I would like to start out by saying that these words of mine are true. So, are these. And these ones too. From now on you’ll simply have to trust me. I have no intention of exaggerating the events of my life, however the need to embellish is so deep rooted within all of us that we can rarely distinguish where the truth ends and our desire for a better-than-our-lives-could-possibly-ever-be-though-we’ll-never-admit-it truth begins. That being said….you won’t be able to tell when I am telling the truth and when I am embellishing and neither will I. So why not just try to get along? I like that idea. This will become a diary of sorts as I have run out of room in the one laying next to me on my bedside table next to the seltzer water and castanets. I’ve been told my adventures are quite unusual and my one-legged friend Hugo and his twin sister Martha told me I should start a blog. I said to my self, “what’s a blog?” Then I asked them, “what’s a blog?” So, they told me. But, I feel no need to recount their lengthy and laborious description because you are obviously hip to blog generation. I, however, am not but I’ll do my best. This internet tool has so far exceeded my need to communicate that I find myself forcing hours of silence upon myself just to recover. I can tell you now that my unusual adventures come as quite a surprise to everyone who hears of them, namely myself. I do not know why I have been saddled with this life of mine, but alas, we do not choose our own lives. I certainly did not. But, that’s enough introduction. This will have to do for now, as I’m due for another foot rub from my Malaysian housekeeper Nurui. Please, do stop by from time to time and check in on me. I so love company. Let us be good friends!
This shall be a quick post. I just wanted you all to know that there are some people who will not be fucked with. One of those people, I’m happy to say, is Beyonce Knowles. Perhaps, you’ve heard of her. I’m coming to you from a very expensive restaurant (location unknown). Just know that it is very expensive. As I sit across from Ms. Knowles (Mrs. Z?), I am overcome with schoolgirl-like glee from the words she just spoke to our waitress who just totally fucked up our order. I mean, I ordered the filet mignon, rare, with the butternut squash risotto and this stupid-ass bitch brings out a filet mignon, (get this) medium. What the fuck is her goddamn fucking problem? Is she fucking retarded? I clearly said “rare” you stupid idiot! If you can’t get that right, go back to fucking school you stupid, pedestrian whore! After all, you work on tips, you student-to-working class- bitch! This is my money and you ain’t gettin’ shit unless you run your ass off like a fucking slave! Anyway, Beyonce stepped in and totally saved the day. I mean, I love B to death and always will, because Jesus, can she come through in a pinch. I suppose it’s nice to have a high-powered lady like B when you’re dealing with a low-life-piece-of-pond-scum-shit-on-by-rob-schneider like Judy…or Julie…Meredith…or whatever her name was. Here’s what B said…she said…”I’m sorry little girl, either you’ve got amnesia or you were born last week and your ass grew up like Tatum O’neal, because I know you can’t be recognizing the power at this table. If you did, there wouldn’t be a single, miniscule, thing wrong with this meal because your life depends on it. OK? Don’t think you’re getting a piece of my platinum records just because you’re wearing a man’s white dress shirt and an apron, bitch.”
I love that woman! And you can bet, whatever-her-name-was didn’t get a single thing wrong after that. Just for good measure though, we only tipped her ten-percent. I mean, she has to learn a lesson, right?
Love and kisses!
I dare not reveal my location at this moment, but know that I am temporarily safe.
To update you, I had to hastily end my last post when the bearded man sleeping in the corner of the internet cafe pulled back his soiled, green coat and revealed a rather large crossbow, aimed directly at me. All of a sudden, a feeling of dread the size of pre-slim-down Camryn Manheim twisted my already aching stomach into a pretzel. I realized that Selena was one step ahead of me. As the arrow whizzed past my cheek and lodged itself into the drywall behind me, I rushed out the door, covering my head with my jacket as if that would do a damn thing. Out into the cold night, my breath clouded in front of my eyes as I began to run. And I ran. And ran. I don’t remember if a single thought passed through my mind other than SURVIVE. I never looked back. The man could have easily stuck me like the Devil’s acupuncturist if he had really wanted. Looking back, I don’t know why he stopped, but I don’t really care. To make a long story short, I was picked up early this morning by a farmer on his way south with a truck full of chickens. I had never been so happy to see chickens in all my life. They were the most beautiful chickens I had ever seen and I wanted to kiss every single one of them on their cute little beaks. But, I didn’t. There wasn’t time. The farmer’s name was Bud. Or Bill. Or Henry. I wasn’t really listening. He inquired several times as to why I couldn’t keep my eyes off of the rearview mirror, but I deflected with, “How can we move forward if we never look back, friend?” I don’t think he understood, but it made him think which seemed to be a laborious process for Carl. Or was it Paul? Oh, well. We drove in silence for over two hours. Not even the chickens seemed to have a mind for chit-chat. Eventually we reached his destination so it was time for me to set out on my own again. I was hoping the smell of chicken droppings and chewing tobacco had thrown Selena off the trail, but how could I know? Several rides later and many days of travelling , I find myself…oh, yes, I must not reveal my location lest Selena Gomez find me and eat my large intestine. But again, I am safely in another internet cafe and I don’t believe the members of Chubby Nerds Anonymous will give me any trouble. I wish to continue my tale if it’s alright with you…
When I awoke, the room was damp. There was a bright light shining directly in my eyes, obscuring everything around me. How long had I been out? Where was I? Why was I now wearing a shirt adorned with Mickey Mouse (copyright Walt Disney Co.) ? My head felt like it had been sat on by pre-slim-down Camryn Manheim (Oh, did I already use that? Damn.). It took me a while to notice that my hands were behind me and tightly bound to a chair. After a few futile jerks, this way and that, I realized that I wasn’t going anywhere. From across the room, my ear picked up on two male voices engaged in some indiscernible conversation. In these moments of which I have had a few, it’s always striking how unexpected it all is. One never wakes up in the morning and thinks to themselves, “Well, today I can go to the store, hit the gym, and maybe later I’ll be kidnapped and bound to a chair in a cold damp room where I’ll likely be sodomized.” I certainly never have. But, here I was. What must go wrong in one’s life to end up in a place like this? What decisions could I have made differently to steer my life in a different direction. Any other direction. When left up to other human beings our lives can become more complicated than we could have possibly imagined. As I thought more about this, a figure moved in front of the light and my retinas were grateful for the reprieve.
