After that I went through a very strange period. Almost every month I would join a new clique. But not just join them, I would completely transform myself. And this is not an exaggeration AT. ALL. Let me walk you through the months:
Month 1: Student Government clique—sweater vest, American flag pin, jeans, and white Keds.
Month 2: Cheerleaders—sweatpants, Asics cheerleading shoes (I still had mine from my last school), high school mascot T-shirt and hair pulled into a ponytail, wrapped with ribbon.
Month 3: Alternative, potheads—lots of chains, black nail polish, black lipstick, and anything from Hot Topic.
Month 4: The Librarians—the 70-year-old librarian ladies! We would share our lunches and read. I would wear conservative clothing and lots of button-up sweaters.
Month 5: Debate—Blazer, jeans, white Oxford.
Month 6: Athletes—Track pants (the kind that swish loudly as you walk) and matching jacket.
Also Month 6: Partiers, popular group—Levi jeans, boots, fitted shirts and water bra (yes, these are in fact what you think they are. Instead of padding, it’s filled with a water/gel substance so it feels real if I guy feels me up over the shirt).
The “popular” group was the group I always wanted to be in. Guilty as charged: I wanted to fit in; I wanted to be popular. I know that it’s horrible to admit that. You can’t say in high school that you “want to be popular.” But now looking back I can say it. There, I said it. So many people think it’s cool to say that they didn’t care about being popular or they liked being an outsider. But I really do feel that most people want to be liked and loved and recognized…especially in high school. So to me the “popular” group meant I made it in this social status game.
Unfortunately for me, they didn’t cherish my friendship as much as I did theirs. One day, I was out to lunch with a group of the popular girls. I was telling them how my mom was going away for three weeks to Vietnam. Immediately they put down their bagels and perked up.
“Where are you going to stay?” one asked.
“At home. By myself. My mom trusts me. And it’s not that long,” I responded.
“Oh my God! You should have a party!” one exclaimed.
Strange as it might sound, I had never considered that. I mean, in Japan we didn’t have house parties. We would just go to a club or down near a river and hang out. We would never go into our parents’ home and throw a party. You can’t accidentally break your dad’s stereo by pouring tequila all over it at the river, after all. We were, I suppose, better behaved in Japan.
Nonetheless, I agreed to the party after the other girls promised me it would just be ten, fifteen people tops. And I was excited. I was gonna make some more new friends and have a party! How “So-Called Life” of me.
The day my mom left town, a Friday, I was walking through the halls on my way to class and someone handed me a flier saying, “Party tonight. Ten bucks cover. It’s gonna be sick.” Sick! Awesome! Wait! WTF?!
I looked down at the paper and noticed something familiar. It was a map and directions leading directly to my house. Holy crap.
I got home that day and was really excited about how big the party had become. Sure I was also a tad nervous, but mostly I was psyched. People are coming to my party?! They must really like me!
This is so embarrassing, but the first thing I did was…I started setting up snacks. Snacks! It was a keg party with a bunch of kids from a high school who didn’t know who I was and only wanted a house to get wasted in and make money on selling beer. Why the hell would they be impressed with my cheese and grapes? I was clueless and put out my trays of crackers, nuts and pretzels. Very Martha Stewart hosting Twilight.
The doorbell rings and it’s a tall guy with long blond hair. I didn’t recognize him. He closed the door and let his friend through the garage where they carried in six large kegs. After placing them around the house and backyard, the blond guy went and took his place at the door. I would later learn that he was the door guy, collecting money from every one of my new “friends” as they came in.
I was so naïve. I had no idea. I was just so happy to have a bunch of people in my house at my party. I was never a big drinker. But, that night, I was in full-on celebrating mode.
My uncle had bought thousands of dollars of stereo equipment and my mom had stored it in the living room. Before the party I threw a sheet over it. Not thinking anyone would ever intrude on my privacy. There, that oughtta do it.
At one point in the night, however, of course someone lifted the sheet to see all the badly hidden stereo equipment. And, well, yeah. They started stealing it. That’s what kids do. That and drugs. Then the inevitable: cops came to bust up the party. Everyone in the house scattered like cockroaches when the lights turned on. They all raced around the house and yard and the cops tackled my friends/thieves so that they would drop the stereo boxes they were attempting to jack.
Where was I during this awesome melee? This is brilliant. As soon as we heard the cops come into the house, one helpful girl grabbed my arm and told me to go “pretend like you’re sleeping.” It was so stupid. But I was drunk and had no idea what was going on. So I lay down in my bed with a plan to tell the cops if they ever came to me, “Officer, I had no idea there was a party going on with underage drinking. I was sleeping the whole time. I musta really conked out. Weird.” I put my head on the pillow, closed my eyes and waited. After a few minutes, I sat up and realized how thoroughly stupid that idea was. I turned on the light and heard the cops walking down the hallway. I looked around the room and noticed a massive pile of weed on my desk. In one fell swoop, I wiped the whole pile onto the floor, crushing it with my foot into the brown shag carpet.
The cops walked right past my door without even looking in. When I came out of the room, only one friend was left. We walked around the house cleaning things up and picking up stereo equipment that was scattered around the lawn. Somehow I’d survived.
