Thursday, March 03, 2005

Fullascheissa, Mon Amour

So I have followed my dream, to Bali where my soul and my brain were, I believe , purified. Having returned cleansed, albeit to LA, I prepared for the Vanity Fair gala after the Oscars, feeling that if I were too pure, I would be unable to deal with New York, so it was necessary to dip my toe into a little of what I cannot name as then the Times machine will keep it from getting to Walter Wells at the Tribune. But I am sure you all know what I mean.
Nevertheless I was, as always, of two minds: that clarified mind that understood always how full of it these things were, and the little girl stargazer mind, in love with the movies and movie stars. So I was pleased that Vanity Fair had invited me to their party, though saddened by the caveat that it was only for me, and me alone, Gwen Davis(1) it said very severely on the invitation, so I had to regretfully tell my escort he could not come, though they messed up by sending me a second invitation, again, Gwen Davis(1) and then called me in a panic to ask if they had sent me two invitations by mistake. I told them they had, and that I had already sold the second invitation for 50 thousand, at which point the caller phumphered and said whoever it was would have to show ID and if it wasn'[t me(I) would be removed. I then told them I had been joking and there was hollow laughter on the other end of the line.
As it was so early, and I had no been invited to the sit-down dinner at Morton's(that's only for 150 people said the tight-throat on the other end of the line,) I watched in my hotel room and fell asleep during the telecast, My friend Boyarsky, the fabled journalist, was to later compare Chris Rock's performance to that of the toned-down Hispanic who is running for Mayor of LA and is working on keeping his act more universally acceptable as American. Whatever it was, it was boring, and I missed Jamie Foxx's emotional acceptance but came to for Clint's award, which pleased me as I could hear Jordan screaming with joy from the balcony of the Kodak theatre. Many hours passed during which I donned the leading example of my exquisitely executed new career as designer, since Nadya was gone from Bali, and I had to come up with something, so had gotten fab silk fabrics and had a little something of mine own vision run off by a local seamstress, over a pale peach linen blouse that had been afterwards beaded by the sister of Ketut, my masseuse($6.00 an hour, oh will I ever see such days again.) I looked really good so danced around the very small room for several hours by myself, as the invitation said Gwen Davis(1) 11:30 P.M. At 10:30 the manager of the smallllllllllllll hotel where I was stayingf, who had arranged for my transport to and fro for $50 called to say there were no cars available for such a piddling sum as EVERYBODY was going to a party so I would have to pay more. I said that was it, so he groaned that he would have to come and take me himself, and I said fine. At 11 his Uncle Cesar showed up and said Raymond, the manager, was exhausted from running in the Marathon that day, so I went with Uncle Cesar, who happily had a Mercedes. Lined up all along Robertson were the strings of long black limos, and many security guards who were the same element you encountered in Europe when there were still many borders, and guardians at the gates who had no other opportunity to show their authority, so always gave you a hard time. ('Gwen Davis coming' they said into their little walkie-talkies, like the dwarf guards of the princess in the novel I wrote of half that name(and the Pauper went the rest of it) so all along the street it echoed, 'Gwen Davis approaching.' I would have been impressed with myself but it was such obvious bs I was laughing, I'm afraid. The young women wokring security I must admit were a great deal more charming and nicer, so what does it matter if we can do math. "Oh that's such a beautiful color,: said one pretty young thing in uniform: "orange is so spiritual." That reminded me of Bali, and that I had been on a mission, so I re-entered my purified mind and saw it all clearly. There were many projections and bushes carved into 'VANITY FAIR' s all over the room, a busy bar where I did not go as I didn't want to fall off my high heels, being without an escort and used to being barefoot, nor did I partake of the passed hors d'oeuvres, as I didn't want to have food in my teeth, the teeth ordeal being part of my journey to LA, though clearly not the spiritual part, although who knows?
I saw no one I knew or cared about, until I came across Dennis Hopper, whom I met when he was 17, raging over not becoming a star, his greatest identity being at the time the friend of the recently dead James Dean. He looked really good--actually distinguished, and rather handsome, with his very young most recent bride, He introduced me to her as a friend who had written about him in her first novel(you'll never find it, Naked in Babylon ,) and introduced her to me as the mother of his twenty-three year old daughter, and then said "I mean twenty-three months." I asked him how his son Henry was. I had met Henry for a moment in Taos when he was six, one of the few times I have bumped into Dennis, and Henry was as ornery and tough andfeisty as Dennis had been at 17, so it made me believe in Karma, as he had truly reproduced himself at his most difficult. Henry has apparently reformed at 14. I asked Dennis how he was, and he kind of side-angled his head in actorly grief, and said 'Well- I'm not working enough.' At that point I brought him up short, said that was the same thing he had said when he was seventeen, that he was on an effing magic carpet ride, had been part of a motion picture that revolutionized the industry, was an icon in France, and had fallen into his true role as villain so had hardly ever stopped working and he should stop grousing and just say 'Thank you' every day of his life. At that point he seemed to come into full consciousness, and kissed me on either cheek, murmuring 'Thank you, Thank you,' as he did so. And I said "Don't thank me. You know Who to thank," And he said, really sweetly, "Yes, I do." It took only fifty years,
But the party was truly something to flee. I exchanged a few sad words with Domininck Dunne about a real friend I had lost who admired him(Judy Green) and he agreed she had had a terrible and unfair ending and her children had been awful but many of us are in no position to discuss that. Then I told Cate Blanchett after congratulating her, that I had been to the same college as Katharine Hepburine, and we were all proud of her depiction, she said some intelligent things, and I moved on and out, passing on the way Warren Beatty who I am sad is not making movies as he made some of the best and I fear is not doing any now because he doesn't look as good as he'd like to, and I wish he'd just make them and stay out of them, as he is a truly fine filmmaker(tell him I said so, Pat,) and congratulated Annette Benning, who probably should have won, but she will have other chances a ccording to an unnamed source(you again.) I hope so.
Then I tried to contact Cesar, who was waiting for me on Robertson, but the fascists who were having their big chance at Security wouldn't let me walk that way, and said I had t meet my driver on San Vicente which meant tip-toeing through the TV cables as though they were tulips, terrified of trippng, until a gallant lad ffrom thje BBC truck escorted me to the corner where I would have to meet Cesar, He asked me how it had been, and I said "A zoo." "At least you got to go inside," he said forlornly. There is no way to tell The Little Match Girl that the bakeries inside the window will give her diabetes.
Then, there was a God, and my friend Mary invited me to move to her apartment while she and her husband went to Palm Springs, so I had three+ days of space and a country kitchen, plus a really warm pool so I could recapture at least the body movement of Bali. Then Michael Crichton returned my phone call while I was in the dentists chair, and my dentist actually turned passionate, he was such a fan of Crichton's. So all in all, considering I got to see a few people I really cared for, the Boyarskys, Rob, my protege the chateau at Rochefort-en-Terre I had to disinvite, Nyle, Joie, and my dentist, not to mention Betty Garrett in Nunsense(she is 85 and still going strong,-- I went there with Betsy) it was a sort of fine time, as I found out where I stood, even in too high heels. But as with Bali, it was time to go.
So I now wing Eastward, to New York, where who knows What awaits me. I hope it will be a few human beings, some of whom can read.

No comments: