by Bruce Wagner
She considered going inside for a fruit plate then embarking on her mission, as planned. She could linger at the pier or have a cappuccino at Shutters before dropping in at Rusty’s on the way back. Take him by surprise.
Then she thought better of it, having had enough excitement for the day.
A Brief History of Tantric Buddhism
IN HER BED, Lisanne McCadden dreamed of Kit Lightfoot.
They were by the ocean, making a movie. Filming was delayed because an animal got caught in a generator and the crew was trying to free it with long, lacquered sticks. Kit lay on his side on a peaceful promontory overlooking the water. He was sketching in the sand, and something about the way he concentrated reminded Lisanne of the monks she’d seen at the Hammer Museum. A talking baby was there, like in one of those old Ally McBeals. When Lisanne woke up, she couldn’t remember anything the baby had said.
She thought the dream was psychic because a few minutes after she arrived at work, Reggie gave her a pair of tickets to see the monks perform that very evening at UCLA. She thought of who she might ask but no one seemed handy. She decided to go alone.
• • •
THERE WERE ABOUT a dozen of them onstage, but this time they wore elaborate costumes and headdresses. A small photo of H.H. the Fourteenth Dalai Lama rested on an altar, with an architectural model of a many-layered temple beside it. Microphone headsets were the monks’ only bow to modernity. The characteristic amplified yoy-oy-yoy-oy-yoy throat chants accompanied drums and weird metal instruments, creating a haunting cacophony of sounds. At varying times, the holy men looked as if they were making signs and signals with their hands like ballplayers, but Lisanne hadn’t rented binoculars so couldn’t be sure. The man beside her was snoring and no one seemed to mind. A row ahead, a bored little boy fidgeted. Lisanne thought it sweet that his father had brought him to the ceremonies.
Slowly and fantastically, it dawned upon her that just one aisle over and four rows down, sat none other than Kitchener Lightfoot, flanked by Viv Wembley and the comedian Paul Reiser. Kit’s eyes were closed. He looked as if he was mediating.
After a few minutes of obsessing, Lisanne looked down at her program to distract herself. It said that tantric meditation was considered the “quick” way to enlightenment. Books of the tantra described not just one Buddha but thousands. A tantric meditator was supposed to visualize that he or she was actually one of those Buddhas, and she wondered if that’s what Kit was doing that very moment.
Her mouth moved as she silently read that
Vajrabhairava’s name means “Diamond Terrifier.” His bull-like face indicates that he has overcome Yama, the bull-headed Lord of Death. From the top of his head emerges the small peaceful face of Manjushri, who embodies all of the wisdom of all the Buddhas; Vajrabhairava symbolizes that wisdom transcends death.
Maybe Kit was just going over lines in his head, for tomorrow’s shoot . . . or maybe he was thinking: Who is that girl across the aisle, four rows back, the Rubenesque milkmaid who charmingly does not even notice how totally into her I am? Who is that amazing, secretly pregnant, sweet-faced executive assistant who could have no possible way of knowing that I am only sexually excited by similarly proportioned women who also happen to be phobic about flying? I need to have her in my life!
She gave herself the chuckles amidst all the sacred rituals. But try as she might, she couldn’t imagine what was going on in the head of Viv Wembley or Paul Reiser.
A Colony of Angels
ELAINE LEFT a message for her to call back as soon as possible. It was urgent.
Cameron Diaz—the true Cameron—was throwing a birthday party for Drew and got a brainstorm to have the “Angels” there, along with half a dozen other look-alikes. Elaine had already managed to get hold of the Cameron and the Lucy Liu, Cher, David Letterman, Donald Rumsfeld, Jim Carrey, and the Pope. When Becca asked if Rusty would be there, Elaine said no. Becca was relieved.
• • •
SHE HAD NEVER been inside the Colony. The guard waved her through, and she felt a curious, unexpected sense of belonging. When she saw the true Kid Rock climbing into a pickup, her nerves got all jangled and she wondered if she’d be able to pull this off.
