I’m Losing You

by Bruce Wagner

  Hello, Columbus

  [FedEx LETTER] My lawyer’s sending galimony as a way of saying thanks for the good times (I’m sure you’ll accept). We did have some, didn’t we, Stocker? By the way, if you intended to hurt me with your prank, you really screwed the pooch. When I told Calliope you shit in the doctor’s bag, she was charitably restrained; I don’t think she ever liked you. Said your “compelling infantilism” was a “Polaroid of Self-image”: feces in a pretty package. (A cry for help? But wouldn’t Sharkie cry for kelp? Alack, Tupac Sharkee is no more…) Everyone else I tell—and I do tell everyone—says you’re just a sick puppy. Really, Stocker, I expected something grander. A barbed word, a faux-Proustian paragraph or maybe a short story lobbed my way. That probably comes later. You might like to know the doctor’s bag has been assiduously cleaned and relined. Pargita now uses it as a script-tote; girl takes it everywhere. We’re going to Paris for the weekend. I told her I’d get her a new one but she’s adamant on keeping yours. Says it’s to remind me never to take anyone’s shit again. That’s what my lover says…

  Maps to the Stars

  Work at Century City’s BAILEY’S TWENTY/20 GENTLEMEN’S CLUB is good, clean fun!! And yes, dearest Diary, I AM keeping it from Mom because it would HURT, needlessly so—NO WAY would she understand this is merely a fuel stop on the road to the proverbial pot o’ gold. {Unfortunately, she’d consider the whole event to be a very large, very PROMINENT billboard on that road—a PERMANENT one at that!} Here’s the interesting part {to ME, anyway}: I’m a better performer {that way, on stage} than I ever imagined. The first few days I took a mild tranquilizer—“Zanax,” I believe. Who is it that sits around and gives drugs their funny names?—which JABBA gave me because I was MAJORLY nervous and afraid to drink, in case it would show. Now I’m at my ease. You know, there’s nothing really SEXY about it, CERTAINLY not the classic image I had of the “live nude” dancer. The appreciative crowd is well heeled and well behaved—it’s a “Gentlemen’s club” after all. We do lap dancing {a SERIOUS tease} and the Gentlemen have for the most part been respectful. {If they get frisky, you just have to work around it {{and I DO mean AROUND it!!!}} } Gratuities are good {BIG TIPS abound!! Close your ears, Diary}. On off days, Jabba and I try out routines. This week I danced to ANNIE LENNOX, BJØRK and R.E.M. I try to do something a little DIFFERENT—instead of the girls who use “Proud Mary” or “Purple Rain” {although “When Doves Cry” is a personal fave}.

