Kiki and me after
I got her attention again.
1. My high school friend Kiki Caruthers, with whom I had dinner last night. I hadn’t seen Kiki in quite a while, and even though I find her to be exceedingly annoying on Facebook I figured that she looked so good that being with her face-to-face might be a step up. What I didn’t take into account was that both Kiki and I have theatrically trained voices that travel wide distances, in this case five tables down to a woman who was eating by herself. She became so fascinated with what Kiki and I were talking about that she joined in the conversation, and it wasn’t long before we knew her work situation (attorney), the sexual orientation of her son (gay) and the details of her love life (recently divorced, and not for the first time). What made this lonely diner hijacking our conversation doubly irritating for me was that it was soon apparent that Kiki preferred her company to mine, and it wasn’t until I made up some stories of sexual liaisons in high school that I was able to get Kiki’s attention again. It was all just fiction but if my math teacher Miss Abramson ever reads this, if you ever bump into Kiki and she starts asking you about some after-school tutoring you gave me in 12th grade, just shoot her a faraway look and say you’d rather not talk about it. It will keep her from being disappointed and save me an awkward confrontation the next time I see her. If she presses for details, do me a favor and say it was huge and that you gave up men aftewards because you knew no one else could ever satisfy you like that again. I do have a reputation to maintain, after all.
Comrade Tarta
2. Tarta Smith, who was my Facebook-assigned Best Friend of the Day (BFD) yesterday and who supported me when I starred in Twelfth Night. While I have written of the many actresses who have fallen tragically in love with me, Tarta is the one and only woman I have shared the stage with that I felt an affection for that was not returned. While it is true that she could not deny the animal lure of my indefinable kvorka, we could not get past the fact that Comrade Smitherman is a hardcore member of the Communist Party while I am a jet-setting playboy who has spent more money on Champagne that has spilled out of a slipper I was drinking it from on any given night than she earns in a year of milking cows on the collectively-owned farm or teaching Marxist doctrine to the newborn babies at the state hospital. Ours was a love that could never be, and while she did her best to pretend that she didn’t share my affection by having me arrested repeatedly any time I came within fifteen yards of her collectively-owned tenement apartment, I knew that the only reason she couldn’t form a bond with me because she had already promised her life to Karl Marx.
Jaz and Amy and their Dream Man
3. Jaz Davison and Amy Ball. Amy continues her worldwide walkabout in a failed effort to try and get over me, and she is currently sleeping on Ms. Davison’s floor in Southern England. Jaz is doing her best to try and convince me that Amy’s desperate longing for me is in my imagination, writing “Amy is with me and we are painting the town. Several shades of varying colours and loads of ass grabbing. But no obsession on your part. Well, except for your own.” But if one reads between the lines, her true meaning is obvious: shades of colour? Like green? The same shade of green that colors Jaz’s envy over Amy’s obsession with me? Ass grabbing? Ass as in mule; the most stubborn of animals that won’t budge until it gets its way? Ms. Davison’s crude attempt at sending a coded message has only one obvious conclusion: that Amy’s visit has been fraught with tension because they both desire me. This is hardly an unusual situation for me, as it has been my experience that when I am in a room with two or more women, they all become inevitably obsessed with me and develop a savage jealousy towards one another. The signs are extraordinarily subtle, but I have become a master at correctly interpreting these signals. And rest assured that if Ms. Davison or any other woman who wants me and tries to camouflage those feelings with feigned disdain, I will be able to see right through them.
Al the Pal creating another work of art.
4. Al the Pal, who occasionally breaks out of the insane asylum that he is committed to and takes on the identity of a professional photographer until the police can catch up with him and ensnare him in an industrial-sized butterfly net. Al recently went off on one of his jaunts, and while posing as his alter ego posted a blog photo essay on “boudoir photography”. I took a look at some of the pictures that Al sensitively describes as a life-altering illustration of humanity and can report to you with satisfaction that if “boudoir photography” is art, then Larry Flynt in Leonardo daVinci. Don’t misunderstand me; I’m all for calling my beloved smut whatever it needs to be called to keep it from being denied to me by the freemason-controlled right wing government, but I just went to the Renoir exhibit at LACMA and after looking at those nudes I didn’t have the urge to rub one out. Al’s soul-baring artistic commentaries are another matter and if that’s art, all the money I shelled out at the Pussycat Theatre in the 1980s makes me a regular Lorenzo deMedici.
Wildman Weekend
5. Things have been getting so tense between me and my annoying coworker “Biff” Wellington that I finally suggested that the two of us get together for a weekend in a secluded cabin so that we could finally settle our differences. And since I don’t do anything that doesn’t include a hefty financial profit, my idea is to do it as a television reality series called Wildman Weekend in which Wellington and I don loincloths, smoke cigars, drink whiskey, and compete in challenges to determine which of us is the manliest man. It will all be overseen by a celebrity judge who will determine the winner of the challenges as well as provide council in our therapy sessions. I’ve narrowed it down to Paul Reiser, Dr. Dru, Gary Busey and Paula Abdul for the judge, and once we’ve inked that deal it’s off to the black hills of South Dakota to settle things once and for all.
