by Bruce Wagner
Since I was a girl at Horace Mann School in Beverly Hills (one of the ‘Four Sisters’ of the Beverly Hills elementary school system: Beverly Vista, El Rodeo, Hawthorne and Horace Mann—the latter being the poorest; Hawthorne and El Rodeo with the most star-studded scions), I remembered being lauded for my literary efforts. My story ‘The Drought’ was deemed ‘Best Written’…the short, gripping tale of a primitive village that underwent a terrible onslaught of drought. This was in Junior High; I was, I would say, the tender age of eleven. The story was only five pages long. On its penultimate page the rain finally came, the ironic ‘twist’ being that it would not stop. And the village sank under, so the final sentence told us, as in ancient times! This morbidly effective divertissement was of course written under the spell of O. Henry and Bret Harte (and even, perhaps, The Twilight Zone), whom I greedily admired. I uncovered the pages of ‘The Drought’ recently, and while it is somewhat Hemingwayesque, one clearly would not necessarily associate it to being written by a child of that age. I have since progressed to more sophisticated authors, Jane Smiley, Stocker Vidra, and Gogol’s Dead Souls—not to say I don’t indulge in the occasional Grisham, Koontz, Straub, Crichton or Krantz (sounds like a law firm)—but this latter quintet, only in bathroom or den. I will not have them in my bedroom, because they sully. My saga will cover the Early Years of my life, with special poignant emphasis on the death of my sister, Wanda—this will beautifully set the stage. There will of course be discussion of the subsequent, infamous kidnapping (which marked me indelibly); I will discuss and share my apprenticeship in the art of massage and festively detail my subsequent acquired intimacy with celebrities on the calibre of Jodie Foster, Laura Dern and Whoopi Goldberg. How I took from them, and gave, too.
As I began this process, I had the desire for a professional person to be available as a bellwether or anchor. I set sights on the famous psychiatrist Calliope Krohn-Markowitz, but the doctor would not see me. I know from furtive Filofax peregrinations that she is currently Laura Dern’s ongoing therapist (I snuck a look while Laura was in the ladies’ room, post-Massage); and that Julianne Moore saw her for a three-week crisis, impromptu. Alas, a sad commentary, but in the pecking order of this town one must be a luminary in order to be seen by certain rarefied psychiatric types—très pathétique! I did talk to her, Calliope finally calling back after several days, apologizing for her tardiness, which was thoughtful if slightly rehearsed, as if covering bases in a routinary fashion. I told her stupidly that I had read various flattering profiles of her (Vanity Fair and Mirabella), and when she appraised I was an ‘unknown’ (I said I was a Miramax executive—first thing that came to mind. It wasn’t enough) she referred me to one Dr Erica Miller at the NPI. All this before I could even ask if her lesser husband could see me in her stead. (He sees his own patients in an adjacent guest cottage—or so I am told by the Mirabella profile.) Haven’t yet decided which course to take re: whole therapist notion. Lie low awhile. It is inevitable it would be a helpful tool, in conjunction with a working journal—the ‘Journal of a *** Thief of Energy.’ Perhaps I will call Dr Erica Miller after all. In therapy, which will enhance and focus my telling of this tale, I will discuss the Men/Women/Clients in my own life; growing up poor in Beverly Hills (shit happens); the death and subsequent kidnapping of my sister Wanda; and slowly building to the Great Rip-off—how Beverly Hills 90210 was appropriated from me by Mr Jeremy Stein and Mr Darren Star; how The X-Files and Mr Chris Carter will too have their day in court. How I let that happen, because I wasn’t a shark, and am ignorant of shark-like ways.
I know if I can massage Julia Roberts or Sandra Bullock (I have already been recommended by Laura to the latter—now there is only ‘one degree of separation’ between Sandra and myself!), one of them will eventually agree to play the *** Thief on-screen.
Hello, Columbus
TO: [email protected] (STOCKER VIDRA)
FROM: [email protected] (KATHERINE GROSSECK)
Dearest Sweetest Sharkee (AKA Stocker Vidra, AKA Mi Vidra Loca, AKA Charlene the Tuna),
Miss you SO bad—the Dolphin misses her Shark. (Starting my period; miss your cotton-pickin’ mouth.) Hate you for going away to teach; live for our time together. The ban on phone calls so Victorian…and so mmmmm. You’re my e-mail fatale. Who ever thought freaking Ohio would be an erogenous zone?