“Wakey, wakey”, a man with a gruff, british voice croaked.
The other man approached.
“How’s our little turtle dove, Jammy?”
The man with the british accent jabbed him hard in the ribs.
“I told you not to use my name, you wanker! We don’t know who this bugger is!”
“Sorry, Jammy”, and another hard jab. “Sorry.”
“Now, why don’t you make yourself useful and go tell Ms. Gomez he’s awake.”
Ms. Gomez? The blow to the head had completely knocked my memory loose. Now it was all coming back to me: the jog, the damsel in distress, the pink pants, the kiss, and the sack coming down over my head. Could Selena Gomez really be orchestrating this entire kidnapping? What reason would Selena Gomez have for kidnapping me, unless she’s just a crazy bitch?
The man charged with fetching “Ms. Gomez” quickly left the room, opening and closing what sounded like a massive metal door which locked in several places once it was closed. So, there I was alone with Jammy, the man straight out of a Guy Ritchie film.
“You look right scared I’d have to say. Nothin’ to be scared of mate. Ms. Gomez, she just likes to have a little fun is all. You understand.”
With that, he laughed the laugh of someone who was severely beaten as a child and overwhelmed me with the stench of garlic and horseradish at the same time. I didn’t dare say a word as it became increasingly clear that my friend Jammy received a certain amount of pleasure from the pain of others. I closed my eyes and waited for it all to be over. Surely I would wake up and realize this was all a bad dream. Surely I would wake up splayed out on the bed in Meryl’s guest room next to a passed out Elizabeth Hurley who would be clutching a bottle of Chateau Lafite and sucking on the head of one of Meryl’s Oscars. This had been my pleasant awakening for so many mornings and I wished for it so hard, tears came to my eyes. This was not lost upon Jammy.
“Oh, is the little bugger crying? Oh, no. The little bugger’s crying. Why are you crying little bugger? Are you…are you crying for your mommy?
I couldn’t hold my tongue any longer.
“No Jammy, I’m not crying for my mommy. Why would I be crying for my mommy? I’m crying because this morning I was at Meryl goddamn Streep’s house and now I’m tied to a chair in a disgustingly damp room with an ugly british man hovering over me with breath that could wipe out a field of cattle. Why is that the one insult anyone can think of when someone is crying? Crying for mommy? As if that’s the most embarrassing thing one could cry over. Why are we obsessed with this crying for mommy thing? We’re not in elementary school anymore, Jammy. It’s time to graduate into the world of real taunts and insults.”
I could tell he was shaken, but he was determined to maintain his dominant role in this whole kidnapping scenario.
“Well. Little bugger thinks he’s real smart, eh? We’ll see how smart he is when Ms. Gomez comes to see him.”
“And furthermore, why don’t you just stop talking all together and face the fact that you can do nothing to me until ordered to do so. Please, for you own sake, come to terms with the fact that you are taking orders from the nineteen year old star of Ramona and Beezus. I want you to let that ruminate. I mean, really let that sink in and then come talk to me.”
“I think you’ll be changing your tune once Ms. Gomez arrives. You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
“I’ll let your butchering of the English language slide as you obviously earned your degree from the School of Petty Crime and Thuggery We’re done here.”
He then just sort of growled and raised his fist as if he was going to hit me real hard but, seeing as I had been in this sort of situation before, I knew there was nothing he could do. I simply smiled and he smiled back. It was clear that neither of us had a full grasp on the situation but were merely attempting some semblance of intimidation. Poor Jammy had a point: I hadn’t seen anything yet.
The locks on the door I still couldn’t see began to systematically disengage and I was struck by the fear in Jammy’s eyes. If I hadn’t been fearful myself I might have recognized a sort of cry for help as the presence of Selena Gomez drew nearer. It was all sort of a blur, but the first thing I remember is hearing the door open and seeing Jammy swing around and stand at attention. The second thing I heard was a deafening gunshot and felt warm blood splatter my face as Jammy slumped to the floor. Then, her voice.
“Jeffey! Get your useless ass in here and clean up the mess your Brit-piece-of-shit friend made all over my honored guest!”
