la la land

the muse business ain’t what it used to be
It’s more or less the same old story
the princess and the whore, the lady.
- “Coma” (Weiland)


Last night I drove to my parents’ house in Encinitas and when I woke up this morning, to a sky that was almost the same color as the accents in the décor (my room is plum-and-gray), I felt comforted. When life seems too hard for me to figure out how to live it, I come home and things are clearer.

My mom and I went for a walk on Moonlight Beach, thought about watching the surfers at Swami’s, but I just wanted waves and sand and no talking. I spend a lot of time talking normally and I get sick of it sometimes. My mom understands, she doesn’t like to talk a lot either. My father, on the other hand, eschews the no-talking rule with a certain glee. There we were, silently communing over coffee and blueberry muffins in the kitchen, when he returned from golf, all boisterous and bellowing. Asking me about the shop and which movie star did I meet this week. He’s such an asshole.

But we like his money, my mom and I.

“When is this fucking haze going to burn off?” he asked. Knowing it was June, we assumed his question was rhetorical, and continued to page through the North County Times.

“Remember we’re meeting Sean and his parents tonight at the Marine Room,” my mom remarked. I nearly fell out of my chair. She looked for my reaction and I tried to keep my face still. My father, of course, was oblivious and grunted at her. He poured himself some coffee and went into his den, ostensibly to watch the Spice channel or ESPN.

“Do you want to go to La Jolla this afternoon?” she asked me.

“Shopping?”

“Yes. I’ve decided the master bedroom needs some new art, I was going to browse the galleries.”

“I think I’ll just stay here and take a nap.”

“Okay,” she said, but her expression was saying you’re really going to go across the street and talk to Sean, I know.

Before she left she made me my favorite sandwich: romaine, tomato and sardines with garlic aioli on whole wheat. I inherited her eclectic culinary preferences. But I only ate a bite or two and then put it in a plastic bag and into the fridge. I spent half an hour attempting to look pretty without being obvious about it, then decided against it. I washed my face again, gathered my wet hair into a bun, and put on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt without checking whether or not they went together. I walked across the street barefoot, one of my old habits, and rang the bell at 525 Calle de la Playa. From the patio that was situated between the front gate and the entrance to the house, I heard a lazy drawl ask, “Who’s there?”

“It’s Ali.”

“Ali who?” A tease crept into his tone, but didn’t ruffle the overall dudism that reigned.

“Let me in, jerkoff. Or I’ll tell our parents over dinner tonight about that one time we got wasted and did it in your mom and dad’s bed. And didn’t change the sheets.”

Faint grumbling followed as he hoisted himself out of his chaise lounge and opened the gate. He was well-baked, inside and out. Clad in obnoxiously flowered swimtrunks, with an even tan and bloodshot eyes.

“What do you want, princess?”

“To bug the shit out of you, what else? Think you can clear your calendar?”

“Go raid your dad’s bar and it’s a deal.”

I went back across the street and pulled out bottles of tequila, rum, and vodka from the wetbar on our back patio and returned. Sean had left the gate open for me.

“How’s this?” I asked, holding the bottles aloft. He scrutinized the labels, then took them from me.

“Good enough.”

“So did the ‘rents cut you off?” I asked, seating myself in one of the Addisons' plush deck chairs. Sean had gone over to the bar, nestled under some potted palms. I could hear him rummaging around in the mini-fridge.

“Nah, I’m just too lazy to take my ass to the store. It’s Cruz’ day off.”

“Oh. Make me a Cuba Libre, please.”

“Mmm hmm,” he murmured in reply. When he brought me my drink I instinctively watched him walk over to the table. His gait was normal, but there was a hesitancy when he sat down in the chair opposite.

“How’s your knee?”

“It locks up sometimes. Hurts like a motherfucker when the humidity is high. Otherwise fine. You can’t even see the scar, can you?” Sean extended his leg for my scrutiny.

“No. But you’ve got plenty of other scars to make up for it.”

He chuckled. “True. So how’s La La Land, princess? Your mom showed me a very interesting picture the other day.”

“What?”

“It was on the WireImage website, you and that washed-up actor at a premiere. What’s his name again?”

“Terry Biel.”

“Yeah. So what, your dayjob not exciting enough for you now, you’ve actually got to date some has-been to get a little thrill?”

I know he’s dogging me, he’s done it all our lives, but it hurts me when people talk about Terry that way. They just don’t know how hard it’s been for him lately.

“We met at a party. And we were at the premiere because he’s in that movie, not because someone took pity on him. Fuck you, you’re the one who’s a has-been.”

