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So I'm driving through some
wet nighttime city streets in my City of Angels in one of
those new little cars that are somewhere between SUV and compact
car and nearly always silver and aggressively marketed to
young, upwardly mobile urban adventurers with their fingers
on three separate pulse points of bleeding-edge culture --
a Focus or Matrix or Vibe or whatever that new one is. A really
catchy techno jam that will send the 18-34 demo frantically
Googling its origin is pounding on the Kenwood and a ladyfriend
who may or may not be Rose McGowan is pop-locking her little
heart out in the passenger seat and whom I may or may not
have met the other night waiting to buy a twelve of Bud Light
at the local corner market.
Maybe we left her little Beemer Z3 in the market parking
lot because you really can't cruise the wet nighttime city
streets in a US$50,000 piece of German engineering. She's
had Manson so there's something definitely dangerous and a
little tainted about her despite the outward flawless porcelain
appearance, like a strawberry birthmark on the inside of her
cheek. But for reasons I don't understand there was that thing
with J. Lo so I'm not exactly 99.44% pure myself these days.
Maybe she's picked up on that, maybe she likes a dude who'll
throw down a twelve of Bud Light next to a starlet who's pointing
at a pack of Virginia Slims.
After what seems like miles and miles of uninterrupted green
lights on Hollywood Boulevard, a red finally slows us down.
A black Hummer H2 rolls up on us, its tinted driver's-side
window slides down. It's quite dramatic.
Ford.
Yes, Harrison Ford, the one with the whip and the dusty hat
and who flies helicopters and who is my sworn nemesis.
And craning my neck just a little bit, I can see his broomhandle
paramour Calista Flockhart fiddling with the knobs on his
stereo, mouthing to him, who's that?
Like she doesn't know. Like there isn't a black-and-white
photograph of me on his vanity mirror with the eyes scratched
out with the tip of a safety pin and clips of the transcripts
of our previous run-ins on his huge oak desk and explicit
instructions to his personal assistant to always,always forward
my calls to his cell, even if he suspects I'm just going to
flush the toilet and hang up again and he's just going to
smash his fist onto the craft services table and send a plate
of cold cuts clattering loudly to the sound stage floor.
Before I can utter a derisive "Dr. Jones" sidelong
into the H2's window, Rose's hand comes down hard on my knee
and the car lurches forward. If you believe the obnoxious
advertising campaign, an H2's made to drive over things like
abandoned bunkers and purse-size, floofy dogs rather than
accelerate on a damp Hollywood Boulevard.
If the nighttime streets were not so damp and glistening,
he would have been eating the dust kicked up by our little
car. Amateur driver Ford obviously does not have the all-wheel
drive engaged and his ride spins out onto the Walk of Fame
sidewalk, leaving a skidmark on Red Buttons' star.
Rose and I find a Denny's further up the road and I leave
her to order some freedom toast so I can excuse myself to
the surprisingly well-appointed men's room.
Somewhere on the fancy side of town, Ford's cellphone is ringing,
is answered, and is filled with the sound of the counterclockwise
roar of a Denny's commode in its full fury.
The freedom toast is that much sweeter and fluffier because
Rose keeps asking me why I'm smirking. I don't tell her, and
I don't tell her that in five minutes I'm going to excuse
myself again when the check shows up and not return until
I'm sure she's paid it. I read somewhere that Manson pulled
this on her at The Palm so this move is money and a homage
to those that have gone before me, even if they sometimes
dress in women's clothes and run around in a pair of creepy
fake tits.
My cell rings. H. Ford is calling and he's put straight through
to voicemail.
Rose laughs and offers me the first mint off the check when
it comes back, paid, and in a flash we're back out on the
wet nighttime streets.
Read last
week's column
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Above:
Hummer carrying Harrison Ford and Calista Flockhart. This
photo is for sale. Inquire within.
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