The Reluctant Daddy

My husband’s family has always been a mystery to me. Lithe and attractive – George’s family are hardy people who look as though they never get sick. Not only are they physically strong – they are the most ‘evolved’ and loving people I have ever known. Whenever we visit George’s San Diego family I am reminded of the hobbits, elves and fairies of Middle Earth. George’s people are the sort of stout, merry people that upon a first introduction will embrace you in a stifling bear hug, take your hand in theirs and while looking unflinchingly into your eyes say something creepy like “Wow, what a pleasure to connect with you – thank the goddess that you have made a safe journey! Can I bring you some ale? We fermented it ourselves this very morning!”

George possesses a large extended family, which is made even larger by the family’s fierce adherence to the custom of maintaining close familial relations with ex-wives, ex-husbands, ex-girl or boyfriends, ex-coworkers, ex-drug dealers, ex-maids, or ex-12 step sponsors. They blindly adhere to a once-family-always-family philosophy. Were I to bludgeon my husband George to death with a baseball bat, I’m convinced that his family would continue to send me Christmas letters, and upon my release from San Quentin would ask me carve the ham at Easter. These same gentle people, who had welcomed me into their home with the same fevered attentiveness one expects from a retarded Walmart greeter, hid the darkest and sickest family custom I had EVER had the displeasure of beholding. A custom so primitive and barbaric – I’m convinced the Spanish used it during the Inquisition.

I refer to the unspeakable Christmas atrocity innocently called ‘The White Elephant.’

(To Be Continued)

Continued from The Cocktail Hour Pt 6

“Fucking democrats.” said Mr. Woods.

I wasn’t certain whether Mr. Woods was speaking to me or his dog who had ceased sniffing my crotch and was at present sniffing his own. Not certain if or how I should respond to such a statement, I thought it prudent to remain silent.

Seeming to construe my silence as agreement, Mr. Woods continued his rant unabated. “Goddamn Democrats -they’re fucking everything up. George Bush is the single fucking greatest president of the last 100 years, and if anyone believes differently, then they’re fuck-all full of shit!”

Still not certain how I should respond to such a conversation ‘opener’ an uncomfortable moment passed before I lamely responded “Right” and went back to staring at the bright morning sunlight bouncing off the shimmery surface of the L’Hermitage pool. I’m fairly certain Mr. Woods was frustrated by my utter lack of interest in the topic under discussion as he angrily threw his newspaper to the ground. His valet who had just returned, placed a small porcelain bowl of cooked hamburger meat in front of the dog then silently scooped up the paper and obediently returned to his previous position behind Mr. Woods.

Mr. Woods said nothing, crossed his arms in concentration and like me stared at the surface of the pool. We said nothing for a minute or two until I thought to ask him about his dog.

“Excuse me,” I said “But I’m a little curious – how is it you’re allowed to have a dog here? I mean isn’t that against LA hospitality rules or something?”

“I live here.” Mr. Woods casually responded as if living in a $700 a night hotel was the most natural thing in the world.

“Live here..wow…that must be expensive.” I replied.

“Yes, but it’s worth it, I never have to make my bed or cook anything. Besides, my dog loves the facilities here.” I thought it odd that Mr. Woods seemed to speak of his dog with the same deference and concern that one might have for a small child. The dog finished the hamburger meat, and jumped up on Mr. Woods’ lounge chair coming to rest comfortably in his lap. They both looked at me expectantly.

“Well, that must be a great way to live.” I said at last.

Unimpressed with my response, Mr. Woods muttered an agreement and continued to stroke the head of his small dog. Another moment passed and I decided to take a chance. What the fuck, I thought – James Woods and I hardly travel in the same circles, and save for the unfortunate and bizarre connection of burning my husband with a lit cigar years ago, I was certain we would never see each other again.

“I’m here because I hate my family.” I said provocatively.

“Oh, why is that?”

And with that simple statement, I told James Woods all about the inebriated, Botoxed housewives sucking down a stolen recipe for Magic Margaritas, my husband and child enjoying a life I had sold my soul to bestow upon them, and my despair at their lack of interest in my welfare.

At first, Mr. Woods said nothing. I thought that perhaps he hadn’t been listening, but to my surprise I noticed that had ceased stroking his dog and turned to give me his full attention. The golden morning light reflected beautifully on his pitted face. Despite the brilliance of the glow, there was no judgment or emotion etched into the dark features. I remembered reading on some trashy Hollywood website that James Woods was some kind of genius – a member of MENSA who despite his erratic nature possessed amazing intellectual gifts. Like a colorful, exotic insect Mr. Woods continued to appraise me, carefully deliberating what he would say.

At last, Mr. Woods asked “Have you ever read George Bernard Shaw?”

“No, not much I’m afraid.” I regretted my shitty public school education.

“Then I suppose you are not familiar with one of his most famous quotes – one that I’m fairly certain applies to you.”

“Which is?”

“Hatred is the coward’s revenge for being intimidated. Grow up already and and go home. You’re boring.”

With those words, Mr. Woods clasped his purse dog close to his body, rose gracefully from his lounge, and signaled for his valet to follow. As he disappeared from sight, I realized our audience was at an end. God had spoken.

Like Moses returning from Mt. Sinai, I returned to my family the next day a changed man. As I silently entered the house, I heard my son and my husband splashing about in the pool. Upon seeing me, they both shouted elated hellos – but their happy greetings gave way to wonder when they saw the holy illumination that shone from my face. I had spoken with God, and God had instructed me to return to my people with new wisdom that would govern our lives.

After ‘officially’ welcoming me home with a hardy hug and kiss, George offered me a Watermelon Mojito derived from a recipe he found on the Internet. As I sunk into the happy fog that accompanies this particular cocktail, I couldn’t help but laugh as the GAYEST disco version of Belinda Carlisle’s ‘Heaven is a Place On Earth’ played deafeningly on our stereo.

(Continued from the Cocktail Party Pt 5 ‘Heaven Can’t Wait)

Years ago, when my husband George and I first met and were in the throws of infatuation, I attended a swanky dinner party with a group of attractive film publicists who seemed to my inexperienced eyes to be glamour and sophistication incarnate. Looking back now, they were really a fraternity of gossipy, professional starfuckers. For those of you not familiar with Hollywood jargon, a starfucker is:

starfucker (plural starfuckers)

(slang, vulgar) One who obsessively seeks sex or association with stars, or celebrities.

These are the same tiresome, Hollywood jerks who despite having absolutely no personal relationship with anyone of consequence, might casually say something pretentious like “I thought Kate was absurdly over-the-top in THE READER but I positively adored Angie in CHANGELING – now there’s an Academy Award performance!”

During the course of the dinner, one of these obnoxious publicists asked me if I had a boyfriend. As George and I had only been dating a couple of weeks, I wasn’t certain he qualified, but as there were no other ‘potentials’ on the docket, I responded I had. When pressed by the group as to my new boyfriend’s profession, desperate to join their starfucker fraternity I responded proudly, “I believe he’s an Assistant Director.” Suddenly, the table’s side conversations came to a screeching halt, and the entire table turned to look at me with the disdain one reserves for a dinner companion who farts or hocks up phlegm at the table. An uncomfortable moment passed, before one of the publicists took pity on me and said in a kindly voice, “You know dear, no self respecting boy fucks below-the-line. But if one ‘goes’ in that direction, one certainly doesn’t admit to it.” The assembled guests giggled and nodded their approval. As I had no clue what below-the-line meant, I glanced around the table and joined them in giggling stupidly.

George explained to me that in budgeting a motion picture or television production, below-the-line costs include the salaries of the non-starring cast members and the technical crew, as well as use of the film studio and its technical equipment, travel, location, and catering costs, etc.The distinction originates from the early studio days when the budget top-sheet would literally have a line separating the above-the-line and below-the-line costs. Like an Indian aristocrat who violates that country’s strict caste system, I was dating an UNTOUCHABLE without even knowing it!

Poor George, who at the time was managing his aspiring starfucker boyfriend, was also managing one of Hollywood’s most tempestuous and volatile actors, James Woods. While extremely gifted, Mr. Woods has always had a reputation for being ‘demanding’ (Hollywood double-speak for total douche bag) with his directors, fellow actors and below-the-line crew. During the course of this particular production, George the charismatic ‘can-do’ AD had successfully appeased Mr. Woods with his professionalism and cheery demeanour. Like the proverbial calm before the storm, this bit of good luck was not to last. One unfortunate day, George made the mistake of bringing Mr. Woods to the set a couple of hours prematurely. Irate, Mr. Woods who at the time had taken up smoking cigars, purposely threw his lit cigar at George’s face burning him slightly. Not satisfied with disfiguring my below-the-line, untouchable boyfriend, Mr. Woods stormed out of the trailer and DEMANDED! DEMANDED! that George be fired on the spot! Fearing a lawsuit or at the very least a disability claim, a kindly producer ‘suggested’ Mr. Woods apologize to George. Mr. Woods muttered his apology while SLUMDOG George held an ice pack to his singed face. For the remainder of the show, the official war between George and Mr. Woods had ended, but hostilities remained and George would neither forgive nor forget the battering he received at the hands of James Woods.

Bathed in the glorious Beverly Hills morning light, I took my place on the lounge next to Mr. Woods’ dog and closed my eyes. A few minutes passed and I was beginning to drift off to sleep again when I suddenly realized that Mr. Woods’ dog had risen from his sitting position and had taken to nuzzling my crotch.

Startled, I instinctively placed my hand over my privates fearing that the dog’s nuzzling might turn to something more sinister. While neither glancing nor acknowledging me in any way, Mr. Woods said to his valet, “The dog looks hungry, you better get some hamburger.”

(To Be Continued)