  Ursula’s dancing here now {!!!} and we got past our rough spot and have become friends. We DO seem to have lots in common {Donny Ribkin notwithstanding. I think she’s still in love with him. Somehow he doesn’t come up; a topic I think she’d rather avoid {{I, myself, wonder what “The Donnie” is up to}} }. EXCEPT that my father wasn’t a shit Marine bastard. The terrible things people do to their children! {SIGH} Ursula and I talk about how we’d like to write a script together, a REAL one about dancers, something that is true and NOT tawdry like SHOWGIRLS {CIRCA 1995}, for a woman to direct. {We’re supposed to go see JANIE WONG {{CIRCA 1995}} tonight, to feel the director out {{a woman}} .} I plan to write a role for myself and LAURA DERN. LAURA’s the type of girl I grew up with: excelling in school, with no more ambition than to be a court stenographer. That’s why the IDEA of LAURA is so important: because wonderful things can happen {and DO} to ANY of us. There’s probably a thousand people out there who knew her back then and now kick themselves, wishing they had her life. SUCH interesting choices: SMOOTH TALK {CIRCA 1985} and those strange LYNCH films {I might have been a little more discerning, but in the career long view, of course, LAURA was wise}; RAMBLING ROSE {CIRCA 1991} and, of course, JURASSIC PARK {CIRCA 1993} which INSTANTLY placed her among a select PANTHEON: that of the BILLION-DOLLAR FILM. {I can’t help thinking what a wonderful 1-2 punch it would have been if STEVEN would have let her play a victim in SCHINDLER’S LIST {{CIRCA 1994}} }. LAURA’S a dark horse who has triumphed, her triumph perhaps greater because she doesn’t have MICHELLE or JODIE’S proverbial looks. For example, her face becomes gargoyle-like when she cries but that is something that—in the long view—helps, I think, with ACADEMY AWARD NOMINATIONS. She’ll never be a “beauty,” yet when one reaches a certain Level, all’s forgiven—God merely amends the Beauty Book, redistributing it to the public so that not only are one’s physical flaws glossed over but they are actually made into new “standards” as part of one’s reinvention. SANDRA BULLOCK and her interesting body, case in point. One wakes up one day and says to oneself, “Well—but…she was ALWAYS beautiful—why couldn’t I SEE??” BECAUSE THEY ARE MOVIE STARS, ALL MOVIE STARS ARE ESTHETICALLY BEAUTIFUL, whether “conventional” or Classic. {I’m HOPING that is true, for my time is soon to come!}. This, I think, has become a rule of thumb. LAURA has further triumphed because of a Mom {DIANE LADD} who I am sure adores her even though she strikes me as a bit of a competitive/crazy—I’d LOVE to be proven wrong. {I myself would opt for the relationship JENNIFER JASON LEIGH has with hers—from out of which came GEORGIA {{CIRCA 1995}} .} Moms are hard enough AS IS, so again, hats off to LAURA D! Dad’s {BRUCE DERN} a professional runner, moody, someone probably off doing his own thing a lot when not brooding on career tailspin. {I don’t know why, but I’m thinking of the sensuous MADELEINE STOWE, who reminds me of MARLEE. I always wanted to see CLOSET LAND {{CIRCA 1990}—I’ll tell Ursula to ask if Blockbuster has it when she picks up EXOTICA {{CIRCA 1995}} {{EXOTICA takes place in a strip club—we’re viewing it as part of our Research}}. I saw MADELEINE’s hands in close-up in a VOGUE once and they were large and unwieldy—her worst feature.}

  Sight Unseen

  …they wanted me to postpone but I went to the hospital anyway. “I’m going through with the divorce.” He cried and I felt nothing. (His stroke was mild and the doctors say recovery will be complete.) Holly, what an empty, monstrous feeling that is you can’t imagine. He isn’t anyone I remember being wooed or loved by, or marrying, or dreaming dreams with. Honoring and obeying…

  I wanted to thank you—we thank you for the gift of these last weeks in the sanctuary of your home (Samson and I play Sea Hunt in the pool every day in front of the angel-grotto. I call him Lloyd Little Britches). I’m absolutely delirious about Vidra’s offer; we will make a beautiful book. It was lovely to meet her, though she isn’t in the best frame—but I guess you know all about her breakup. Small world, isn’t it? And Teorema was such a wonderful project…

  We’re going to stay in town awhile, until affairs are in order—a lump settlement is in the works. I don’t want our future pending on the vicissitudes of this man. Until all’s quiet on the medical/legal front, Samson & Co. may be cordially reached at the Bel Air Radisson (the people at the desk treat me royally—they think I’m an owner!) Call me! Kisses to you and your Polish Prince.

  *** The THIEF of ENERGY

  A dream last night: I was going to lie in wait for Jeremy Stein but Darren Star intervened. ‘It has been true all along,’ he said, looking like the famed Minotaur of old, ‘that you have been terribly wronged. But my child the time for vengeance has not yet come. Jeremy was involved,’ he added, ‘tho not at the level you think. You have done well in taking his energy but now must save yourself for the internecine struggle ahead. In time, the pupil will outshine the teacher.’ I felt a warmth toward Darren I never imagined conceivable. Spontaneously, we floated above the sidewalk outside Philippe Starck’s Hotel Royalton, site of the inaugural party for Central Park West. Mariel Hemingway’s arm hooked in mine—how beautiful she looked. ‘Gina, let it go!’ she informed. We were suddenly high above the city where the lights shone with individual brilliance and myriad lives played out their destinies amid apocryphal opulence and squalor. We strode on wisps of cloud above the Brooklyn Bridge—traversing the stars, a miracle of joy. As we circumnavigated the glowing Xanadu of the Hamptons below, I began to weep large, perfectly formed tears that resembled diamond pendants. ‘It is your father, Gina!’ Mariel said. ‘It is him who has stolen from you and him you mu
st defeat. We will help you. But the battle is not here, Gina! The battle will be elsewhere.’

  Thus will conclude Book One of *** The THIEF of ENERGY .

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  Kiv Giraux

  They are available on certain satellite venues (one called the “Adam and Eve” Channel and another called “Spice”) and are NOT XXX, as private parts are NOT shown. {Camera angles are such that offending areas remain “teasingly” out of view—MUCH more intriguing than your garden-variety porn, of which erotica quotient is somewhat “nil”}. I’ve done three to date: Sleepless in the Saddle, Pulp Friction and Dirty Squealers {a “film noir” motif}. By and large, the production people I’ve met are friendly and supportive—just folks. The thesps are uniformly intelligent and might I add EXTREMELY hygienic, more so than your average blind date!

  Due to my “girl-next door” looks {that I’m a fresh face in the field doesn’t hurt}, I find myself somewhat in demand. That’s a nice feeling in this town. I’ve also been told I’m a hot commodity, oddly enough, because I’m SANS tattoos. Seems since so many Yuppified-types {do Yuppies still exist? Yes, I’m talking to you, Diary, so stop yer yawning} subscribe, the producers prefer the “Vancouver Virgin” look to the more clichéd, standardized “Biker Chick.” Lucky me.}

  I have to say I did much soul-searching when this opportunity arose—as always, in my darkest hours, the LADIES OF THE LIST helped see me through. Actresses have always worked beyond the pale; countless members of the PANTHEON have bared breast AND pubis. Altogether my new venue is not too far a cry or leap. In the meanwhile I am getting FANTASTIC experience with set, crew and camera—I’m quite comfortable around a soundstage, my “in-house” knowledge and professionalism growing leaps and bounds, and that’s an INVALUABLE BLESSING. {I CANNOT fail to mention the extraordinary “case” of TRACI LORDS, though my work in this medium will NEVER approach the explicitness of her early “non-pro” limnings. TRACI’s certainly on a SUPERB trajectory. Her manager said in an interview that because of her work on MELROSE, she’ll soon be presenting on the EMMYS—from there, it isn’t too far from handing out an Oscar or two {{meaning STATUETTE!!! I am SO TERRIBLE!!!}}. Just LOOK at the depths from which she’s come {{TROY CAPRA, director of Dirty Squealers, showed me a tape TRACI did at age fifteen or thereabouts. It was the MOST SEXUALLY EXPLICIT I have ever SEEN, with TRACI giddily vaulting from one stiffened member to another as if in a Sexual Olympics. WAY SHOCKING!!}}

  I’ve kept in touch with HARRY DEAN and he promised to introduce me to a number of well-connected cronies in the legit film world. {ROBERT EVANS is high on his list.} He’s been supportive and non-judgmental and I adore him for that. He even came to BAILEY’S and we lap-danced, as a kind of a joke {I’ll soon be working there no longer}. Afterward, he tried to tip me and that hurt. I told him I didn’t want his money and I know HARRY DEAN felt bad with his FAUX PAS. Upon occasion, I still frequent the MONKEY BAR, VIPER ROOM and Sweets. The last time I visited my old place of employment, Rodrigo comped me drinks and the bartender {new there} recognized me from the Spice Channel! My first taste of the kind of standard adulation so common and everyday for LADIES OF THE LIST—Diary, I swear, as you’re my witness—I’m on my way to the Pinnacle of the Elite!