A stern coordinator was waiting—the party wasn’t yet under way—and Becca was ushered into a kind of bull pen set up in the garage. Costume and makeup people descended on her with pins, Pan-Cake, and cigarette breath. The Cameron was sitting in a chair having her zits covered, Lucy’s hair was being straightened, and a bug-eyed, too-old Tobey Maguire was in the middle of a close shave. The Cher, who Becca thought to be a really good Cher, wandered in smoking. She said she didn’t think this was the true Cameron’s house; a makeup person concurred, but no one seemed to know who the house belonged to. Sting supposedly lived down the street but was never in residence, and the coordinator said Elaine told her that he rented the house out during the summer for ninety thousand dollars a month. Becca had a hard time believing that anyone would rent a house for that kind of money.
The true Cameron poked her head in and shrieked when she saw Elaine’s Angels.
“Oh my God! It’s fantastic!” she said, clapping her hands together. “You guys are incredible.”
The Lucy said, “Flip the goddamn hair!” and that went over big—the true Cameron split a gut. The true Selma Blair wandered in, and Becca was beside herself. She couldn’t wait to tell her mom. And the party hadn’t even started!
The Angels were brought in for maximum effect, when the birthday was in full swing. Ben Stiller was there with his wife and baby, as were the true Demi Moore with the true Ashton, and the true Tobey. When Cher showed up, she clucked her tongue at her double—Becca figured the singer had seen her share of impersonators and wasn’t as psyched as the younger stars about having a look-alike. The true Rose McGowan arrived with Pink and Pamela Anderson, the latter sans Kid Rock. Rose went and talked to the Cher, who evidently she’d once hired for Marilyn Manson’s birthday. Tom Hanks mingled with the look-alikes and seemed to get the biggest kick out of the hammily decrepit, hunched-over Pope, whose “day job” turned out to be that of a somewhat wealthy Valley restaurateur. Becca and the Cameron were hoping against hope that Sting would drop by. No such luck.
There were so many famous people that she became numb. (She spaced out after seeing Jackie Chan with Owen Wilson. It all became a blur.) But the celebs weren’t very engaging; except for Tom and Rita, they preferred talking amongst themselves. Becca liked schmoozing with faces she didn’t recognize—that was much more intriguing. She figured that anyone who had been invited in the first place was by definition “a player,” a behind-the-scenes heavyweight. Those were the people who might actually be helpful in the long run. One turned out to be the writer of her all-time favorite movie, Forrest Gump. He lived a few doors down. His mom had just died, and he was so sweet and open about it that soon there were tears in his eyes and in Becca’s too. They were joined by a cordial, unassuming fellow named George and his exuberantly pregnant girlfriend, Maria; he turned out to be a bigshot Simpsons writer. They talked about all kinds of interesting things, and then the Forest Gump man introduced her (first as Drew Barrymore then as Becca Mondrain) to Tom Hanks just as Tom was leaving. Rita was saying her good-byes but soon came over. Tom was funny in a pretend-dark kind of way and started chatting with Becca like she was the true Drew. Then he did a kind of triple take, as if he’d been tricked, screwing up his eyes to have another look. “Drew better watch her back,” he said menacingly, as he sidled out. He did this cute thing where he kept looking over his shoulder at her with hooded, accusing eyes before smiling warmly then tipping an imaginary hat in good-bye. Rita looked like she wanted to stay a little longer, but her husband gently led her by the wrist. Becca was sure to make eye contact with her, though, mindful of the fact that it was Rita who discovered My Big Fat Greek Wedding as a stage show, and Rita who convinced Tom and everyone else to take a chance on putting up the money for a film version. Maybe she
would see Becca onstage one day and extend her the same opportunity. Hollywood was full of those kinds of stories.
Drew Barrymore approached with two gays in tow. It was Becca’s moment of reckoning.
“You are so scary. Do you think I could call you on the phone? Like when I’m having a shitty moment in a relationship? Which is pretty much all the time.” She turned to the gays, who laughed in chorus. “Or how about when I just really don’t want to deal with my family—or lawyer or agent or whatever? Couldn’t you just, like, come over and kind of live through stuff that I’d rather not?”
“Drew,” said Becca, gasping from the thin air. “I’d come and wash dishes if you asked.”