I still couldn’t see anything but, I could hear the commotion and barely make out the figure of Jeffey as he rushed in, bent down and began to drag Jammy’s lifeless body from the room. A fitting way to go for a British thug. After more sounds, I heard another gunshot and a body, I’m assuming Jeffey’s, hit the floor. It must have been outside of the room, however, because I heard the door shut and all of its locks engage in a dark reminder of my time alone with Selena Gomez.
Suddenly, all of the lights in the room came on in a grand ceremony which blinded me momentarily. As my vision returned the vision of a young, very beautiful, psychopath revealed itself to me. Her feet were firmly planted on the ground, concealed in thick leather boots studded with silver spikes along the edges of the sole. I couldn’t help but feel she was pushing it a little with those…we get it, you know? Crawling up her legs were black fish net tights, which were ripped here and there…strategically if you ask me. Cut off jean shorts began where the fish nets left off. This surprised me as cut off jeans to me scream “day at the beach” or “innocent farm girl” more than they do, “psychotic Disney (copyright Walt Disney Co.) princess, who’s about to eat my face off”. Her shirt was one of those mesh number which are worn over a second shirt. I couldn’t help but picture her carefully planning out her outfit in front of her mirror in preparation for this lovely event of complete insanity. Over her eyes she wore sunglasses and her hair was teased into a large mane, framing her face. It was all quite fashionable. I realized how long it had been silent since the lights came on. Of course, my concept of time was skewed. This happens when you know you’re about to die. Trust me. With the sunglasses on she appeared lifeless…statuesque. I knew her tactic. They all have tactics which are supposedly so transparent to non-psychopaths like myself, but any schmuck can tell you that silence builds tension…just watch 2001: A Space Odyssey and you’ll want to throw your child at the television screen. It’s the same principle. I could smell the wet room and unfortunately, now I could see it. It was your typical kill room belonging to a maniac. The light was a blueish green type deal and every once in a while the overheads would flicker ominously. Apparently killers rarely change their fluorescent light bulbs. Creeping up the corners was the obligatory mold and water stain combination. On either side of me were old hospital gurneys complete with leather straps including one for your head. It was all quite standard and I was unimpressed. I expected originality from someone so young. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was all designed by the fellows from the Saw movies we all just can’t seem to get enough of. But, here I was. Sitting in silence. Staring up at the young vision before me (come on, just admit you think she’s attractive). Whether it was the stench in the room, or my lack of patience, or even my need to urinate which had upgraded from “I’ll have to go soon” to “I have to go now”, I couldn’t tell you, but I decided to speak first.
“Darling, you didn’t have to get all dressed up for little ol’ me.”
With that, pointed her gun at one of the lighting fixtures and blasted it.
“Feel better?” I asked.
She blasted the next one.
“Only two left, my sweet.”
And she took those out as well. Back into the darkness.
I waited. I didn’t feel like speaking anymore and my heart was pounding so loudly I couldn’t concentrate. Being in the dark with Selena Gomez is like having Kiefer Sutherland show up at your dinner party. You know it’s not going to end well. All I could hear was my own shallow breathing and the obligatory drip from somewhere in the room. Had she moved at all? Surely I would hear those ridiculous boots if she had. What was happening? Was she going to kill me or not?
“Do you know what it’s like?”
Her voice was very close, but sounded so far away.
“Do you know what it’s like to never see the ground below you? Huh? Oh, no. You don’t know. To never see the ground below you and never once look at a star before it’s already dead. Ha! You think you’re so fucking strong, don’t you! In my world, you mean nothing, you piece of crocodile shit. Drown in your own thirst you…you quivering, lifeless thing. In that sea out there. In that sea…”
She just trailed off. In case you were wondering…this was the exact moment when I realized that Selena Gomez is completely insane.
Then I could hear her. Her feet met the ground with a very slow and calculated rhythm. Thud. Thud. Thud. I jumped when she started to, I think, drag her gun along the wall. I could here her humming softly to herself as she made it around the perimeter of the room.
“Have you ever seen Wizard’s of Waverly Place (copyright Walt Disney Co.)?”
Silence. Then, a gunshot.
“Answer me, godammit!”
I leaped out of my skin and tried to answer.
“Um…uh…yes, I think I have.”
“Uh…no, I think I have. I think I caught it late at night or something.”
“Did you like it?”
“Well…yes, I think I did. I mean, yes I did. You were very funny. You got into lots of uh…you know…trouble and hi jinks and whatnot. And all that magic and stuff. It was excellent.” I had clearly lost my nerve.
“No, no, no. That’s not what you were supposed to say, don’t you see? Don’t do this the wrong way. I can’t take it anymore! Don’t do this the wrong way! There’s a world out there. Did you know that? There’s a world with lots and lots of people in it. They’re thirsty for it. They’re going to drown in their own thirst. You and me, we can’t do this right now. We can’t stand to do this to each other. Now, don’t fucking lie to me! Do you or do you not like Wizard’s of Waverly Place?!”