  Jabba and I have become roommates. Troy helped us move this weekend {he, director of Dirty Squealers and stage plays too numerous to mention. We’ve been seeing quite a bit of each other lately} to a tall apartment building on DOHENY, near SUNSET—a stone’s throw from the ROXY. I cannot WAIT to walk from room to room, I LOVE the smell of new-paint and hygienic emptiness, so magically HOPEFUL and filled with promise. I can finally bring out Mother and Father; it will be plain to see I am truly making it on my own terms. I have become a Hollywood story! The doorman told us GOLDIE once lived here during her ascent {MUST include this effervescent dynamo in my next installment. Forgive me, GOLDIE, for I know not what I do! And by the way, may I borrow your husband?}—as did JAMI GERTZ, THERESA RUSSELL {an interesting anomaly; I wonder if NICOLAS ROEG is as old as HARRY DEAN}, LISA EILBACHER, COURTNEY COX and DAPHNE ZUNIGA. Also KIM CATTRALL {a fellow underappreciated Canadian, especially in TICKET TO HEAVEN {{CIRCA 1981}} }, PHOEBE CATES {KEVIN, I adore you!} and SHERILYN FENN. What a pedigree! From this aerie, Troy and I will plot our assault on Hollywood in all fields, anew! As Troy says, “The world is our keester.” {I love his sense of humor.} All joking aside, I remain Sincerely Yours—and with no regrets…Kiv Giraux.

  GOOD MORNING: Boothing at Sweets were whitehot thesp Kiv Giraux and helmer Troy Capra. In case you didn’t know, Troy and Kiv are thisclose. They’ve just completed their fourth feature together and next month Kiv begins her second book of The Pantheon series (St. Martin’s), “a comparative study of starlets of the Fifties: starcrossed, middling and those destined for the Pinnacle.” The Pinnacle? Congrats, Kiv—looks like you’re already there. {Okay, Diary, so I went a little over the top. But it’s my DREAM and DREAMS should have no limits}

  CALLING ALL ACTRESSES! Helpful Tips from Kiv:

  HELPFUL TIP #1: Don’t smoke—it yellows teeth and skin and creates lines around the mouth. HELPFUL TIP #2: Keep lots of plants in the house. They help you sleep and even aid your disposition. Talk to them and stroke them while you water and feed! “Plants are people too” is a neglected truism. HELPFUL TIP #3: Don’t forget to water YOURSELF. If you have a problem you can’t resolve, by all means seek short-term help from a therapist so as not to have that problem fester. HELPFUL TIP #4: Don’t let the bedbugs bite!

  Phylliss Wolfe

  Communion at Women in Film luncheon with the Usual (premenstrual) Suspects. Jodie’s movie is deep in post; Katherine G just finished directing a sapphic short about a scripter and experimental novelist (write about what you blow). Wants to arrange screening for Griffin and yours truly—because, I know, she thinks I have pull at Sundance. Pargita heard about the Sarandon thing and was all over me like a cheap muff-diver. Not a word on Teorema until the end:

  PARGITA

  (AVEC LINDA HAMILTON/T2-LIKE RESOLVE)

  Let’s just do it, Phylliss. It’ll be so fucking hot. It’s time.

  KATHERINE

  (MYSTICAL/HEARTFELT)

  She’s right, Phyll, you know she is. We have to.

  PARGITA

  Why aren’t we in post on that, instead of this? Why didn’t it happen?

  KATHERINE

  Hey, did they ever find out who killed the Gisela guy?

