Friday, April 1, 2011

Show Me How to Get Right

Sunday and Monday night, I had a date with Jack Daniels. A bottle was given to me at Doggie Daycare as a grieving gift for my cat's untimely death and after breaking-up with Abe, I was gonna kill that bottle.

I did. Every shot was measured with a pint of water. And I went on Facebook, turned on my TV and had one of the best evenings of the year, by myself. I cooked for myself. Poured myself a drink. Then made love to myself a few times.

Breaking up as a woman in your early thirties . . . its a bit cruel. I am scratching at the walls for some lovin'. I think its some kind of karmic revenge for all the boys I dry humped in high school, and refused to have sex with. Also, when you are a heartbroken girl . . . your orgasms suck. They just . . . suck.

I Drunk-Facebooked. It was better than going to some lame, Los Angeles Mixer. We were rifting banter from all over the United States.  My last status update was:
"I am too unorganized to have a booty call and too tipsy to buy a pack of cigarettes. My method of fumbling chaos has saved me once again! JUST FOR A NIGHT!"
After logging off, turning off the lights and climbing into bed, I heard a knock, knock at the door. Then I heard the Comic say, "Hello!" I knew he was going to show up. The Comic is always looking for an in with me. (Brief character update . . . dated the Comic in 09 for a couple weeks. I never touched his cock. He relentlessly pursues me.) Also, a previous blog explains the brief affair (

I opened the door to offerings of clove cigarettes and talk of a bottle of vermouth. I said, "I was just going to bed." The Comic apologized and offered to leave. I said, "No, let's have a cigarette." He said, "You don't look drunk. I don't think your drunk."

When walking to the patio to smoke, he saw me stagger and said, "Ok, now I'm seeing it. "

"I Will Buy You a New Life" was stuck in my head. I mean, just playing over and over. It still is right now. Monday night, it was blaring in my mind. After obsessively watching the video over and over, I have memorized every expression, every head nod from the drummer and the creeping smiles of memory on the bassist's face. I have a suspicion he wrote it, but I am not sure. What is caught on video is all so deliberate, rarely can you identify truth.

After the cigarette, I flopped face down on the bed and said, "I can't get this song out of my head. Ugh. It won't stop." I should state here, my dogs own my living room and destroyed my couches, so the only place to really socialize is in my very narrow kitchen or my bedroom.

The Comic said, "That's your problem. You want someone to buy you a new life instead of making one for yourself."

 . . . WTF? . . .

Now, I was drunk so I didn't respond to much after that.

The Comic rubbed my back and propositioned me. I immediately whined, "Noooooo."

He said, "Can I at least . . . suck your titties?"

I said, "No!"

He said, "Some oral pleasure, maybe?"

I said, "Stop it. NO."

Just because I am drunk, doesn't mean I will have sex with anybody that marches into my apartment.

The night slowly drained away. I couldn't sleep because someone I hadn't invited was sleeping in my bed in his boxers and a t-shirt. I also couldn't get up and talk because the whiskey was splashing around in my head with the strum, strum, strumming of Everclear's guitars.

"Here is the money that I owe you,
You can pay the bills.
I will give you more when I get paid again."

At the crack of dawn, I sat up in my bed suddenly. The Comic put his hand on my back and softly advised I get more sleep. I didn't get ANY sleep. I got up and grabbed a clove and smoked in my car. My throat has gone raw from all my smoking.

The Comic got up too and we walked my dogs. I said, "I Will Buy You a New Life' is not about buying material things."

The Comic said, "That's what it seems to be about, at least on the face of it."

This is why I would never be with the Comic, beyond the very fact that Mother Nature and God do not want us to procreate.

I said, "Well its not. Its about a man trying to earn back the mother of his child's love back as a partner and build a new life."

He said, "Oh."