What could I say? She was screaming and carrying on. What could I say? Either way, I didn’t feel I would make it out alive. So, perhaps it was my chance. My chance to tell her what I really felt. The truth is, I have seen her stupid ass show. I had, though I hate to admit it. I’m a glutton for horrible TV shows. I thrive off of them. As long as I know something that horribly misguided exists in the world, I can go on living. It’s what I need from the world. If all TV shows were good, how would we know we had any taste at all? The Wizard’s of Waverly Place keeps me comfortable in the knowledge that I know a piece of shit when I see one. But, then I watch it and watch it and watch it, basking in it’s mediocrity like a crazed monk whipping himself for picturing a woman’s nipple. Ultimately, I find that other sort of comfort when I can allow my brain to completely shut off and let the the images of these horribly overpaid and untalented children, pretending to have any semblance of comedic timing, wash over me as I grunt along with the strategically placed laugh tracks and wash down bags of Fritos with a can of Mountain Dew. But could I say all of this to the gun-wielding, cherub-faced “actress” now pacing the dank room? No. I couldn’t. I’m not sure why.
“I do. I love the show.” This was all I could manage.
Silence. She had stopped.
“I wanted truth. I crave for the truth beyond the permanent glare my life has become. I can kill you, you know. Like I’ve killed everyone before you. Their lives are mine now…in the way that their lives were never their own. Do you understand that? You’re life is mine…whenever I want it. That’s how it works. That’s just the way it works. Don’t you know how much money I have? Oh, it might surprise you. I have more than you could ever dream of. Congratulations to me.”
A flame appeared in front of my face. I gasped before a hand covered my mouth. She had lit a match and her plastic smile was now lit by the small flame that bounced in between us. She began to lick my face slowly, which confused me at first, but then I shuddered with disgust when I remembered that Jammy’s blood had splattered on me. She spoke softly.
“I don’t want you to speak anymore. Don’t say anything, OK? I just want to talk to you. That’s why I brought you here, you know. I want to talk. If I move my hand will you say anything? Before you make an empty promise, I want you to know that my gun is what’s poking into you stomach. My loaded gun…pressed against you.”
I shook my head. She removed her hand and straddled my lap.
“Good. I really like when people listen to me. It makes me feel good, you know? Don’t say a fucking word! Mmm…this is nice, don’t you think? I don’t like to hurt anyone. I want to make people happy. That’s what people don’t understand about me. I just want to make people happy! But, then they want so much from me. So much! It hurts sometimes. I gave myself to the public a long time ago, but they’re never satisfied. Never. If they only knew their lives don’t and have never belonged to them, they might feel differently.”
She paused. She locked eyes with me and stared deeply into everything I was. When her lips parted, a popping sound echoed throughout the room and sliced through the terrible silence. This made her smile. I was more fearful of her when she smiled.Her smile faded though, as I watched a thought drift into her head and bounce from one side of her skull to the other.
“There are men, right now, in a room talking. These men are very rich, very smart men and they hold the key to the lives of millions of people. I work for these men, you know. They sign my checks and make every decision for me. They’re good, good men. Why, people wouldn’t even know what to buy next without these men. Nobody would know what decision to make if these men didn’t tell them. I want you to know about these men. I wanted to tell you about them.”
The match went out, but she quickly lit another. When she spoke again there was a quiet desperation in her voice. It was frightening.
“Do you think I’m pretty? Don’t you dare say a fucking word, but do you think I’m pretty? A lot of people do. People tell me all the time how pretty I am. I remember sitting with my mother when I was just a child and her telling me how pretty I was. She said, ‘Selena, everybody’s going to know how pretty you are someday’, and she was right. Oh, she was right. Everybody sees me now. Everybody can agree that I…AM…PRETTY!”
She leaped off of me and in a flutter the match went out. She was manic. I could hear her whimpering as she roamed the room, looking for the next way to connect with me. I kept wondering why she was doing this. What was her angle? If she simply wanted to vent about her fame and the pressures that come along with it, why must she kidnap me in order to do so? I’ve had many a discussion about this very topic with several people. Even just the night before I had sat with John Travolta in his closet while he curled up in a leather jacket and told me about how ‘Look Who’s Talking’ had ruined his life. I have a unique perspective into the celebrity world which many never get and that’s why I knew there had to be something else happening. Even most celebrities are not actually stupid enough to really feel sorry for themselves. We can all admit that in this world money trumps everything including, family, love, well-being, health, compassion for your fellow man, and certainly happiness. Celebrities realize this, that’s why they’re celebrities. So, what was she on about? In a far corner of the room she struck a match. Her eyes looked glazed over and dead.
“We’re born. We live. We make money. We make money. We make money. We make money. And then we die. But, not me. I help people. I do. I make lives better. Little girls look up to me. Little boys are confused by their attraction to me. Older men just want to see me naked no matter how much they deny it. That’s the way the world works. Either way…I persevere because everyone wants me.”
I couldn’t take it.
“May I speak…please?”
I was timid, at best. She didn’t say anything, so I continued.
“Yes. Everyone wants you. That’s true. But, have you ever stopped?”
“Stopped what? What do you mean stop? You can’t make me do anything! I’m Selena fucking Gomez!”
“Have you…have you ever stopped to think, you know…really think about why you’re doing what you do? Really ask yourself why?”
Hell, if my life was going to end anyway, might as well milk this for all it was worth.
“Forgive me if I seem rude…Ms. Gomez…but have all of the people working for you–not to mention all those people signing your checks, and those tween-age sheep to middle-aged perverts you call fans–convinced you that you’re actually doing anything worthwhile at all?”
This had clearly never crossed her mind and I was quite certain it wouldn’t even now. Her fame and money had pushed her into a realm beyond reality in which all she had achieved makes her more than human. In this reality, she and George Clooney rule the world.
“Ms. Gomez, how can you possibly think you’re doing the world any good by cashing checks for millions of dollars while those around you starve?”
With this, she perked up and drilled into me. She looked crazed.
“I am the youngest UNICEF Goodwill Ambassador! I have spent a week in Ghana with children who have nothing. NOTHING!”
“And how many coach bags do you own?”
“Those are designer bags! Excuse me for demanding quality!”
The logic of the rich. I wasn’t sure where to go from here. Through my experience, I’ve learned that those with everything don’t understand basic need. Even if they came from very little, once they have it all they feel it is their duty to take even more because they feel they’re entitled after all that hard work. Hard work indeed. But, I did speak.
“Well…you are awfully pretty, Ms. Gomez. Everybody must be very jealous of you.”
With the quickness of a cat, she was behind me and got me into some variation of a choke-hold which rendered my voice box useless.
“Do you know what it means if I say ‘I’m done with you’? Do you want me to say it? When I was seven I was friends with a certain purple and green dinosaur. Do you know the one? You must. He liked to sing a song. How did it go? Oh, yes…I love you…you love me…we’re a happy family…with a great big hug and a kiss from me to you…”
And she kissed my cheek. It was a long and loud kiss. I noticed that there was a kind of a border on the sides of my vision. It was white. As this border grew larger and expanded into my general field of vision, I could also feel a tightness growing in my face. It reached my eyeballs and I thought they might explode or pop out from the sockets. But, I could still hear her as my consciousness began to wane.
“We don’t need people like you. Your life means nothing. Which is unfortunate because I like you. You have nothing to offer. I’m Selena fucking Gomez. You think you could ever touch me? You think you affect me? I’ll let my millions speak for me, you worthless piece of nothing. I could listen to no one for the rest of my life….and still everybody would tell me how wonderful I am. Because I am wonderful. I’m that cloud on a summer day. I’m the tree blowing in the wind. I’m lonely gull flying ‘bove the sea. I’m the heat that is you and me…”
When I awoke, the room was empty. I had to wipe the filth and the sweat from my eyes so I could see. It suddenly occurred to me that I could use my hands. I wasn’t bound anymore. It felt as though none of it had happened even though I knew that to be a lie. I remembered it very clearly, but the sound of her voice still exists as if it were from a dream…from a very deep sleep.
After I rose, very wearily, to a standing position, I staggered over to the door. I might have not exited the room if I had not seen the note taped onto the rusted metal right before my eyes. It read:
‘You have a head start. Don’t waste it. –S.G. :)’
So, here I sit, writing to you as I attempt to evade this young starlet who is, even now, hunting me with the persistence of a Bloodhound. What will the future hold for me? Where and when will Selena Gomez show herself to me again? Will I feel this for the rest of my life? Will she not stop until I’m dead? Hopefully, these questions will not need to be answered. In a perfect world, I will return to Meryl’s for my extended stay in the East Wing Guest Room where I will be greeted by Denise Richards and John O’Hurley playing dress up in the gowns once worn by the Queen Mother. Please do not give up on me, adoring readers. Life is…and always shall be an ADVENTURE!
To all of my faithful readers, I sincerely apologize. I have been away and have not had access to a computer.
Suffice it to say, I was detained. Now, don’t let your thoughts run wild and trap me in the cold, grey world of undeserved sympathy. I was not arrested, nor was I caught hiking in Iran. I was, however, imprisoned. I have played ping pong in my mind over just how many of the facts I wish to divulge as I have not yet finished my long walk to absolute freedom. I find myself at an internet cafe somewhere just outside Spunky Puddle, Ohio dressed in a disguise I borrowed from a migrant worker I met at a local dive bar last night. I can almost feel my recent captor drawing nearer as I sense the familiar perfume wafting through the air. Perhaps it’s still on me. It smells of lavender and cigarette butts soaked in formaldehyde. My least favorite smell.
I turn my head every so often to make sure it is, in fact, only me and the bearded gentleman sleeping soundly in the corner who inhabit this particular internet cafe. I feel so unsure of myself in this moment. When and where will she find me?
I will rewind a week and give you some information that I need to pass along in case I don’t live to see tomorrow. I will try to get as far as possible before I must be on the run yet again. When will I be able to stop running?
I had awoken early that morning because I wished to go for a light jog before I began my day of lunches with good friends and dinners with friends I only keep around for their money. I had a lot on my plate as a social butterfly often does. I would move easily from restaurant to restaurant, always excusing myself in a fashion specifically geared toward the sensibilities of whomever I was with. Whoever? Whomever? Whatever. After a greek salad with Steven, I would conveniently spill my glass of wine onto my lap and excuse myself from the table in order to tidy up in the restroom, at which time I would simply slip out the back, knowing he would receive an important business call and forget I had even been there. Rushing into that delightfully authentic hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant, ‘Carlito’s’, I would apologize profusely to Susan for my tardiness acknowledging my wet lap and musing, “It’s just one of those days”. Well, I could go on, but you get the idea. This is what my day promised to bring and I was in need of a jog to clear my mind. After finishing my cottage cheese and glass of milk (Jennifer Lopez eats it every morning and LOOK at that body!), I slipped on my Bikila’s and was out the door into the damp morning air. It was the kind of morning which causes a reflexive and deep inhale as soon as it hits you. The Sun had just begun its slow climb up into the sky and I was off. It seemed as if the whole rest of the world was asleep and I was getting some quality time alone with my surroundings. I felt very entitled as I watched the road wind ahead of me. Thoughts came flooding into my head. I wonder when Steven will realize that mustaches went out with the leather vest years ago? I wonder when Susan will finally introduce me to that foreign cousin she’s always telling me about? Is that Barack Obama’s real nose? I couldn’t stop the thoughts bouncing around in the emptiness of my mind. I cringed as I realized I had somehow gotten the theme from “Sanford and Son” in my head and knew it wouldn’t release it’s clutches for days. I increased my speed and continued down the winding road high up in the hill. In hindsight, I wish I had stopped and turned back. I wish I had listened to that gnawing feeling that I couldn’t stand to see Steven if he was still in his moustachioed state and must give him call. I wish that for any reason, I had stopped on that damn road and gone back home to Meryl’s house. But, I didn’t. In my need for solitude I stumbled into a set of circumstances which would lead to, seemingly, a lifetime of feeling that presence sneaking up behind you, ready to pounce. A lifetime of feeling those hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Those hairs I try to shave twice a week, but sometimes forget.
Wait………..OK. I think I’m still alone. The bearded gentleman is still sleeping soundly. I’ll continue.
As I came around a bend I saw up ahead of me, no more than fifty yards away, a young woman. She was dressed in bright pink, skin tight athletic pants and a baby blue tank top, all of this showing off her thin frame. She wasn’t hard to miss. Her face was obscured by a mane of black hair, but I could see that she was crumpled on the ground holding her ankle. As somebody who always dreams of being a hero, but rarely gets the chance as I have a certain phobia about people in troubling situations (I don’t know if it’s been named just yet) I saw a rare opportunity to be better than the man I had become. Like Superman about to take flight…or maybe more like Ryan Reynolds as whatever superhero he pretended to be because women are quite fond of him…I bounded toward the damsel in distress. I believe I even yelled out a chessey phrase like, “Ma’am, just be still, I’m here to assist you!” Again, in hindsight, what could I have possibly done? I had even left my cell phone at Meryl’s next to the Coca-Cola and Ambien. But, nevertheless, I shouted something at the girl I saw before me, hoping she would hear my strong soothing voice and see my athletic and heroic strides toward her causing an immediate sexual attraction, the likes of which I have not seen since I ran into Debra Messing AGAIN in the kitchen of the Chateau Marmont. As the damsel in distress turned, her hair fanned out from her beautiful face and was caught in the light of the rising sun. I thought to myself, “Holy shit…it’s Selena Gomez”. Then she laughed, because apparently I hadn’t just thought it.
“Sorry”, I immediately felt terrible for my uncouth reaction. She continued to laugh.
“Oh, that’s alright. You’re funny.”
My already flushed cheeks became a deep maroon. Jesus Christ, her smile was not of this world. I mean, did Disney MANUFACTURE this girl?
“I must say Ms. Gomez, you are much more beautiful in person.”
It was then that she blushed.
“But, wait!”, I continued, “What am I saying? You can’t be more than sixteen years old!”
Her eyes glazed over and she stroked her hand through her hair with quiet annoyance.
“I’m nineteen”, she said quietly.
“Oh! I’m so sorry. You know what, I do remember Taylor Swift’s birthday tweet. I was with her at the Bennigans when she wrote it, but I couldn’t remember how old she said you were. I didn’t mean any offense.”
“None taken”, she said releasing the tension in her shoulders and rubbing her ankle. “Hazards of being a Disney princess, you know?”
“Right, right. I can imagine.”
That was it! That was moment when I began to sense something was off, but I was too blinded by stars in my eyes, not to mention sweat, to think clearly about what was actually happening. Imagine me being starstruck. ME. I once partied with Lindsay Lohan in an underground bathhouse in Cuba. How could I be starstruck?
“Well, I couldn’t help but notice, you seem to have hurt yourself”, I said, leaping into action.
“Oh. Yeah, I tripped on a root and twisted my ankle.”
I should have noticed there wasn’t a root in sight, but though she’s young….she is beautiful. Admit it.
“Well, let me check it out.”
As if I knew what the hell I was doing, I started feeling around her ankle asking when it hurt. It was a very small, smooth ankle that I had to uncover from the pink material which concealed it. The implications of my actions were not lost upon me. I looked into her eyes and I’ll be damned if she didn’t bite her lip. What was she doing? I immediately deflected.
“Wouldn’t want Justin Beiber to come after me!”
“Oh, don’t worry about him”, she cooed. “It’s amazing what a girl like me and some strategic publicity shots can do for someone in the closet.”
She simply nodded and stroked my hair.
I couldn’t bring myself to say I was surprised.
“You know Selena, I’ve been wanting to ask you this for a while now. I mean, this question has really eaten away at me…”
“Mm-hm?” She scooted closer to me and wrapped my hand in hers.