Back at school Monday morning everyone was talking about the party. How it was the best party of the year. And everyone knew me! Everyone knew it was my party, my best party of the year. Yes. Mission accomplished.
Except…oh yeah. That’s right. Nothing in my life could go according to plan. That must be why a few hours into the school day I got a call from the principal’s office saying I needed to go home immediately. I arrived at my house to see two police officers with their guns drawn, pointing at my house. Seems that during class, a couple guys had broken into my house, trying to steal the boxed up stereo equipment they were forced to leave behind. They knew I would be at school and thought it was the perfect time to rob me. They didn’t realize I had set the alarm on the house.
This broke my heart. I was devastated. All I wanted was to fit in and have people like me. I opened my home to these people and now they’re breaking into my house and robbing me?!
The next day at school I went up to the guys I heard had done it. I confronted them and looked into their eyes. These big, macho, stoner guys couldn’t even look at me. They were pathetic and disgusting. But the odd thing is, they actually ended up doing me a big favor.
I realized then that it doesn’t matter how popular you are, or how great your party is or what social group you’re associated with…none of that matters if you’re surrounded by a bunch of people who don’t give a fuck about you. A bunch of people who suck.
I wanted so badly to be on the inside. To be liked and recognized and popular. But at that very moment, I realized that none of it matters if you don’t have real friends. Okay, yes, this is the after-school special lesson moment of this chapter—deal with it! Of course, in high school that is your whole world. How popular and loved you are there is how well you do in life. That’s what you think because your whole life from 7 A.M. to 3 P.M. is that high school with those people. But eventually you get out of high school and you realize that all of those people don’t matter. It doesn’t matter what they thought of you, what you thought of them, who wore what and who
drove what. Because when you’re out in the real world, you can make up your own mind about whom you want to hang out with and be friends with and who’s allowed at your party. And chances are, those friends won’t rob you blind.
So those bastards broke my heart. But they also made me realize that I wasn’t going to spend one more day trying to make these people like me. I was going to live my life for me and be friends with only the people I truly liked. I was lucky to have learned that lesson. Because my senior year in high school, although it had its fair share of boy problems and drama, was amazing. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t care if anyone saw me. Because I saw myself.
1. Sent from the women’s bathroom’s glory hole.
2. Have a ducky day!
3. Your time is my money.
4. My body, MY choice.
5. Namaste.
6. If you like your freedom, thank a Bush!
7. This e-mail was sent from inside your house.
8. Jesus Loves You.
9. Taking care of business.
10. Sent from my iPhone.
I had another friend who was working as an assistant for some studio executive. And when I first moved to L.A., I didn’t know many people and would run around with him while he did errands.
So I’m with my friend one day and he needs to drop something off for his boss at some guy’s house. I didn’t recognize the name but I knew he was successful by the bigger-is-better size of the houses in the neighborhood. After winding our way through the glorious, golden hills we drove through a gate, down a long driveway, past a tennis court that looked perfectly manicured but never used. The inside of the house was dark with lots of leather furniture and mahogany. There was a lot of stuff around, knickknacks, tchotchkes…and, like, way too many places to sit. It was weird. There was a couch, a loveseat, a chair, stool or…something to rest on everywhere you looked. I started to imagine that whoever lived here might not have any legs. Or they might have a really big ass. Or maybe they just really loved to take a load off. They certainly
My friend said he needed to run the envelope to someone in another part of the house, but in the meantime I should, “Go in and meet him. This is his house.”
Okay.
I have to tell you, and this is embarrassing, but I had no idea who the hell he was. Because as I came to find out, he is one of Hollywood’s most successful producers. A while back, he worked on a handful of films that are commonly regarded as some of the best films ever made. One of them was nominated for a Best Picture Oscar. Collectively his films made wads and wads of cash. He still knows and is friends with many of the most powerful people in movies. So, yeah, not about to cross this dude.
All I knew about this man was that he sure loved himself some good sittin’ and since I had absolutely nothing else to do, I might as well meet him. I was intrigued.
I walked into his master bedroom. And no, that wasn’t as odd as it might sound. I quickly realized that at his age being in his bedroom was like being at lunch at The Ivy. Unlike most of us, this man does not use this bedroom just for sleeping, sex and luring young girls into his libidinous trap. Sure, he probably uses it for that, too, but also for breakfast, lunch, dinner, reading, writing, arithmetic, cutting his toenails…this bedroom was the world to him.
I had no idea what to expect. I see an elderly gentleman with his hair perfectly parted, wearing red silk pajamas. The blankets are pulled up around him and the bed is covered in magazines, books, a laptop, notepads and pencils. I’m introduced to him by one of his staffers and he perks up and asks me to come sit next to him on the bed. I didn’t feel uncomfortable. Like I said, this was no mere sex lair. The energy was closer to an outdoor patio where everyone hangs out than an intimate boudoir.
I sat on the bed and he asked me where I was from and who my agent was. Almost immediately he goes: “No, no, no, they’re good but not great. You should be with the big agencies. Give me your number and I’ll make a few calls for you and get you in with the biggest agent in town.”
