I’m Losing You

by Bruce Wagner

  Saw CAMERON DIAZ today, on the Promenade.

  *** The THIEF of ENERGY

  Congratulated Katherine on her Independent Spirit Award. While setting up, I asked if she might eventually, at her own discretion and convenience, peruse some pages of *** The THIEF of ENERGY (she, slightly loaded, as usual). KG was sweet about it. I think the fact I softened her by being obeisant, and that I am a so obvious ‘nothing’—and that she is gay and I am to her a possibly gay woman or at least interested in the permutations—made it easier to be cordial. I didn’t want her to feel tied, so effortlessly changed the subject and saw her sparkler-like energy gratefully expand and release. I caught it and grew stronger. I will not give her pages that discuss taboo things: stealing from clients, ect. Only violent/quasi-poetic passages pertaining to Childhood Lost: i.e., the drowning of Wanda and my being held prisoner by the hardly recognizable man who once called himself our Father. Too, I would like her to read passages pertaining to my career as an autodidact.) When I drew close to her pubis, Katherine said the lights were bright and I lowered. MTV was on, without sound, Mariah Carey. I concentrated on ass muscles and she started to subtly gyrate against the table. I kept molding the muscles and she expelled air (from her mouth!) and moaned, continuing the circular pelvic movement. I took liberties to spread the cheeks apart to reveal the tiny craterstink of asshole—obvious, I think, to her, what I was doing—then wider, as if to display medically to George Clooney but I think she would have preferred Julianna Margulies)—she moaned more. Though I never touched genitalia or asshole, Katherine climaxed; I was careful to absorb the cushion of energy like a shockwave through the air. When I was through, we fooled around approx. fifteen-twenty minutes, kissing and kneading and her ejaculating into my mouth, I milking her energy, and soon she was like a snake that had no more venom to give. She gave me much and I know I will see her again she is in my webb.

  You’ll Never Eat Me During Lunch…

  Teorema is dying. There, I said it. Plus five other Gisela Group projects that appear to be moribund as a result of Mr. Chief Partner’s untoward, karmically ominous demise. Penumbra may step in—so says the sage and dyspeptic Saul—and Nexus too. I’m not really holding my breath. It’s starting to feel like a circle jerk (don’t get excited, E). Where’s Dawn Steel when you really need her? Probably at the Post Ranch Inn, thinking up bad book titles. Me, I’m gonna suck on Zoloft and go Agape till the storm passes::::::::::Saw Donny Ribkin (Angel of Death) at Bar Marmont and he said he ran into the ex, who it seems is doing a hush-hush rewrite on the Jodie picture. It gets better: evidently, Jodie’s having second creative thoughts about her director, and Katherine has introduced her to…yup, Pargita Snow. If this is true, I think it’s rather weird Katherine didn’t tell me. I know people have to eat but there’s such a thing as candor. I mean, does everyone out there know something I don’t? As far as Katherine—as far as any of them know—we could be shooting Teorema in four months! What right does she have pulling Pargita into a seductive fucking situation that could potentially jam her for a year and a fucking half? Those dykes. Everyone talks about how fucked up men are but women’ll slit your throat every time. I’ll fix ’em::::::::::Forgot to mention I’m pregnant. You heard me, E. Yeeeeee-Haaaahhhh!

