Sister, “Blah-blah-blah, blah-blah-blah-bah. I need a wash cloth so I can take a French whore’s bath.”

We got up and went for coffee at a local Starbuck’s, which is our ritual now when she comes to visit.

Walking back to her car, she spilled coffee on her sleeve while rustling through her purse.

Sister, “Damn it.”

Me, “Help is available to you. I have this whole other hand. You don’t have to do everything by yourself.”

Sister, “Apparently, I do. Apparently I will be dying alone while on your deathbed, you will still be getting angry emails from men.”

We said goodbye. I hugged her hard while she lightly patted my back. We are totally different people. She hasn’t discovered the secret. I can tell you, but you have to give yourself up to it 100% . . . “Fuck it all.  Live for your soul.”

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