To Birmingham With Love

Five years ago I adopted Simon and he is the love of my life. No, he’s not a Cambodian refugee child. He’s a giant Shepard/Collie mix. His name wasn’t Simon at the pound. It was Levi. No offense to the jean company but I was not having a dog named Levi. As a writer, I wasn’t about to be denied the privilege of naming this character. Especially not when I’d had a name in mind for years.

When I tell people my dog is named after one of my favorite Brits, they say “You like Simon Cowell? American Idol is so annoying.” I shake my head. Then, especially if they are children of the 80’s, a light of comprehension spreads over their face. “Simon LeBon?” I smile and they either laugh, groan or hum “The Reflex” for me.

I fell madly in love with Duran Duran back in 1984 with the Seven and the Ragged Tiger album. Dreamy John Taylor was my first hardcore celebrity crush after Bo Duke. He started a lifelong obsession with all things British. I liked John because he seemed like the sweetest one, the good heart. He’d endured a childhood of being the odd kid, being teased. I could relate. He seemed really close to his family according to 16 Magazine. Plus he was the tallest and it was clear from a young age I’d hit six feet. I read everything I could about him, saved all the Tiger Beats that had the slightest mention of the band and watched MTV for hours on end just hoping they would play “Rio” AKA, “Ohmygod, they’re wearing Speedos!”

As I got older I became obsessed with another Brit: Shakespeare. As my literary tastes matured and expanded, I decided it made more sense to crave Simon since he wrote all the lyrics and recites part of Queen Mab’s speech at the beginning of the “Night Boat” video. Besides, as a girl gets older, she moves away from the square-jawed sweetness of the good guy and gravitates more toward the impish danger of the bad boy. And to my good girl upbringing, Simon was plenty bad boy for me.

As my life has moved through phases of grunge, acid jazz, techno, shoe gazer and back to Brit rock by way of indie, the fab five were there going through breakups, career obscurity, retro cool, reunion and genuine resurgence.

As the teen need to rebel faded, my pendulum swung back to John. Of course I am a grownup so I call it a fondness rather than a crush these days. I do feel Simon makes a better dog name though.

Now as my LA life unfolds, it turns out one of friends actually knows John Taylor. He got her tickets and back stage passes to the Duran Duran tour this summer and like my fairy godmother, she made my dreams come true and took me.

Like any good rabid fan, I smuggled my digital camera in my bra and shot away during the concert and then back stage after. Yes, I really thought it would just be a handful of us special friends and maybe some family with the band. My poor friend must have seen my face fall as she walked me into the 200 plus crowd in the green room.

After chatting with some other people she knew, my friend said she’d introduce me to John and I tried to breathe. I asked her if I could get a picture with him but she looked at the swarm of star-fuckers John’s wife was fending off and hissed a quick no. His wife blocking me? She’d known him, what, maybe five years? I’d known and loved this man for two thirds of my life. But not wanting to embarrass my friend, I pocketed my camera. And, after a mere twenty one years I was shaking hands with my lovely, square jawed John Taylor. Determined to make a good impression, I sweated, stuttered and finally said something completely inane about him being my fairy godmother.

Later, my friend guided me in my post-John haze to the car. “Let down?” She asked. It wasn’t fair. Here was a relatively new friend who had gone out of her way to make a dream come true for me. I had no right to be anything but ecstatic. I realized there was nothing the poor man could have done to live up to the combined pressure of twenty one years of day dreams. Anything…short of falling on one knee and declaring me his long lost soul mate and true love. Yes, I really had hoped to make an impression on him, make just a tiny difference in his life for the huge one he’d made in mine. Yes, I really thought we’d laugh over the fact I’d named my dog after Simon. I’d get to tell him how I’d spent my thirteenth summer with my ear pressed to my boom box dutifully transcribing every single Duran Duran song because I needed the lyrics and there was no internet back then.

I had read bits to my mom who murmured “That’s some lovely poetry, dear.”

“It’s Duran Duran, mom. I told you they were the best.” I’d sneered.

“It’s not like he’s going to remember you from in there.” My friend comforted me. I knew she felt responsible for my let down. In the green room he was not John-her-friend, he’d been John-the-rock-star who was as much of an alien being to her as to me.

But this is Hollywood and everything is possible. Last week, I smooshed into a packed elevator and turned to face the closing doors.

“We can make this one,” said a smooth British voice as a tall, beautifully square-jawed man appeared less than three feet from me. He stopped, seeing the capacity crowd and for a moment we locked eyes. I smiled and the slightest cloud of “Do I know you?” passed over his face.