  *** The THIEF of ENERGY

  Late for rub with Katherine Grosseck. (Amusingly titillating that I was her simulacrum in the office of Dr Calliope Starfucks, she not even aware until the last moment. A reportage was not forthcoming in the papers, not even the Beverly Hills Courier. I am certain, though, police were contacted. I have zippo to fear—I touched nothing to leave a print, save magazines and paperweight, which were taken along.) I rang Katherine’s door but she did not answer. It was a tad open; I entered the cool darkness. Chrissie Hynde on low somewhere. My pulse sped automatically, remembering how it felt to break and enter: electric dizzy beautiful feeling you can do no wrong, you are energetically impervious to all and do not waver. I thought of taking things and knew I would not. Tho I must say it is continuously fascinating to note my primal desire upon entering rooms emptied of people…to rob! Then I heard them, and walked back and saw: Katherine and (female) friend on floor of room where she takes her rub, naked and wildly going at it—so much energy I became still and closed my eyes to bank on it like a hawk on currents/eddies of furnace-like wind, she saw me and whispered, ‘We’ll be through in a minute,’ unexpected and clinically disarming. Her friend laughed, I thought it a laugh then it became more gurgle then giggle, a smear on the other’s face the color of eggplant, I knew it was blood and sensed they did not want my (overt) involvement, only (covert) witness which I am sure was planned, at least by K. Grosseck. I was fine with that. My rub then proceeded approx. twenty-five minutes later (non-sexual, I may add, KG being spent, with the other busying herself in the kitchen quasi-domestically, then disappearing altogether). I was able to gather much energy from the room and post-orgasmic body(s).

  Hello, Columbus

  WESTERN UNION FSI

  DALLAS TX 75238

  TDDA SANTA MONICA CA 52 05-06 0428P EST

  9515709990473101-1

  JODIE REWRITE KILLING ME. REQUEST PERMISSION TO COME ON DECK. SQUAWK SQUAWK, POLLY WANTS A CRACK PIPE. POLLY WANTS TO PICK UP PHONE, HEAR VOICE OF VEEDRA. PRETTY PRETTY PLEASE, WITH STOCKER ON TOP? IT’S JUST THAT I WRITE ALL DAY AT THE STUDIO AND WANT TO HEAR YOUR VOICE TO BE ABLE TO PICK UP THE PHONE. REQUEST ONE-TIME WAIVER. COME OUT, COME OUT, WHEREVER YOU ARE. EVER THINE, CHARLENE THE TUNA-FORK (CATCH OF THE DAY)

  MGMCOMP 23:35 EST

  Maps to the Stars

  Two weeks of utter Hell but I know the LADIES OF THE LIST had their share of setbacks between triumphs.

  I was fired from Sweets and am tempted to file suit. I was just beginning to feel comfortable there—not cocky—and that was my mistake. ALWAYS the mistake of the ingenue, but I’m not by nature a guarded person. Donny cannot be of help; we’ve been playing phone tag and now he is in South Africa with famous BISHOP TUTU. Not that he would have lifted a finger. He’s been remote since we “did” it and I know now that I erred. Live {love} and learn. {SIGH.} I have {innocently} dated some Sweets regulars and while that may have been a misjudgment, it certainly wasn’t a terrible or unusual one {because NOTHING HAPPENED and anyway, this was NOT the reason of my “dismissal”}. I went out with HARRY DEAN TWICE {he invited me to one of his shows at the VIPER; he has a nice voice and the effect, particularly for someone of his age, is quite impressive. DAVID CROSBY came in the middle of the show, looking much like he did before the transplant—fat and Cheshire-smily. {{His wife and baby were there and the baby had tiny earplugs.}} } I also dated {ONE TIME} a guy who works for MADONNA’S production company {so he said} and {ONE TIME ONLY and NEVER AGAIN} a television producer/writer who called out of the blue to say we’d met at the Children with AIDS event on the Fox lot. {I’m sure Rodrigo gave him my number. More to come}. According to this VERY RUDE gentleman {how was I to know?}, I am the spitting image of DOROTHY STRAT-TEN, the STAR 80 {CIRCA 1983} girl. Not the first time I’ve heard that and it’s always very flattering. If only I could find my PETER BOGDANOVICH. {SIGH.}