She knew she sounded like a rube, and the queerfolk winced, but Drew laughed, laying a hand on Becca’s arm to put her at ease. Becca nearly burst into tears.
“Oh my God!” said Drew exultantly, a lightbulb going off. “You could have a baby for me!”
The gays laughed some more and one said, “She could fuck for you.”
“Thank you, no,” said Drew. “I’d rather do that myself. For now.”
More laughs from the gays. The beautiful black girl from Saturday Night Live came over with the true Cameron, who saucily threw an arm over Becca’s shoulder. “Well,” she said. “If it isn’t Dylan Sanders . . .”
Becca sucked it up and said, “Flip your goddamn hair!”
Everyone laughed and she felt redeemed.
At 20th Century-Fox
LISANNE CALLED Tiff Loewenstein. She’d been meaning to do that as a friendly follow-up to their gala at the Casa del Mar, but she had a hidden agenda as well. Tiff got on the phone right away. His lunch had canceled and he asked her to join him at the commissary.
It had been a while since she’d been on the lot. Lisanne loved the bustle of a studio. The hallways of the executive building were cool, creamy, and hushed, for that wonderful retro mausoleum effect. Everything was perfectly production designed, with a forties ambience. Deeper into the honeycomb and closer to the offices of power, posters of blockbuster films gave way to gauzy Hurrells of bygone stars: Davis, Cagney, Crawford, Hepburn.
She was met in the anteroom by one of three secretaries, then led back to his plush Art Deco domain. Tiff rushed over from his desk, kissing both her cheeks. He immediately informed her of two upcoming events for which he “sorely” needed companionship on the weekend. Friday, he was to receive the KCET Visionary Award (Biltmore ballroom); the following night, he would be honored at a benefit for the Children’s Burn Foundation (Beverly Hilton). “What, may I ask, is your availability?” he said, somewhat wryly.
It didn’t seem like the right time to ask how things were going on the home front, or if they were going at all. Since he was dateless for his tributes, she assumed the worst.
“You’re in luck. As it turns out, I’ve been relieved of my duties as Karl Lagerfeld’s muse. I’m completely at your disposal.”
He laughed, took her arm, and swept her out.
• • •
“HOW’S THE KIT Lightfoot movie going?” she asked, after ordering.
Tiff occasionally waved to well-wishers—only rarely was he approached in full greeting. As a rule, it was understood the mogul was not to be disturbed.
“Phenomenal. I think it’s gonna be a big hit.”
“He’s really good.”
“Number one. Very down-to-earth—an old-fashion movie star. And he gets the biggest compliment I have. Know what it is?”
She shook her head.
Tiff said, “He’s not a prick.”
“Do you know him? I mean, very well?”
“What, you have a crush?” His antennae were up.
“I meant, do you ever socialize—”
“Because he’s very much a twosome, you know,” he chided.
“So I heard,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“I’d be very jealous if you wound up on his arm at a benefit.”
“I would never be unfaithful,” she said, patting his hand. “Unless, of course, I was the honoree—then I just might drag him along. Naturally, he would have to consent.”
“Fair enough. All’s fair among love and consenting honorees.”
“Are they still shooting?”
“For two more weeks.”
She got very brave and casually said, “I’d love to visit the set.” Better just to come out with it.
Two men interrupted to say hellos, then the food arrived. She would have to find a way to circle around again.
Since they’d been seated, Lisanne had noticed heads consistently turning toward one of the booths in the back.
“Is that Russell Crowe?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
Tiff glanced over and laughed.
“See the blond kid? Adam Spiegel—Spike Jonze. He did Adaptation and Being John Malkovich.”
“I know who he is. I love his movies.”
“He’s sitting with Charlie Kaufman.”
“That’s Charlie Kaufman? God, he looks like J. D. Souther.”
“Who’s J. D. Souther?”
“He wrote songs for the Eagles.”
“Well, that’s him—Garbo himself. Two Jews from Verona. Spike’s a rich kid. The Spiegel catalog. Der Spiegel says that’s a myth, but he’s full of shit. You know who he’s married to, right?”
“I love her. Are they doing a project with Russell Crowe?”
“I wish. They’ve got a meshuga project that Charlie’s writing, about look-alikes. That’s who that guy at the table is—a Russell Crowe look-alike.”
