Bruce Wagner - I’m Losing You

To make a long story short, the next day Rodrigo calls to say he must let me go! For WHAT, I say and he says “soliciting jobs from clients”!!! OH MY GOD. Can Ms. Wolfe and MR. BASQUIAT be so PETTY? To vent their anger at ME, who struggles the way they have struggled before me? To laugh at my hopes and my dreams? My goal to star {or co-star} in TEOREMA was perhaps unreal, but now, it is dashed like so much driftwood. Diary, I cried and cried and for the first time thought of returning to B.C. But then I took a deep breath and went for a long walk on the Santa Monica pier. I thought of the story I read in the Times about the man who handcuffed himself and jumped off the end, the man who was rescued by passersby who just happened to be HEIDI FLEISS and DR. STEVEN HOEFFLIN, MICHAEL JACKSON’s plastic surgeon {they were dining at the chic IVY AT THE SHORE}—what doesn’t kill me will indeed make me stronger. I will take the blows, gladly, but will NOT be defeated. I’ll have no regrets along the byway, and be able to hold my head up high and say — I did it MY WAY—

Sight Unseen

Boy, you’re getting greasy! You’re just about as juicy as a big old Fat Burger. Make that a Sloppy Joe. Know what I’m gonna start calling you? Minnesota Fats, that’s what.

Today, we moved to g-mother Holly’s guest house, just around the corner from your pal Diane Keaton (Mommy helped cast one of her China Beaches , way back when). Holly and Janusz said we could stay indefinitely but I think a few weeks sounds about right. We were burnt out on Hermosa, weren’t we? Too much sun and in-line skatin’ fun. Time to enter our Day of the Locust phase, Burgess Meredith tromping wheezily through the hills, exotic drinks at the Garden of Allah and all that — plenty of old contract player ghosts in Beachwood. Hol’s doing a movie for DreamWorks of all people so she’s here a week or so then off to Texas for two months. A very cozy nest we have here, extremely cosi fan tutti, very Holly and that’s why it feels so right. We have our own little bougainvillea’d porch; you can hear the plashing of a terra cotta fountain over the pool (little rock angels holding their wee-wees just like you do).

I have plans for us, Oceanspray, big ones! We’re going to take a train ride to your grammie’s! — up to Portland— chucka chucka chucka chucka — over to Idaho— chucka chucka —Montana— chucka chuck chucka —North Dakota — chucka chucka chucka chuck woo-woowoooooooooooooohhhhhhhhh ! Won’t that be heaven? And I promise: you will have the biggest Fourth of July of your life! (Minnesotans do it right.) You’ve never seen a backyard like Grandma Willy’s. We’ll hop in her great big cotton — candy bed and I’ll write messages-in-a-bottle while you gurgle prayers and salutations to St. Cloud (that’s where Grandma lives and where Mama was raised — St. Cloud, Minn.). Say, won’t it be wonderful to publish in Braille? Wunnerful? Marvelous? Or do you not have a single thought in that beauteous, will-o’-the-wisp head?

You’ll Never Eat Me During Lunch …

Abortion three days ago. Cat left for Europe just before. On All Bloody Eve we had a long drug-den-to-SST chat (as long as SST chats can be) that culminated in the achingly tender offer to send Chelsea, trusty chore whore, along to the clinic (yes, E, I’m being serious). I politely declined::::::::::Know who I dream of every night? Sara Radisson and her blind baby boy. I — oh God, I…shit::::::::::Eric, do you — I really need you to start looking at places I can — do you know about the Doral Saturnia? In Florida? Because I really need a place where I can chill — there’s just too many people I know at the Canyon Ranch::::::::::Shelby said Sara’s husband left her — alone, with a sightless child! Motherfucking cock suckers. Did you know all fetuses are female until a male hormone’s introduced? Men are fucking anomalies, mutations ::::::::::E, why did I do it? What was I fucking afraid of? I just want to die! Calliope says I didn’t — because it’s — directly tied to my father’s rape. The fear of bringing a baby — another girl — like I’m some breeder —goddammit goddammit goddammit! It’s all so…so boring and so fucking tragic . I’ll be forty-four in six days, six hours and twenty-nine minutes. Twenty-eight. Twenty-seven — how I hate this life::::::::::blind babies again, chasing me through fields like in a horror film. They don’t run, though, they glide or they fly, like fruit bats. No emotions attached, mercifully. I don’t wake up screaming. Maybe that’s the problem.

Maps to the Stars

On Sunday, spoke to Mother and did NOT tell her I was let go. I didn’t want her to worry needlessly. She doesn’t have an inkling of how this town operates; nor should she. They miss me but I reiterated how I said from the beginning I’d give my sojourn in the City of Angels a full year. I’ll stick to my guns. Daddy respects me for that but it’s easier for him all around because he’s stronger than Mom. She hinted they might come out here to visit and that’d be fine as long as it doesn’t interfere with auditions, acting class, etalia.

On the Sweets front, I keep turning it over in my mind {seem to have more time to do that lately}. I KNOW there’s probably much more under the surface “to be revealed.” What I was told by Rodrigo is most likely the proverbial tip of the iceberg. If I wanted, I could find out what REALLY happened, POLITICALLY. The Incident with MR. BASQUIAT and Ms. Wolfe may just be more of a tempest in a proverbial teapot than anything else, a smoke screen, if you will. It’s more than possible Tammy was to blame — the malicious bitch from O.C. who thought I was flirting with PETER WELLER {AS IF he was going to marry her!! Besides, he’s NOT my type — like JAMES WOODS, he’s too thin-faced and INTENSE}. She is a majorly “ho” and had it in for me from Day One. It may also be I somehow became the sacrificial lamb in a ritual bloodletting of which Ursula Sedgwick was but the first casualty. HARRY DEAN has been the sweetest and most understanding, inviting me to sup at his beautiful home high on MULHOLLAND DRIVE. He’s starting a new DAVID LYNCH and said he could get me a “meet.” It’s so refreshing being with someone who has made it on his own terms and is not a BULLSHITTER. HARRY DEAN was genuinely outraged at my being let go and is thisclose with one of the investors. He offered to throw his weight around, talking to Rodrigo at the very least. But I told him no, don’t intervene. I don’t wish to use him in that way — HARRY DEAN is a genie and I refuse to waste a wish on something so petty. But I will ALWAYS be thankful for his kind offer and concern. He cooked kickass gumbo and I cried some more and HARRY DEAN held me and told jokes and we sang songs and he didn’t even try anything — what a gent!!! A true friend. I kissed him good night on the mouth, though. He had earned that.

Jabba is working at a club in Century City called BAILEY’S TWENTY/20 GENTLEMEN’S CLUB. I interviewed today and all looks well. It’s topless during lunch {with lap dancing} and is frequented by famous attorneys and their clients, plus a host of top TV executives from the ABC Entertainment Center across the way. It’s a safe and very unsleazy environment — site of the old Playboy Club. There is also minimal, well-heeled street traffic — the Shubert is there and Harry’s Bar, etalia; it’s quite the complex. The dancers are all gorgeous and taller than NICOLE KIDMAN CRUISE! At lunch, I counted twelve, on three different stages all at once. I can live with showing my breasts {the pay is high}—all one has to do is flip through HARPER’S BAZAAR or VANITY FAIR ads, etalia, to see NADJA and AMBER and CLAUDIA and KATE doing just that. Women have been baring breasts since time immemorial; I’m certainly in good company. {DEMI RULZ!!!} Jabba made a joke that her father the talk show host was a “regular”—and I believed it. I hate being gullible.