  Jeremy Stein—that is the ONLY and LAST time, Diary, I will EVER write his name—took me to a party at CARRIE FISHER’S. {He is the one who said we met at the Fox lot event but I did not remember. Now, I know why.} I could not BELIEVE who was there. I kept running to the bathroom to write down names so I wouldn’t forget {they must have thought I was doing drugs, just like my “date”!}: RICHARD DREYFUSS, CANDICE BERGEN, BETTE MIDLER, STEVEN SPIELBERG, ROSEANNE, NICOLE KIDMAN {TO DIE FOR {{CIRCA 1995}} }. She was SANS Tom because of his MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE {CIRCA 1996} publicity chores. {Did you know, dearest Diary, that this lucky twosome will be soon be working with MR. STANLEY KUBRICK in what VARIETY calls a “tale of obsessive love and sexual jealousy”? Can’t wait!!!} Nicole is a very gorgeous, funny lady and TALL TALL TALL—I think TOM is the one she must mean when she says “THROW ANOTHER SHRIMP ON THE BARBIE!!!” I
nteresting to note MIMI ROGERS is no slouch in the height department either. {I have seen pictures of TOM’s mother—she and MIMI look like twins!! how VERY Freud-like.} HARRISON FORD and TOM HANKS were there and BARBRA STREISAND {!!!}, SEAN CONNERY, JENNIFER ANISTON, SALLY FIELD, MERYL STREEP and WARREN {his name is MUD in my book!!} with ANNETTE {I was thinking of adding her to the PANTHEON but her power, sadly, has been usurped by marriage. Gosh and golly though, is she classy—the epitome of Town and Country, of whose cover she recently graced}, MIKE NICHOLS, SEAN PENN and BOB DYLAN—all in one house at the same time, and THOSE were the ones I RECOGNIZED!!

  The PERSON WHOSE NAME I WILL NOT AGAIN MENTION was kissing me in front of everyone and pawing my chest and I kind of pushed him because it was so embarrassing and CARRIE {a brilliant elf, in ARMANI black} made a joke about testosterone levels at his expense, I don’t remember exactly what, but it was a rebuke, as should have been under the circumstances. The TO-BE NAMELESS PERSON laughed, as did the others, and from then on ignored me. Around half an hour later he grabbed my arm while I cordially chatted with the talented and underused RITA WILSON (NEE HANKS), forced me to a corner and said, “you fucking {C-WORD}”—so hideous. SALLY FIELD and RITA saw all, and MIRA SORVINO and KATE CAPSHAW too. I was SO SICK I went to the bathroom and cried but could only retch. I could see through the window to the front of the house—the valets were bringing THE NAMELESS PERSON’s car. He left!!! His action greeted with a mixture of shame and relief. I walked down the hill crying and there was ED BEGLEY JR. and ROBERT DOWNEY JR. and newlywed DON HENLEY of EAGLES fame. I sensed ROBERT wanted to say something kind {I waited on him once at Sweets; I don’t think he remembered} but was such a mess I just kept walking, afraid as I drew nearer the gate wouldn’t open and I’d be stuck there, ogled at as the party-crashing whore of all time. {At this point, I was crashing in reverse.} Luck would have it that a car came in off the street and it was ALBERT BROOKS {who I LOVE—he caught me in his headlamps and looked at me funny} and I kept walking, trying not to burst into tears. I went down Coldwater all the way to the “pink palace,” and continued down RODEO DRIVE until I reached the Japanese-owned Regency Beverly Wilshire {site of PRETTY WOMAN {{CIRCA 1990}} }. I saw limos up the street—PLANET HOLLYWOOD. I went to see Jabba but they said she wasn’t working there anymore. I took a cab home and had the best bubble bath then cried myself to sleep.