“Uh…well, how…um…how can one person be the thunder and another person be the lightning?”
She was dumbfounded. I continued.
“In your song Naturally, or whatever it’s called, you say something about you are the thunder and I am the lightning. I mean, you do know that thunder is simply the sound of the lightning delayed by a few seconds depending on the distance, right? So, that statement really doesn’t make any sense. You see what I mean?”
She stared at me for a while. Then, she spoke.
“I don’t write the bullshit. I sing it. Now, why don’t you kiss me?”
Now it was my turn to be dumbfounded. I had met this sweet young Disney Princess minutes ago and not only had I found out Justin Beiber was gay (again, not surprised), but she had revealed to me an ounce of her cold, business-minded outlook AND she said ‘bullshit’! Now, I was supposed to want to kiss her? When did that come about? Before I could answer myself, she pressed her lips into mine for a brief moment. Instinctively, I closed my eyes and breathed in her scent…which suddenly I noticed was quite putrid and made me gag, but as I opened my eyes I did so just in time to see the wicked smile on her face and feel the bag forcefully brought down around my head and tightened around my neck. Darkness. My last thought before I was bludgeoned into unconsciousness was, “Is Selena Gomez fucking insane?”
When I awoke, the room was damp and I…shit. I’ll update as soon as I’m safe again!
I feel that I have been all too vague about the KIND of adventures I encounter on a regular basis. I suppose some wouldn’t call them adventures at all, but the emotional and, sometimes, physical toll they take on me, not to mention the time they take, makes me believe them to be nothing but adventures. Since I have begun this blog, I feel a strong desire to tell you, however many of you there are, about my latest adventure which happened just yesterday. As I was typing that last sentence, I looked to my left and my gaze fell upon my lonely diary kept company only by that signed portrait of Julia Louis-Dreyfus, and my dear castanets. My old friend…the keeper of my secrets. Then, I had to re-type the sentence because it didn’t make any sense after that. Perhaps I shall feel the need to rip some adventures from the page and send them reeling into the vastness of the internet. But, for now, I will begin with the most recent (again, it was only yesterday). Perhaps, after reading this entry you will begin to understand the nature of these adventures I have so cryptically spoke of. Typed of. Whatever. Here we go.
I will not say where I was, but I will say that I was enjoying a rather large, very soothing latte. It was the kind of day that wasn’t unbearable, but you felt that if you stayed out too long any number of your digits would mutiny and simply fall off. This is why I had retreated into the quaint coffee shop with the large windows and small wooden furniture. A thin waitress with wild hair had just asked me if I would like another rutebega scone when I saw her eyes go wide in disbelief, seemingly caused by something behind me. I begrudgingly turned to see the source of this amazement and caught a brightly clothed figure of a girl walking past the window. Her hair was blue and giant pink sunglasses covered her eyes. Instantly, I knew who this sprite was. I thought to myself, ‘Oh no, I completely forgot to call her’. Coincidentally, she turned when she reached the door of the coffee shop and entered the small, dimly lit establishment. The thin waitress with the wild hair tried valiantly to stifle a high-pitched squeal, but alas, the banshee within her won in the end. She ran up to the woman who wore a bright yellow coat and extending from this coat were two legs sheathed in electric blue tights and finally she rounded things off with, I believe, rather boisterous heels of yellow to match the coat. When the wild-haired waitress had finished her exuberant siren song , the brightly colored woman, my dear friend, gave a weak smile and signed the girl’s pad where she writes the customer’s orders. It was then that waitress, already having made a complete ass of herself, made some outrageous claim about the woman’s “genius” and how she would “never use this pad again”, which I took to be a bold-faced lie. Predicting the ensuing awkward situation, I quickly looked out the window, pretending I hadn’t noticed any of the obnoxious display. I could feel her eyes zero in on me and my skin felt warm with anticipation. Truth be told, I have never and probably will never reveal to her my true feelings. She clearly was not going to be the first to speak, so I decided to “innocently” turn and catch her gazing at me. And I did. She had removed the large sunglasses and her beautiful eyes had tears gathering in them, though her smile was just as radiant as ever.
“Oh, my. Was that young girl screaming and carrying on because of you?”, I said with feigned detachment. “I assumed several of her vital organs had spontaneously burst.”
She laughed as her hand wiped away a rogue tear that had begun trickling down her cheek. I laughed as well, how could I not?
“How are you my dear, Katy?” I asked, feigning nothing this time.
“Oh, you know me”, she said in almost a whisper as another tear rolled down her other cheek.
I beckoned her with my hand and indicated the chair across the small table from me. When she had settled into the chair, I looked at her very gravely.
“I do know you KP, that’s why I’m worried”.
She chortled in that throaty way that’s always made me feel a little weak. Her eyes drifted to the window and she spoke very matter-of-factly.
“I guess you were so worried you forgot how to use a phone”.
This felt like a real hard punch to the gut. I was trying to choose my words carefully after this.
“You know I’ve thought about you constantly since I read about it”, I said with a hopeful upturn in my voice toward the end.
“Look, I understand. I know you’re a very busy man and I’m a very busy woman”, she said. “It’s just really hard when divorce is looming, I guess. And not always for the obvious reasons. You start to find out who your true friends are and somebody in my position doesn’t really have that many”.