“What is that.”
“Bottom feeders who come to Hollywood and get jobs impersonating movie stars.”
“Sounds kind of interesting.”
“Maybe too interesting. When someone wants to spend forty million of the studio’s money, I need more than ‘interesting.’ Now, if we could get the real Russell Crowe to be in their movie and pay him ‘look-alike’ prices, that would be interesting. Who knows. Could happen. You still didn’t give me an answer—which benefit would you favor, Ms. McCadden? The Friday or the Saturday?”
“That’s a tough one.”
“Tell you what. Go to both and I’ll make you a deal.”
“Shoot.”
“You can bring something to your friend for me.”
“My friend?”
“Mr. Lightfoot. See, I have a gift for him. Come to both benefits and you can be the messenger. I’ll so anoint you. Because I’m a very anointing person.”
The Varieties of Religious Experience
KIT SAT ON A cushion in his private zendo, facing the Benedict Canyon hillock that rose up like a ziggurat. A landscape architect had trucked in tons of dirt for the effect.
He stared at an abstract, shifting patch of sun on the teak floor a foot or so beyond his knees.
His next film, an Anthony Minghella, had fallen through. He was scheduled to do a Ridley Scott but not for at least ten months.
He thought of going to India for the Kalachakra Tantra, the annual Wheel of Time rite in which thousands of initiates experience rebirth en masse, coming through childhood to visualize themselves as buddhas. Seeing the Gyuto monks had triggered the notion of pilgrimage. The Dalai Lama, his teacher’s teacher, was scheduled to preside over a gathering of some quarter million devotees. Kit had attended such a ceremony before with His Holiness in Madison, Wisconsin, albeit on a far smaller scale.
There, in that unlikely place, the actor had spoken words of promise, before infinity: “O all Buddhas and Bodhisattvas, please take heed of me. I, Kit Lightfoot, from this time henceforth until arriving in the essence of enlightenments will generate the excellent unsurpassed mind of intention to become enlightened in just the way the Protectors of the three times become definite toward enlightenment.” A sand mandala representing a palace was created, and the pilgrims were mentally guided through it. After a number of days, the rituals and blessings ended when the Dalai Lama himself swept up the colored sand with a broom, in
readiness for dedication to the waters.
It seemed like a lifetime since he’d been to India. He had journeyed there with his teacher, Gil Weiskopf Roshi. They had visited Lumbini, birthplace of Prince Siddhartha Gautama; Bodh Gaya, where Siddhartha was realized beneath the Bodhi Tree; the Deer Park at Sarnath, where he gave sermons on the Four Noble Truths; Sravasti’s great park that hosted the Buddha’s meditation retreats, and where he converted a notorious murderer; and a saal forest in Kushinagar, the final, unglamorous place in which he left the world. The trip saturated him, and he craved India’s sounds, smells, and heart. He craved his teacher too, who had died a year after his mother passed on, to the day—craved the Dharma anew. A few months ago, he’d made vague plans to travel with Meg Ryan at Christmastime to see Ramesh, a disciple of the great sage Nisargadatta Maharaj. But now he was thinking he should make the trip alone, confining his visit to Bodh Gaya, where this year’s Kalachakra would be held.
He readjusted himself on the cushion and focused his breath, suppressing a smile as the mischievous, deconsecrated image of his old friend Alf bobbed before him. Alf wanted to go to a Golden Globe party at the Medavoys’, but Kit had bailed because he didn’t have a film out and was envious of those who did, jealous of the actors—some unknown, others long forgotten and now rediscovered—whose fates had contrived to cast them in one of those overrated, dark horse indies that infect hearts and minds each awards season like a designer virus. He felt defunct, used up, ashamed of his body of work. In the middle of his meditations
he returned to his breath, pushing through. He focused on another trapezoidal tile of sun. Insect buzz. His attention flitted from the face of his root guru, Gil, to a page of Rita Julienne Lightfoot’s love letters to the smell of her hospital room to the taste of Viv’s mouth to the little girl who watched as he came in Cela’s mouth on the edge of the playground of Ulysses S. Grant School.