  You’ll Never Eat Me During Lunch…

  Grosseck and Snow killed my movie. Pargita is directing Jodie’s film; they start shooting in less than three months. I’m not speaking to either and trash them everywhere I can, any chance I get. If a director isn’t found in two weeks, the jig is up. We’ll lose Harvey, and Holly too. Saul is desperate, even suggesting I direct (don’t laugh, E, it’s too heartbreaking). Saul thinks we should ditch the Usual Indie Suspects and go for Milos or Phil Kaufman. (Script’s out to Larry Clark.) Saw Jodie at Zev Turtletaub’s, who may put up some money. Told her I was going to sue the shit out of her director and hoped court appearances wouldn’t interfere with their schedule. Jodie played dumb—one thing she’s never been accused of—and I can’t blame her. It ain’t her problem::::::::::Bless his heart, Dr. Donny R gave me Demerol pills left over from his cancer-dead mom. As you already know, I’m mixing them with coke. And I thank you for your concern, Princess E, but please do not call 911—yet. The Dark Prince of ICM told me a hilarious story, which I herewith include to earn my advance (gotta zing for my supper, right?). He represents a screenwriter with AIDS. The writer sells a script to a Big Director. It’s not quite a go, but you know not bad, a script in active development, boxed blurb in the trades bla bla bla. Sells it for three hundred-something. Anyhow, the guy’s had AIDS for like twelve years, asymptomatic. He’s in the closet about it. Finally he gets CMV, one of the Big Three opportunistic infections. Maybe there’s four. Or five, what the fuck do I know. CMV attacks the retina, right? (I’ve learned more over the years about all this than I care to know.) Eventually you go blind but not before they stick a thingee in your chest, so when you’re at home you can infuse yourself with this cell-killing shit that sort of holds back the tide till you drop dead. Sorry, E. I know you already know all this but Vidra doesn’t. Or maybe she does, for all I know she’s Queen of fucking AmFar. Am I slurring words yet? Anyway, the screenwriter decides to come out of the closet, minimally. Tells his mother he’s Positive—she lives in Akron or something. Mom completely wigs. She calls the director. “Please!”—she’s crying—“you have to make my son’s movie, he’s dying of AIDS!” So the director calls the writer, who (of course) says, “Rumors of my death have been greatly::::::::::

  Maps to the Stars

  Dearest diary, I must speak my peace, at least to you. Here, then, is how I was fired.

  It was a Monday night {the busiest, with the most celebs} and CAT BASQUIAT was there with an older woman. CAT has been in a number of times {once with ROBERT DOWNEY JR.} and is always very gracious and open, much like the many profiles of him infer. CAT and his older lady friend sat in a back booth in my section. {I thought maybe she was his agent or manager} and were very into themselves. He left the table and when she gave me her VISA, I noted the name on the card to be PHYLLISS WOLFE—who I immediately connected with the article in THE HOLLYWOOD REPORTER as producer of TEOREMA. Naturally, I said something—perhaps that was inappropriate, perhaps not, but in this town I hardly think so. She seemed pleased to be “recognized.” I told her I’d auditioned for the role of the Stranger and even went so far as to rent the movie upon which their project was based. She was friendly but I wisely took my leave before the inevitable Awkward Moment. By the time I returned with the credit card slip they were arguing, with unexpected VIOLENCE. CAT slammed his fist on the table and Ms. Wolfe seemed badly shaken. I felt a kinship to her and was actually worried he might strike out, and though he isn’t that kind of person at all, one cannot tell—THAT was my crime. I very LIGHTLY said, almost joking, like a schoolmarm, “Alright, let’s settle down,” and that was when Ms. Wolfe glowered at me {if looks could kill} and MR. BASQUIAT said quite cockily to “go clear a table.” Which I did, and gladly. It was so clear they’d transferred their problems onto me as a classic scapegoat. People are majorly crazy!!