Phylliss told me all about how you’re going to do her memoir. Mercy, I got steamed (mercy of a rude steam)—a writer’s jealous pang, a mercenary, knee-jerk thing about anyone thinking they can put pen to pencil, that it’s so fucking easy—but more, thinking about the two of you stoned, doing slow migration ‘crost a six-mile-high dark empty plane, with Greek chorus of Stepford stewardii in the wings. Hopes to Gawd there warn’t no hanky panky committed in dem aisles (dose lips, dem aisles). If so informed, Dolphina wilst surely speak her Greenpeace then swim away. Holy moly! the sacrilege I would have committed between the stretchy, stained headrest tombstones of those vacant seats…oh well. Comfort at least to know I’m the only one who takes your Red Eye, really takes it, salty cyclops, anytime, anyhow, anywhere. Jeepers creepers, where’d you get that peeper, anyway?
Did you know my ex has been helping Phylliss with financing on Teorema? (He was the one who put her together with Oberon Mall before the, ahem, dental mishap; I still think that’s bullshit cover for drug-induced coma.) Have the sneaking suspicion he’s doing it to somehow still be involved—Donny needs to know there’s some kind of connection between us, even if it’s indirect. He’s very fucked up, Vidra. I’ve heard weird rumors about him that I’m trying to confirm. I think his mother dying unhinged him; this thing he has with me totally relates back to her. He always tried to be low-key about Serena, but I think he was…obsessed somehow. Oh God, did I tell you his father’s supposedly back in L.A.? That is so freaked. This old guy, trying to flog his zombie franchise! I think it’s been a bit too much for Donny the Rib.
Adored your short story; envy your facility, freedom, mastery of the form. Loved “Desi”—it was Phylliss, through and through. All the nuances, conversational rhythm and then some—Phyll would shit in her DKNY! You’re so good, you scare me, Sharkee…I get lost in your sentences the way I get lost in your cunny (and other places). Sometimes I’m angry at les mots for seeing more of you than I do (lately, anyhoo). I get possessive of your participles and subjugated by your future-perfects; your prose poems make me tense. Here I sit with my big dumb screenwriter crayons: “EXTERIOR. HOUSE. DAY.”s and “INTERIOR. AUTOMOBILE. NIGHT.”s. Retardo. So you’re Susan Sontag and I’m Kathie Lee Gifford. Uh, like, I can deal. Goddammit girl, I want your fin inside me NOW. I’m a good Ethel Mermaid and I go where I’m kicked (splash, splash). I wannabe your C-food (cock)tail. I yam what I yam what I yam: Sharkee’s Machine.
Showbiz update: UTA keeps saying I’ll be nominated for Imitations, but I don’t want to think about it. The studio’s supposedly gearing up for a big push behind Emma, so maybe I’ll leech along. On the Teorema front, Phylliss heard about a young director (woman) who’s showing a film at Park City called Janie Wong Eats Cum. (Promising title!) Her name’s Pargita Snow (heard of her? Hard name to forget) and she’s actually a known painter in NYC (kiss of death?). That was enough to make me instantly loathe her—you know your Dolphin Lung-Grin can be a heartless bitch—when I heard she hadn’t done any rock videos, not-a-one, I softened. Phylliss said Pargita is supposed to be a combo of Jane Campion and Q. Tarantino and that sounded hot but I’ve since been puzzling over what the fuck it means. (How ‘bout Wim Wenders and Nora Ephron? Martha Coolidge and Todd Haynes?) Once we get a directress, Ms. Wolfe has convinced we’ll nab our lead. I’m pressing for Jennifer Jason (as are Saul and Shelby) but Phyll’s oddly resistant. Says whenever JJL appears on-screen, the audience begins a “tacit countdown to the rape”; that’s glib and unfair—sometimes the Wolfe sound-bites more than she can chew (which makes for best-sellers, lucky you!). An unknown isn’t being ruled out, if we can get exotic ingenues
for the kid parts and a coupla international art-house heavies to play their folks. Shelby talked about reuniting Harvey Keitel and Holly Hunter; I thought that was a way cool idea. Anyhoo, Phyll’s a soldier and a schtarker, every inch the sweet-fanged kike depicted in your towering prose Inferno!