“Yeah, but not because I fucked up. The tabloids love to refer to him as ‘troubled actor Terry Biel.’”

I finished my drink in one swallow, even though I wasn’t even a fourth of the way through it. The heat of the rum immediately radiated out from my stomach to all my extremities, and I felt myself flush.

“Rammer, what is your damage? Why are you being more of an asshole than usual?”

Sean had been a professional skateboarder until a spectacular fall from the top of a full pipe shattered his knee, despite the pad guarding it. It happened mid-stunt, so there were also no protective pads on the bottom of the pipe. His nom de shred was Ram, because usually when he beefed he’d fall on his head. His enemies started calling him Ass Rammer, and the rest of us just adopted the second part, as there were already too many Seans to keep track of in the extreme sports world.

“Why?” He picked up his Corona bottle like he wanted to throw it at me, then set it back down. He looked away, his brow creasing. He had let his hair grow out, and it was a tangled mass of brownish-blond curls, reaching to his shoulders. He had his mom’s hazel eyes, gray-green, and her gorgeous mouth too. These days, it really helped if you were good-looking, since most skaters had to do a lot more than just skate. Cute guys were the ones who sold the lifestyle: the shoes, the clothes, the videos, and whatever else could be marketed to the target demographic. “Because you come over here like you want me to entertain you. I know you’ve been here since last night. You didn’t even call me this time. Just because I’ve got nothing doesn’t mean I am nothing.”

Flashbacks. My ex-boyfriend didn’t used to be such a whiny little bitch. It’s the booze that does it, it did the same thing to Terry before he finally had to quit, the usual yes your honor, my client will enter a rehabilitation clinic and undertake community service for his transgressions against the State. I felt cold all of a sudden, a premonition of Rammer doing something really stupid and all the other pros that knew him shaking their heads, sighing what a waste. I pulled my chair over to his and took his face in my hands, though he attempted to shrug me off, halfheartedly.

“Sean, I’m sorry. You knew when I moved up there that I wouldn’t always have time to talk to you. Yes, I’m dating somebody. It’s not like we didn’t say we couldn’t do that. You can chase all the pussy you want now and not worry about what I think. But you know what? You’re the one who knows me the best. That’s why I’m here.”

He started to cry and my first thought was not again. Terry cried all the time when I was with him. After sex, for example, I’d get up and go piss and when I got back to the bed he’d be weeping inconsolably. I knew it was because he felt I was the only one he could cry in front of, but sometimes I wondered why he couldn’t just do it alone, like people were supposed to do. I was a magnet for pathos, it seemed. Every single guy I’d ever fucked was wounded.

But I’m a nice girl, from a nice family, so I held him.

And then we went upstairs and had sex in his room. It hadn’t changed much since he went pro at 14. The posters were different - a shrine to his achievements - but he still had the same bed he did when we were 16 and screwing like our lives depended on it. Our parents considered themselves liberal and were thankful we weren’t hiding anything from them. They didn’t mind what we did just as long as we did it at home so they knew where we were. And when you grow up in a neighborhood where every parent has that philosophy, then everyone’s house is your house and you piss your adolescence away until the day after graduation when you wake up with yet another hangover and look in the mirror, asking yourself oh fuck what now?

But Sean seemed to be on the right track, traveling the world and making obscene amounts of money that his parents socked away for him since they were already wealthy and knew the best investment schemes. Because of their foresight, he didn’t have to do anything now, just accept life as a washout at 25.


Everyone wants me to save them, I guess.


We made faces at each other across the table during dinner, while our parents yammered on about cruises and landscaping and politics. We went outside and leaned on the wrought-iron railing, looking at the ocean and freezing in the wind. Re-entering the building, we went straight to the bar.

“So you like it up there?” he asked, as we drank White Russians.

“Sometimes. But people are too hyper, like they’re going to die if they have to wait at a stoplight or in line somewhere. They’re rude. And the beaches are terrible.”

“I told you it was going to be different. I mean, LA is fun sometimes, but it’s a fucking cesspool.”

“Yeah, but I like where I work. It’s interesting.”

“You’ll get burnt out and come home.”

“Things can’t be the way they used to be.”

“Why not? If anything, things could be better because now you have my undivided attention.”

I told him I’d have to think about it.


As a joke, Terry had downloaded the “Barbie Girl” ringtone on my phone, since he often made the quip that I worked in the “Barbie Business.” And I guess that was true, most of the time I did the same haircut all week: when girls wanted to look like Jennifer Aniston, or Lindsey Lohan, or whomever was all the rage. But I liked it when my friend Lyn’s favorite customer came in, she always had crazy stories about the guys she serviced. Lyn would flutter about, saying things like Girlfriend, you make ‘em pay out the ass, you hear?