I willed myself to remain silently smiling at him as the doors closed while my inner eleven year old jumped up and down yelling “Ohmygod it’s John! Ohmygod it’s John!”

A Fitting Quote

"Pleasure can live in illusion but happiness lives in reality."

Wish I'd thought of that!

Romantic Comedy or Drama?

Way back in the misty epoch of January, I had the good fortune to go to Mexico for a company conference. While there I met this Big Deal Director. I thought he was engaged to one of my favorite models so I blithely chatted away with him till the wee hours, happy to be utterly myself. Since he was taken, there was no need to impress or strategize.

The next day however, my intrepid (read: nosy) colleagues Googled everything they could think of about him and came up with the surprising revelation that he was in fact not engaged, hadn’t been for months, and IMDB doesn’t update its facts very often.

Subsequently, I turned into a complete fluffy dork around him. He was after all gorgeous, intelligent, witty, successful, well-mannered, everything-on-dream-list and OhMyGod what if he fell in love with little-old-me? Adding fuel to the fire, when I coyly suggested he change his travel plans to stay till the end of the week like I was, he did. After all, things had started with Agent Man on a vacation. Maybe this was The Next One. Ooo! Maybe this was The One! Delusions of grand relationship beginnings danced in my head. Poor man thought he was just having himself a fling.

“Silly girl! What would your boss think?” You ask.
“Not just boss,” I correct you, “whole department.”

I knew there were possible job damning politics afoot but I figured everyone would forgive if it was “real.” Don’t we put everything aside for that which is “real?” We do in movies. Despite my protestations that I’m a good girl I’m pretty sure that’s why I’m not on the list for this year’s company trip.

The funny thing is I honestly did have a bout of morality at the time. Believe me, I was tempted. The man is very skilled. And gorgeous and witty and…But at the last minute, it hit me that I didn’t want to be just another notch on his infamous bedpost. I wanted to matter to him. I would distinguish myself by not sleeping with him. It was beautiful Mexico after all and after my twelve hour work days (who needs sleep?) there were entire nights to talk and share with each other and build that romantic base of friendship that would undoubtedly sustain us on our life of love. Cue violins…

Despite all evidence to the contrary, I am not delusional. After the Hollywood pretense fell away, he actually shared something of himself with me. I wonder now if he meant to. Beneath all the name and money crap was just a nice guy with a heart like anyone else. A pretty likable heart at that.

We did have fun together. We laughed a lot and I don’t think he minded my chastity too terribly. But when I gave him my number at the airport, he reciprocated with his assistant’s number and a look of “Oh God please don’t ever call me.” So I didn’t. Nope, I thought, I’m gonna be the girl who didn’t sleep with you and didn’t call you. Clever strategy, no?

After a few weeks of radio silence I got a text from him and my heart stopped. When I could again breathe, I texted back something deliciously witty in the moment for which I slapped my forehead the next moment. And so on. For months he’d text or call when ever he was in town. I’d think Ooooo! Maybe he sees something here after all. And I’d get all excited. And then get all heartbroken again, when he didn’t call again. Or when I found out again that he was instead with the latest shiny object (model/starlet) on whatever shoot he’d gone off to. I’d wonder what I was doing wrong. I found myself being exceedingly careful to be fabulous around him. It’s a fun cycle: hope, self-doubt and heartbreak. I highly recommend it to anyone looking to get some meat to draw on for real emotion in your writing.

It dawned on me that if we truly were meant to be, there was nothing I could do to mess it up so I might as well be myself. He still didn’t call and I figured it was time to listen to the message the Universe was giving me. I sent back a sweater I’d poached (oh but it smells like him! – gag) and I finally let go of my daydreams of an amazing romance.

My boss asked me “Did you really think something serious was going to work out with this guy?”
I smiled and told him that “Yes, yes I had.”

I had believed that he might like the idea of being with someone who valued him for him, not for who he has to be for Hollywood.

Then I realized the funny thing about dream guy lists. I had left the kicker off mine: must be crazy in love with me. The fact that the Director is missing that vital item pretty much negates the rest of the list and it took me a while to see that. I guess I was blinded by the Hollywood stuff after all. In the end I’m relieved things are as they are now. The gossamer treacle of daydreams can only sustain you for so long. After a while some good hearty living-in-the-now is much more satisfying.

I’m sure the Director laughed plenty at my naiveté’. But though I would have been hurt to know that before, he’s not wrong. It’s much easier when you can laugh at yourself. A silly, lovelorn girl who crazily believes her own Cinderella story is pretty funny. Especially if she’s a flawed but loveable protagonist. Now if I could just find some talking mice who know how to sew.