Wish just wunst in a while you’d let Dolphina take care of you: let her book us some time at the Doral Saturnia—or SST to Gay Paree for a super-luxe R&R wkend between the sheets at the Montalembert (don’t Frette). We could yacht to Capri for some clam (aw shucks. Nothing like a little sexual molluskation). Come on, Sharkee, what they pay me is obscene, so why not do obscene things? Seriously, Veed, whenever I give you things or even want to give, you resent it….I understand and respect your reticence and independence but sometimes I think you carry it too far. Par example, the Jag. I know I should have gotten something more practical, something you could drive from L.A. to the University—like the old Town & Country Wagoneer you had your eye on. Well okay, that one was my big boo-boo. (My heart was in the right place; wish your head was.) I see now the error of my ways, and why I did it; it was obvious I didn’t want you to go! So I got you something old and delicate and elegant and temperamental, like the Dolphin herself. So the damn thing sits in storage like Donny’s damn Impala, waiting. I take it out for a spin, once a month. Just like my hole(s)…
Been re-reading the Keats letters.
Going to the Ivy again with Phyll (seeing too much of her lately) for lunch. It’s full of fags, meaning everyone in the Business. I call it the H-Ivy!
Maps to the Stars
by Kim Girard
Often, at the strangest moment {usually smack in the middle of reciting the Specials}, my mind toggles back to Vancouver and the friends and family I left behind; and I am temporarily sidetracked by that sinking homesicky feeling—penny dreadful! After five months, I was certain I’d be more inured. Today was a bad day in that regard. First thing off, I spilled sauce on my slacks and had to work the whole shift like that which I HATE; I cannot tolerate being unkempt, especially for the public. Kevin wouldn’t let me go home and change. I don’t know what he has against me. Coupled with the fact one of my heels is coming unglued and my cuffs were GRAY because the stupid dry cleaners could not find my other blouse—well, I almost broke down right there during an order. {No, Diary, it didn’t help that I’m majorly PMS.} Instead, I had to swallow my emotions and focus on the matter at hand: the Soup of the Day {I’m trying to make that Soup of the Night. Jabba says the tips are so much better}.
Jabba’s a complicated, VERY interesting girl who’s lived a hard life—I feel privileged in comparison. Yet she’s far beyond me in street savvy and SO beautiful, she looks like a combination of ALANIS MORISSETTE and that nurse from ER. She was almost given the lead in Showgirls or so she said; and I choose to believe her. I WILL not be cynical, like so many of my fledgling compatriots. Jabba’s real name is Molly and she apparently took her nom de stage {a cute and exotic conversational icebreaker} from STAR WARS {CIRCA 1977, 1980, 1983}. Another interesting detail about Jabba is that her father “is-was” a “personality.” CHET STODDARD, according to her, was a relatively famous talk show host in the early seventies. I’ve run this past Kevin and others and indeed they knew the name. That impressed me because GARRY SHANDLING, SHARI LEWIS, KELSEY GRAMMER and one of the FOO FIGHTERS aside {I saw them at Von’s, within a one-week period!}, this is my first “personal” connection to somewhat of a blueblood. She said she doesn’t talk to her dad much {“not because he molested me, which he didn’t,” which I thought was a peculiar way of phrasing}. Jabba has modeled and lived in Europe—my first REAL friend since I came to this town.
And now, without further ado, it’s time for…
GIRARD’S LIST—PANTHEON OF THE ELITE!
With this New Year, I restate my goal: to forge a career in the vein of the following: MICHELE PFEIFFER, UMA THURMAN, LAURA DERN, ANDIE MacDOWELL, SANDRA BULLOCK and LINDA FIORENTINO. {JULIA ROBERTS, you MAY return to the List in coming months but I CANNOT for some reason relate to you just now {{could it be the dream I had of you and your brother, ERIC? He was falling from a rock and you would not extend a hand—would not let bygones be bygones}}. I DO love you for your camera-beauty {{you are like the ceramic white-and-gold plastic horses I kept on my bureau as a lonesome child}}, your regal independence and ability to unapologetically command a male star’s fee so important to all of us working {{and unworking!!}} actresses. Did I mention your quirky taste in men, which is exactly MINE? For me, LYLE is neck and neck with TOM WAITS. I know you were meant for each other and hope you will find your way back again; it is hard to be strong in the ceaseless glare of Media; love is always better the second time around.} If I fail to achieve in my own trajectory as artist, surely it will only be for having set my markers too high—of that, I cannot be ashamed.
You’ll Never Eat Me During Lunch…
Park City exhausting but worth it. Janie Wong Eats Cum was beyond anything I’d hoped for (title refers to gang graffiti; Nexus had to censor and will release as Janie Wong). Funny, fierce and made me cry—three days in the snow with Pargita (Snow): she’s the one, the one, the one! And, E, the most unbelievable thing is I actually own a painting of hers! As Orson Welles said, it’s all true. I evidently moved into her loft in the East Village about a hundred years ago, inheriting a canvas she left behind in the fury of decampment after her split with Kelvin Grotto. He, the Mad Collagist of NoHo. I remember finding it in the closet—Pargita said she deliberately left it but I kind of doubt that—E, you will never believe—it’s the oil on the wall of my study. Haven’t you seen it? Do you know what it’s of? It’s the image of the accompanist—the piano player standing at the window in Pasolini’s Salò! You know: the pianist goes over to the window and you think she’s taking a break or something but she just steps out to her death, walks into the air like a sleepwalker. Pargita Snow left it and I’ve always hung on to it. Not too bizarre. I offered to return, and she refused. Made a few calls—it’s probably worth about twenty-five thousand. She is obsessed with Pier Paolo and was planning a movie of his life called The Agony of P3. She tried to get Malkovich interested and you know, I think he’d be great for the dad. Serendipity doo-dah! Kismet and kizz me too, oh cum-drunk Janie Wong! The girl is wild. Smoked tons of hash (been twenty years) and went midnight range-riding with Oliver Stone and a horde of Nexus execs (I call ’em “Nexex”). Heard all kinds of gossip: like Arnold Vega’s fucking his fourteen-year-old stepson! (Put that in your Prince Albert and smoke it.) And…that while she was making her documentary, Gaby Silverman masturbated a prisoner—a multiple murderer, no less! Did some masturbating myself, won’t say with who::::::::::Here I am again. Boy, some cliffhanger. You won’t get it out of me; let’s just say he’s famous and young enough to be the son I never had…and you, sweet guy Friday, would gleefully rim Al Sharpton after a marathon run for a chance at thirty seconds of tongue-in-cheek with unsaid paramour. Oh what the fuck, it’s Cat Basquiat. There, I said it. Now, unstick your tongue from the floor and keep typing. Sez he wants to see me when we’re back in L.A. but there’s::::::::::Eric, do I have a Calliope today? That new pill is giving me cotton mouth. It’s called Zoloft; Katherine Grosseck’s on it too ‘cause she’s been having love problems—that’s right, with my very own editor. (Not too incestuous, this town.) She calls it “Zoloft, been good to know you.” Don’t you just love it? That’s why she’s a writer and I’m a talker. Or am I?
Hello, Columbus
TO: [email protected] (STOCKER VIDRA)
FROM: [email protected] (KATHERINE GROSSECK)
Am cut to the bone. What did I do to invoke such rage? That was a love letter, anyone could see! The only “hidden agenda” was how I hate that you’re in Ohio, Vidra—hate being apart. Staring at the stupid laptop for hours, wondering where I went wrong, pathetically looking for my hidden agendas. So tired of being the victim…sitting here with my Wheat Thins, Cherry Coke and Percocet, Powerbook a gray grave,
headstone scrolling its digital glow-in-the-dark epitaph. Does that make you happy? Isn’t it obvious that I feel nothing toward Donny? And I was teasing about Phylliss. Hanky-panky with Phylliss Wolfe? Jesus, Vidra! “Dolphina will swim away” was flirty and frolicsome; to you, it was a “passive-aggressive doomsday scenario.” Hel-lo? Are you seeing someone else? Kinda sounds like it, no? Like you’re looking for the egress. If it’s true, Vidra, let me know; I’ll stay on my perch awhile before climbing down. Tough finding trapeze work these days.
Sight Unseen
MEMO: To Oceanspray Strongboy Sam
NBC’s doing Daddy’s series, Palos Verdes. The announcement buoyed him—for a few days, we were a happy TV family again. He snuggled you. But now he’s back to five A.M. workouts and coming home so late. Did you know your daddy was cross-eyed when he was just a tiny boy? They corrected it with surgery before his teens but I think Jeremy actually feels he “passed something on,” though the doctors say there’s no connection whatsoever. One of those crazy macho things—he’s convinced your sightlessness is on account of his weak genes. We both went and saw a therapist, Mitch Markowitz, recommended by—guess who?—your godmother, Holly Hunter (who’s coming all the way from Warsaw to see you soon, ya know). A very empathetic man. There’s evidently a long waiting list (he’s married to a famous “shrink to the stars”) so we were lucky Holly got us in. Sure helps having a godmother who’s an Oscar winner. Ain’t nothin’ but a g-mother thing! Jeremy was uncomfortable being there and I thought he (Dr. Mitch) did a bang-up job at setting him—setting us both at ease. I think he’ll draw Daddy out of his shell.