My mom met Lyn once when she came up to take me to a fashion show and when we parted she stammered and said, “Oh. . .he’s rather flamboyant, isn’t he?”

“Mom, it’s okay to call Lyn a flamer, he doesn’t mind.”

But of course she demurred. She’s from a nice family too.

I was online, chatting with one of my buds who lived in Imperial Beach when my phone rang. I prepared myself for tears.

“Hi sweetie!” I chirped into the mouthpiece.

“Hey. So what did you and your parents do tonight?”

“Nothing much, just went out to dinner.”

“Where to?”

“The Marine Room. You remember, I took you there a few months ago when you were down here making that commercial.”

“Oh yeah, the real fancy place. I bet your parents eat there all the time, huh?”

“Yeah, usually there or George’s. My mother is very particular. My dad is happy if he can just get a steak and a martini.”

“So will you be back tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Did you want me to come over when I get back?”

“No, it’s okay. I’ll probably be with Jack or something.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just wanted to see what you were up to.”

“Okay, well I guess I’ll let you go then. See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Good night, girl.”

bchvixen: Hey!
alibabea: Sorry, Terry called me.
bchvixen: Did he fall off the wagon, lol?!
alibabea: Shut up, bitch! What are you doing right now?
bchvixen: Nothing.
alibabea: Let’s go to Sang, I wanna go dancing.
bchvixen: Aw man, that means I have to take a shower. Can we just go to Tiki’s instead?
alibabea: Fine, I’ll go by myself.
bchvixen: I’m tired, dude. Take Rammer. He never goes anywhere anymore.
alibabea: Maybe. Later.
bchvixen: Later still, Alikazaam.


So of course I called him and he muttered about not having anything in black, but he said he would go. We hadn’t been on a date in over ten years, I thought it might be interesting. At least he calls me by name, Terry never refers to me as anything other than “the girl.”


Sean turned up his nose when I tried to get him to drink a Blood Bath. The goths from New York invented it, and it’s not bad, just really sweet. He rolled his eyes at all the scenesters and watched me dance with some girl in red latex. Then we drove to La Jolla Shores and sat on the seawall, keeping an eye out for the cops.

“Mike Murran is in Europe right now, I have keys to his house. We could go there, we’d be alone.”

“Why didn’t you ever buy a house?”

“I probably do have a house somewhere, but I never paid attention to that shit, you know that. What, are we gonna have to get married, move to Carmel Ranch and have kids?”

“Is that bad?”

“No, but it doesn’t mean we have to do it.”

“We’d have to move somewhere, though.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“But I still have to think about it.”

Sean was leaning forward, his hands gripping the wall, his head pointed downwards, watching himself make patterns in the sand with his feet. I thought about all the things I liked about him: he was funny, smart, and generous. Even in bed. He didn’t expect me to be the virgin and the whore. I could just be me. On the other hand, he was lazy, cynical, and he drank too much. I’d always wondered if he’d had a hair of the dog before that fateful exhibition. It was expected, it was the life, but he lacked a certain professionalism in all things, I knew. And I didn’t know if it was because we grew up in a cocoon spun from money and privilege, or simply because we grew up at the end of the century when everyone seemed to forget what it was they were supposed to be doing and just did whatever came to mind.

“C’mon Ali, I’ve missed you. As good as it was this afternoon, it will be better if we’re alone.”

I was reminded of a conversation I overheard once, at some restaurant Terry liked to go to in East LA.

”You still dating that wannabe bunny?”
“Yeah, she’s got her own website now, and her calendar is selling.”
“Nice. She’s hot.”
“Yeah, but she’s terrible in bed. Thinks she’s too good to suck my dick.”
“Seriously? Fuck that shit!”
“I know. I told her, ‘Look, all I ask is that you suck my dick once in a while. It’s not gonna kill ya.’”
“Hell, she wouldn’t be around to talk to if it was me. They get two chances, then they’re out.”

I remembered snickering to myself, recalling my mother’s lecture about male entitlement. We’re expected to provide so much, and therefore we need to sell ourselves to the highest bidder. We cannot expect anything so ephemeral as love or devotion. We need concrete compensation for the things we have to do, things that erase our very identities until we are interchangeable mechanisms: polished to shine, oiled to run, and insulated against the slightest whine of the machinery.


And when I’m back in the arms of the angels, I think about it. I think about it a lot. And I cry by myself, because I’m a nice girl.