And just for the record IMDB still lists the Director as engaged. That’s probably for the best.

The Bus of Hopeful Cliche'

I did not arrive in Hollywood on the clichéd Greyhound bus with an old wicker suitcase in hand. I didn’t have to deal with an aging seat mate falling asleep and drooling on my shoulder or getting propositioned in a truck stop by the recently paroled con. The joys of interstate bus travel as I imagine it. No, I drove my own Uhaul. I’m a modern girl after all. I had my own road adventures.

For a while a biker dude drove next to me waving and smiling. I used to date a biker dude so I was disposed to be friendly to them. We managed a screamed chat over the road noise but then he motioned to pull over together and I regretted telling him I was heading to LA. He veered off at the next rest stop, I guess assuming I’d follow. When I didn’t he revved up next to me again and grabbed his crotch.

“You want some of this?” He grinned.

I decided the incredulous are-you-freaking-kidding? cackle that rose in my throat wouldn’t be the best answer. I’d run out of gas before he would. So I declined more politely.

“You sure?” He seemed genuinely surprised.

“Um, yeah.”

I looked over at Simon, my dog, wishing he was more ferocious looking. He smiled and stuck his furry head back out the window. As the biker rode off into the traffic ahead, I wondered how often that approach worked for him. I mean clearly it must from time to time. Or he’s a slow learner.

In a weird, dead-end town somewhere in Nevada, I managed to find a motel that allowed dogs. They’ve probably changed their policy by now once they saw just how much hair a giant collie-shepherd could shed in 6 hours. The lobby offered powered coffee and powdered milk along with fridge magnets shaped like chilies and adobe ovens. I admired a plastic flower arrangement while chatting with the front desk manager. Moving there had been her big dream. She came from an even more dead-end town than that one. She’d met a local fireman and moved for him.

I could understand. My impetuous LA move was not the first time I’d up and moved cross country. And I’d done it for a guy once too. Years ago when I was fresh out of school and floundering in an Ad Agency next to the Levi’s offices in San Francisco. Mom decided we should break with stuffy Thanksgiving tradition and go on a cruise instead. So we did. And on this cruise there was an up and coming New York Talent Agent and his family thinking the same thing.

Agent Man and I had the full blown romance, days together alone on gorgeous beaches in our ports-of-call (thank you, gracious family), staying up all night so we wouldn’t miss one minute of each other. Get this: we even entered the ship’s talent show with a ridiculous version of "Summer Nights" from "Grease." Yeah, we’re both Leos. The families all met. We talked about the future. It was like six months of dating condensed into a week. Within two months of returning to our respective coasts, it was decided that I would pack it in at my SF job and move to New York. With a start that movie-esque, how could it not work out, right?

I should have suspected something when “If you can make it there, you’ll make it anywhere” rang more like dark foreshadowing than blithe invitation. Not that it wasn’t a great relationship and an important learning experience for me. But at the end of the day, I’m a western girl and I couldn’t hang with the east coast vibe. I asked him if we could move to LA since his agency had offices on both coasts. He considered it but at the end of his day, he told me, he was a hard core New Yorker and couldn’t bear to leave. I had to. So after three years in New York City I went home to the mountains. There, I created a comfortable but stagnant life for myself.

I flew out here a few years ago to check things out. It was fall. I wore a tank top where back in the mountains I’d have worn a down coat. I was thrilled by the autumnal magic of heat. Entire days with a peculiar golden-hour light. It made my inner feline stretch into a belly-flop on the carpet. I couldn’t wait to go home and pack.

Ironically, it wasn’t California that didn’t work for the Agent Man. It was just me. He’s married now to some network execu-chick and lives here too. I could get all “Oh the injustice!” about it but, yes, I really believe that if it was meant to be, it would have been. I like to doubt that she deserves him but the reality is she’s probably a great girl. Who knows, they say even good guys get ruined after three years in LA. Maybe she’s a shrew and they deserve each other just fine.

We haven’t spoken in a long time. Marriage and all, you know. I’m sure it’s just a matter of time before I run into him at some function or premiere and I’ll pretend it’s not awkward. In the realm of actual relationships, he’s the closest I’ve ever come to true love. I saw in the trades he’s headed to mucky-mucksville. Good for him. I say blithely if you can make it here, you really can make it anywhere.

That last day in the Uhaul, I mistook my jittery hands for too much powdered coffee. I chalked part of it off to the excitement of starting a new life in a new place. I’d been excited when I’d moved to New York too. But these flutters were more than just new possibilities and extra caffeine.

Then it dawned on me as I hit the tangle of freeway interchanges that is the first sign of outer LA: this time it’s for me.