“Oh come on”, I said right away. “You’re Katy Perry. Everyone loves you!”
She looked at me as if I had insulted her deeply and said, “All I ever hear is exactly what I want to hear. I can’t trust anybody. Everywhere I turn there’s somebody who wants a piece of the Katy Perry pie.”
“Say, that’s not a bad marketing angle, eh? The Katy Perry Pie: Everyone’s Got to Have a Piece”, I said, trying to lighten the mood.
“Sorry.” No success.
“I mean, I have my family who I’m eternally grateful for. I have my fans, but they don’t know me, they only think they do and they would turn on me in a second if somebody they liked better came along. It’s the most conditional kind of love. I just need to know that I have people around me that I can trust. I need that so desperately.” With this, the tears showed themselves again and they raced down her cheeks. I grabbed her hands in mine.
“You know you can trust me, Katy. Have I ever let you down before?”
She simply shook her head.
“You’re damn right, I haven’t”, I continued. “Now, let’s get out of here. It’s time you forgot Russel Brand.”
She looked me square in the eye and nodded with a big fat grin on her face. From the coffee shop we took to the streets in a rush of energy. From traffic light to traffic light, we ran, singing down the sidewalk with wild abandon. The cold air stung our ruddy faces with a delightful prick of new found happiness. Who knows where we were headed. That didn’t matter. We weaved in and out of the throngs of people, all of them bogged down by the heavy weight of life’s responsibilities, but if we had wings we could have soared above them all and begun a journey into the air and across the universe. Every once in a while somebody would recognize the conspicuous woman running past them, but their excitement would have to be put on hold as Katy needed to find her own right now. It was a beautiful sight watching her throw all caution to the wind, as they say. Her blue hair bounced along as she smiled a smile I’m fairly certain you could have seen from space. After we had been running for what seemed like a delightful eternity, she stopped suddenly and gasped. We found ourselves in a beautiful little park that felt wonderfully secluded. I stood breathlessly next to her and she grabbed my hand.
“Isn’t it lovely?” She said between heavy breaths.
It was. Lining the perimeter of the park were large Oak trees, the kind you don’t see too often. The focal point was an old fountain that was topped with the figures of cherubim playing flutes. There was nobody there but us and we walked to a bench which was right along the edge of the fountain. I sat down and she followed, her big, gorgeous eyes scanning the park.
“I never knew this was here.”
“Nor did I”, I said, but I was really looking at her.
We talked and laughed for the duration of the afternoon. I told her stories of my latest adventures, which she always loves to hear. I also told her I had decided to start a blog and I’m sure she’ll be quite flattered to know she’s the subject of my first of many entries. She did speak on what it was like toward the end of her rocky relationship with Russell. It had been very difficult for her to handle his personality and his demands on her. Katy is not the kind of person to be kept from living out all of her dreams. I’m not sure he ever quite understood her and she finally had come to realize that herself, which I was proud of. She told me she had written a new song about the whole ordeal which was titled, “You Think You’re So Damn Funny (The Remake of Arthur Really Sucked)”, but I told her she might want to rethink the title and go with something a tad more subtle and she agreed.
Eventually, the sun began to wane and so did our conversation. It pained me to have to say goodbye to her, but I knew I would run into her again. I reminded her that I’m not the only one with a phone and she laughed, promising me she would call. I know she won’t, but that’s OK. I took her face in my hands and spoke to her very firmly before we said goodbye.
“You have to look out for yourself, Katy. I can’t always be there to bring you up. You have an entire nation of adolescent girls relying on you. Don’t let them down but, also don’t let yourself down. You’re so much more than a chart-topping pop star. You’re an amazing individual with the strength of ten elephants and you’re one of my dearest friends.”
Then, I saw those tears again. It was I who wiped them away this time. And we said good bye. I felt the way I always feel after an afternoon with Katy Perry. Not only is it too brief, but there seems to be some substance missing to it all. It feels as if everything is on the surface. But, I am quite fond of her just the same. I watched as she walked away and plopped down onto the bench once again wondering what tomorrow would bring.
I would like to start out by saying that these words of mine are true. So, are these. And these ones too. From now on you’ll simply have to trust me. I have no intention of exaggerating the events of my life, however the need to embellish is so deep rooted within all of us that we can rarely distinguish where the truth ends and our desires for an external truth begin. That being said….you won’t be able to tell when I am telling the truth and when I am embellishing and neither will I. So why not just try to get along? I like that idea. This will become a diary of sorts as I have run out of room in the one laying next to me on my bedside table next to the seltzer water and castanets. I’ve been told my adventures are quite unusual and my one-legged friend Hugo and his twin sister Martha told me I should start a blog. I said to my self, “what’s a blog?” Then I asked them, “what’s a blog?” So, they told me. But, I feel no need to recount their lengthy and laborious description because you are obviously hip to blog generation. I, however, am not but I’ll do my best. I can tell you now that my unusual adventures come as quite a surprise to everyone who hears of them, namely myself. I do not know why I have been saddled with this life of mine, but alas, we do not choose our own lives. I certainly did not. But, that’s enough introduction. This will have to do for now, as I’m due for another foot rub from my Malaysian housekeeper Nurui. Please, do stop by from time to time and check in on me. I so love company. Let us be good friends!