  I flashed a wan smile at the Sisters Quim, hating myself for that. Said “Yeah, we’ll kick it” or some such rah-rah hip-hop horseshit. Holly Hunter was there and looked fabulous—Christ to Hell, I wish I was Southern::::::::::Dating again and it’s flat-out weird. Does something to me hormonally; I go on these absurd little fantasy-jags. Like I’ll be cleaning out my closet and suddenly start thinking, “Gee. Hmmm. I wonder where women store their bras while nursing?”::::::::::Pregnant again by fall, or bust! But who shall I turn to, when nobody seeds me—a butcher, a baker, a Jewish dealmaker? I do know she’ll be a girl-child, willful and green-eyed and gorgeous. And I’ll tell you something else, E. If she wants to join the circus, I will say yes, yes, a thousand times Yes. She will be the epic child of sky and of strada, my child and no one else’s::::::::::My Gelsomina.

  Katherine Grosseck

  TO: SNOWITE@MSN.COM (PARGITA SNOW)

  FROM: KGB@AOL.COM (KATHERINE GROSSECK)

  Lovely Pargita Meter Maid (AKA Her Snow Whiteness)…What the fuck am I doing here? I mean, besides going to dailies and jacking the director’s ego. Well, that’s what I get for exec-producing. Hate Toronto, always have. The only thing good about it is Leonard Cohen, and he’s from Montreal, n’est-ce pas? Though I have to say the movie’s looking good. Laura Dern is some kinda wonderful. (Did you ever see Smooth Talk, the thing she did with Treat?) Anyhow, Laura saw Janie Wong and flipped when I told her we were an, ahem, item. It’s kicky being on the street with her—she’s mobbed by kids because of Jurassic. Laura is reall
y smart and apparently heard all about you from Jodie, which had me freaking for like maybe a second. (Did you and JF ever make out? Oh, never mind.)

  TO: SNOWITE@MSN.COM (PARGITA SNOW)

  FROM: KGB@AOL.COM (KATHERINE GROSSECK)

  Writing you is almost good as sex—in my head, I call it “flesh crocheting”—must be Cronenberg’s influence. (We had dinner with him and he’s sweetly super-normal. Long live the New Flesh!) I like how you never write back ‘cause you’re the Big Nonverbal Image-whore. Did you know that I’m wearing your plug? Well, I am. My very own Snowmobile—Her Snow Whiteness’s Eighth Dwarf…

  TO: SNOWITE@MSN.COM (PARGITA SNOW)

  FROM: KGB@AOL.COM (KATHERINE GROSSECK)

  So unfair you’re in Rome and I’m still here. When what I really want to be is…stuck in the middle with you. I wanna buy a castle for us in Ireland—in Cunnymara, by the sea. Do that whole resident tax thing and live there six months each year like the big bohemian lezbo artists we are, would you like that, Geet? I wonder if Cheryl sold their place when he died, did you know the Michael O’Donoghues? They had a castle in Connemara. Galway, I think…I could finally read Finnegans Wake and we’d paint and make movies and go on cliff-walks and get sandblasted by scary Celtic winds. Oh my Pargita—Oh my Pa-pa…I ride your clit on the cardiac rapids—me, sure-footed, obedient pack-mule of your canyons. The Snowmobile is deep within: I wear it for ATM and groceries and teeth-cleaning—all the sweet mundane Muzaky chores of everyday life. There I stand at the twenty-four-hour Ralph’s, on line at the cashier, a stab and a shiver while the pimply Latina says Have a good one. Do you know how I fall to sleep at night? I imagine myself flying to Italy, snuggled in First Class booties, slipping into ROMA/AMOR like a burglar, spy in the house of Love. Racing up Spanish Steps, heart in mouth…then your heart in mouth, copper arms again, splayed under mine, those fingers I dream of gripping the iron headstand, all your smells an altar. I turn onto my stomach. Your hand with those fingers, those rings I gave you, moves up thigh to cork—Eighth Dwarf out, yanked from dreamy sleep, then out I come and nod away in the arms of Manchild—sure beats the shit out of counting sheep.