  To make a long story short, the next day Rodrigo calls to say he must let me go! For WHAT, I say and he says “soliciting jobs from clients”!!! OH MY GOD. Can Ms. Wolfe and MR. BASQUIAT be so PETTY? To vent their anger at ME, who struggles the way they have struggled before me? To laugh at my hopes and my dreams? My goal to star {or co-star} in TEOREMA was perhaps unreal, but now, it is dashed like so much driftwood. Diary, I cried and cried and for the first time thought of returning to B.C. But then I took a deep breath and went for a long walk on the Santa Monica pier. I thought of the story I read in the Times about the man who handcuffed himself and jumped off the end, the man who was rescued by passersby who just happened to be HEIDI FLEISS and DR. STEVEN HOEFFLIN, MICHAEL JACKSON’s plastic surgeon {they were dining at the chic IVY AT THE SHORE}—what doesn’t kill me will indeed make me stronger. I will take the blows, gladly, but will NOT be defeated. I’ll have no regrets along the byway, and be able to hold my head up high and say—I did it MY WAY—

  Sight Unseen

  Boy, you’re getting greasy! You’re just about as juicy as a big old Fat Burger. Make that a Sloppy Joe. Know what I’m gonna start calling you? Minnesota Fats, that’s what.

  Today, we moved to g-mother Holly’s guest house, just around the corner from your pal Diane Keaton (Mommy helped cast one of her China Beaches, way back when). Holly and Janusz said we could stay indefinitely but I think a few weeks sounds about right. We were burnt out on Hermosa, weren’t we? Too much sun and in-line skatin’ fun. Time to enter our Day of the Locust phase, Burgess Meredith tromping wheezily through the hills, exotic drinks at the Garden of Allah and all that—plenty of old contract player ghosts in Beachwood. Hol’s doing a movie for DreamWorks of all people so she’s here a week or so then off to Texas f
or two months. A very cozy nest we have here, extremely cosi fan tutti, very Holly and that’s why it feels so right. We have our own little bougainvillea’d porch; you can hear the plashing of a terra cotta fountain over the pool (little rock angels holding their wee-wees just like you do).

  I have plans for us, Oceanspray, big ones! We’re going to take a train ride to your grammie’s!—up to Portland—chucka chucka chucka chucka—over to Idaho—chucka chucka—Montana—chucka chuck chucka—North Dakota—chucka chucka chucka chuck woo-woowoooooooooooooohhhhhhhhh! Won’t that be heaven? And I promise: you will have the biggest Fourth of July of your life! (Minnesotans do it right.) You’ve never seen a backyard like Grandma Willy’s. We’ll hop in her great big cotton—candy bed and I’ll write messages-in-a-bottle while you gurgle prayers and salutations to St. Cloud (that’s where Grandma lives and where Mama was raised—St. Cloud, Minn.). Say, won’t it be wonderful to publish in Braille? Wunnerful? Marvelous? Or do you not have a single thought in that beauteous, will-o’-the-wisp head?

  You’ll Never Eat Me During Lunch…

  Abortion three days ago. Cat left for Europe just before. On All Bloody Eve we had a long drug-den-to-SST chat (as long as SST chats can be) that culminated in the achingly tender offer to send Chelsea, trusty chore whore, along to the clinic (yes, E, I’m being serious). I politely declined::::::::::Know who I dream of every night? Sara Radisson and her blind baby boy. I—oh God, I…shit::::::::::Eric, do you—I really need you to start looking at places I can—do you know about the Doral Saturnia? In Florida? Because I really need a place where I can chill—there’s just too many people I know at the Canyon Ranch::::::::::Shelby said Sara’s husband left her—alone, with a sightless child! Motherfucking cocksuckers. Did you know all fetuses are female until a male hormone’s introduced? Men are fucking anomalies, mutations::::::::::E, why did I do it? What was I fucking afraid of? I just want to die! Calliope says I didn’t—because it’s—directly tied to my father’s rape. The fear of bringing a baby—another girl—like I’m some breeder—goddammit goddammit goddammit! It’s all so…so boring and so fucking tragic. I’ll be forty-four in six days, six hours and twenty-nine minutes. Twenty-eight. Twenty-seven—how I hate this life::::::::::blind babies again, chasing me through fields like in a horror film. They don’t run, though, they glide or they fly, like fruit bats. No emotions attached, mercifully. I don’t wake up screaming. Maybe that’s the problem.