Its a love song written by a man, a real man. It gives me hope that there are men out there who want to provide. That is what we all want, a provider and a partner. People will argue, why don't you provide for yourself or the man? Women already nurture the ones they love to death by design. Nature created a balance between the two of nurture and the nest. Men need to help preserve the nest. Anyone who says different can eat my feminist ass.

I grabbed coffee with Em and cried for the first time about Abe. All these pent up tears were spilling out from under my heart-shaped sunglasses. She hugged me and I cried, "This feels good."

She said, "Uh huh."

I cried, "I really thought he was the one."

She said, "You need time for yourself. You lost yourself with your ex-husband, then you lost yourself with Not-for-Profit . . . and then you lost yourself with Abe. Take the time to focus on yourself."

 In a way she is right, but sometimes you don't know who you are until someone opens a door for you, and shows you the rest of your life.

Either way, I needed to take a step back, however, being a human person . . . I have been self medicating. Alcohol, marijuana, ecstasy, mushrooms, cigarettes, LSD, I've enjoyed them all. My drug of choice, without a doubt, is boys. With the feeling of rejection trailing behind me in a string of empty metal cans, my drive to find boys, flirt and discover a suitable booty call has trumped my adult short-term plan for general well-being.

I created a dating profile on OKCupid. I have never had luck with on-line dating, so why I continue to go back . . . its just the distraction. I was responding to a few emails Tuesday morning with the Comic hovering over me and my computer. I asked to meet one of the potential suitors, and the Comic said, "Geez, take it easy. Why are you moving so fast?"

Male attention will be the gauze to the blood spilling out of my heart and ego. The sting of disappointment must shake out.

"Sick for days, so many ways,
I'm aching now, I'm aching now,
Its time like these I need relief,
Show me how."

In Hollywood, I did some audience work, then took the money and went to the Sunset Super Store, marijuana medical dispensary. When I approached the counter, I said, "I only have $30 and I just broke up with my boyfriend."

She said, "Do you want giggles or something strong to just knock it out of you?"

I said, "Giggles."

She said, "Here, I can give you a deal on some green crack. And take these cookies. No sadness here, only happiness."

Later I told Lana and she said, "Good! That's their job to look into your soul and give you medicine for it."

That Green Crack is flipping amazing. Its not a stupid high, its like a plow circling around inside of me, turning over the top soil and finding joy under the crust. I could breathe again.

Wednesday night, I met with Caleb, who was in town talking to the investors on his documentary. Backstory on him:  He is married with a couple kids, who you would think the ideal husband is, but really he is always on the hunt for pussy. That said, he is someone I truly enjoy conversation with, especially on documentary filmmaking. That side of me is sorely neglected.

Men will socialize with whomever they want, with moral reprieve. I will talk with anyone, despite what they do in their personal or professional life, and despite their intentions towards me.

He said, "When I was in Africa, we were driving in the back of this car and hitting these potholes. They carry their guns around like nothing, and one was pointing right at me. Normally, I wouldn't freak out, but I notice that his gun didn't have the safety on, so I said, 'Dude! Your safety isn't on!'  He said (in heavy accent), 'Oh . . . ah ah ah. (flipped safety) Safety on.'

He said, "They have no appreciation for life out there. It's totally different. The guy holding the gun, said 'Once, we were ambushed by rebels on this road, and they got my friend, sacrificed him to the gods and sent me a video tape of it.' I said, 'That must of been horrible, I mean . . . that's your friend.' He said, 'Not anymore . . . ah ah ah"

"I told the camera man, 'Hey, if we are ambushed, grab one of these mother fucker's guns cause they aren't going to help us."

I said, "Its true! You have to think like them to survive."

He told me a story about two petite 15 yr old girls brought to them as prostitutes in a bar. He said "The guy working with us on the film was this huge, African guy. I mean, he could have been a line backer. And he was doing this poor girl all night long, and I had to listen to, 'uh uh uh, Viola.' Uh, uh, uh, Viola! That poor girl must have had an awful night for $5."

I said, "We showcase the Middle East as the worst place to be a woman, but Africa I think might be worse."

He went on, "I think every woman in Africa has prostituted herself. In the Middle East, you couldn't hope to pick up a girl. In Africa, they throw themselves at you."

I said, "The Middle East must bring prostitutes in from out of country. What's weird is there have been casting calls for actresses to come out to Dubai to entertain."

He said, "I was talking to another guy about, why men are such pigs. Our drive to get laid dictates everything!"

I said, "Really? Everything?"

He said, "Yeah, think about it. What would man have accomplished if they didn't want to get laid? Look at Rome! Empires were constructed for sex. War. Domination."

I said, "Is that true? The desire to have sex is stronger than the desire power?"

He said, "Of course it is."

The conversation moved to my place because he wanted to show me two new scenes in his film. I said, "Look, I am embarrassed by my place. The dogs have destroyed my living room. They ate the couches."

He said, "What do you sit on?"

I said, "A folding chair."

He said, "You're serious? Well I have to see it then."

Now, I am not stupid. I know everything is a means to get into my vagina. The truth is, I never feel like I am in the company of a man I can't handle. The Comic couldn't get me even on 4 shots of whiskey, Caleb surely wouldn't get me on two pints of beer. I would have to be fucking unconscious!

We showed up and I said, "Now, I have to manually skip chapters because the dogs ate the remote control too."

He laughed, he was gracious enough about my place, even though I know it must smell like dogs to outsiders. We watched the two scenes and I gave some honest advice about an interview, one shot with the Ambassador of Darfur and his shot as interviewer. The lighting didn't match. I warned him that may call in credibility issues with how the questions and answers are edited together.

I also advised he should do a platform release (a theatrical release of a film in only select theaters of major cities like LA and NY) since films have to be an event for audiences to venture out of their homes now. He was still high on the thought that he needed wide access to everyone in Middle America and the Southwest. Those people won't see a documentary on the UN unless a Fox News Correspondent tells them to. Even then, they will only repeat what they've heard.

I told him platform releases did better fiscally, as was the case with "The Cove" and "Hurt Locker." Both lost ticket sales when they expanded to more theaters.

He gravitated back to the conversation on prostitutes.

He said, "I talked to a prostitute who was flown in to Dubai by a rich Arab to share a suite with six other girls. She was paid $6k for one night, he fucked her every which way. She said his place was ICE COLD. She asked to warm it up and he said, 'No, I can't have you sweat on me. For 6k? Maybe it was worth it."

I said, "Maybe"

He said, "Really? (he smiled at me) Ok. I wouldn't think so."

I said, "Well, it would pay my rent for 6 months. Would you do a man for 6k?"

He said, "No, hell no."

I asked, "A million?"

Him: "No. $100 Million yes, definitely. Wouldn't even have to think about it. $50 million, we are talking. $100 Million, I am locked in."

I said, "$1Million I would be locked in."

He said, "Interesting. 6k, huh?"

With a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek, he left. Then he called me.

He said, "I was just picking up that you were feeling self conscious about your body because that guy didn't call you back, I didn't try to kiss you, and I said you were too skinny."

I said, "I wasn't self conscious about my body or I wouldn't have worn a short shirt . . . and kissing me would have been the wrong thing to do since you are married."

He said, "GOTCHA! Ok."

I said, "But I thought you were doing that thing where you criticize a girl about something and then boost her back up with a compliment."

He said, "No, I really do think you are too skinny."

I said, "HAHA! Oh well. You were probably picking up on my insecurity that my arm pit hair was growing in after one day, since I just noticed while we were talking."

He said, "Oh, I see. Ok, well call you next time I am in town."

I said, "Sounds good."

It reminds me of the book, "Go, Dog, Go!"

"Hello, again."     


"Do you like my hat?"

"I do not like it."

"Goodbye, again."


Living just to keep going
Going just to keep sane
All the while I know
Its such a shame.

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