I told him I was happy with my agent and thanked him for his offer. I think he could tell that I didn’t know who he was. He went into the story of his life. Something about something, I don’t remember…But, someone had made a critically acclaimed documentary about Hollywood, in which he figured prominately, and I should watch it because it’ll show me how I, too, can become successful in Hollywood.
Then he suddenly reached over to his nightstand, opened a drawer and grabbed a copy of the DVD. Wow: so conveniently stacked to give away to every single person who walked through the door. He asked me to grab the Sharpie at the edge of the bed so he could sign it. Great. Cool. Awesome. Maybe the documentary would tell me why he liked to sit so much.
He signed the DVD and handed it back to me. I graciously took it and smiled. “I can’t wait to watch it. Thanks a lot.” He smiled and laid his head back on the pillow. Then he said, “I want to show you one more thing.”
He asked me to grab a trinket on his nightstand. I stood up and walked around to his side of the bed. He pointed to a little box. On the nightstand were roughly fifty different antique boxes—most of them bronze or gold with little jewels on them. I noticed a picture of a famous actress who happens to be in one of my all-time favorite movies. It looked like they were in love. This guy used to date her? Okay, I’m impressed. I picked up the tiny, jeweled box and he told me to open it. I opened it and saw what looked like a metal top. You know, one of those things you spin on the ground and just watch…spin? So, it looked like a metal top or maybe a small wine opener. My interest was piqued. I love antiques and this was clearly some kind of music box or toy or…
“What is it?” I asked excitedly.
There was half a beat, maybe less.
“You use it to masturbate with,” he responded.
I wasn’t sure I heard him correctly.
“What?” I asked.
“Women used to use it to masturbate with…I’ve used that little box on so many women and it can really make you happy. Go ahead, it’s a gift.”
Now, I’m not the kind of person who’s surprised by much in life. I’ve been through a lot. But this, well, this stunned me. I mean, I’m sitting here holding an antique—what, dildo? And it must have been put up the vaginal canal of a third of Hollywood at least, women who are now so old their vaginas are dry and crusty. Like they’d be sold as day-old goods in the bakery of vaginas. Then something else even more disturbing strikes me: I’m likely holding the magical dildo box that was once used on or by my big-screen heroine. Her lady parts? Noooooo.
I mean, I’m sitting here holding an antique—what, dildo?
“No, thank you. I’m good,” I said.
I put the box back on the table of what I realized then was probably just fifty antique dildo contraptions, said good-bye and headed out the door. I was one step outside of the bedroom before he called out to me, “Don’t forget your DVD!”
I turned around, scooped up my signed copy of his life story, thanked him again for having me in his home, then went into the foyer and sat on the second leather rocking chair I saw and tried to rock myself out of a state of shock. Aha! Maybe that’s why there were so many places to sit.
Of all the All-American things there are—baseball, freedom, Arnold Schwarzenegger—pie is by far the most delicious. A buttery, flakey, slightly browned crust is filled with vanilla pudding, bananas sliced into coins and topped with whipped cream right out of a can. That is exactly how I want my pie. And I want it a lot. My love for pie is not a mystery. But how it bonded me to fans in such a serious way that to this day—I still get a few hundred dollars’ worth of pie gift certificates every year—is. Let’s try to get to the bottom of it! Yay, the bottom!
I have always had a love of pie. Not in a freaky, American Pie way, but in an obsessed, normal way. That is, I’ve always loved pie like anyone else—I wanted it during holidays, on special events, and most Tuesdays. Okay, maybe I did love it a little more than most. Inst
ead of birthday cakes growing up, I insisted on five pumpkin pies—three for me personally and two for family and friends to share. Wow—reading that out loud makes me sound like the saddest little fat kid around. But I promise I wasn’t. I just really loved pie.
Eventually I grew out of my pie phase—just as with Luke Perry I learned that everything is a phase. Well, I thought it was a phase, anyway. But then, one fateful day a few years ago, I was having lunch at Marie Callender’s and noticed a selection of pies on the right side of the menu. And there were pictures, too. Chocolate cream with whipped cream, banana cream with meringue, fresh strawberry topped with whipped cream—the list went on and on. A pie for every feeling, and there is a season, turn, turn…er…my bad—“Every pie for every moment.” It was hot steamy pie porn action for families!
I chose the chocolate cream pie with the meringue topping. It was—how to put this gracefully?—fucking orgasmic. (And as the first of a series of apologies in this chapter, let me now say sorry to the staff of Marie Callender’s for the unfortunate loud moaning that took place that afternoon and any bodily secretions I may have inadvertently left on the seat.)
Every day for about a month after that, I went thirty minutes out of my way to get a piece of pie. One day I decided to ask how much an entire pie was—just for price comparison! Well, turns out an entire pie was twelve bucks and one piece of pie was like six dollars. And it just so happens that day I wanted two pieces of pie. So you don’t have to be a superstar “mathlete” to figure out what was the smarter and more economic thing to do. So I did it.
Suck It, Wonder Woman! Page 10