You know darlings, sometimes my life is just plain weird. Maybe a handful of you remember a Ken Russell science-fiction movie a few decades back called Altered States, in which William Hurt, back when he was sexy (Am I the only person old enough to remember when Hurt was hot? Oh. I am.), took a spiritual journey on hallucinogens, and found himself mutating into odd life forms, much like his career has ever since. Well darlings, the map may say that Morehead Heights is in California, but I assure you that Altered is the state I've been living in for the last century. And I've never taken an hallucinogen gratuitously in my life. How well does LSD or Mescaline mix with vodka, anyway? I can't remember.
But this week has been something else. It was American Idol Finale Week, although this American Idol isn't holding her finale any time soon. On Tuesday evening, I was supposed to attend the finale performance show at the Kodak Theater in order to write a review of it for Little Kent Levine's flog, "By Kent Levine," as he couldn't be bothered, since he was busy taking Sanjaya Maladroit to a Hula Prom on Maui. But I was turned away at the door through some horrible mix-up that I'm sure is all Kent's fault. Nonetheless, professional that I am, I managed to watch the show on a cell phone in the cab coming home, and dictate my review to Little Dougie, who she-maled it to Little Kent, who then posted it under the title AMERICAN IDOL: and then there were two. You can read it by clicking on it's title.
However, I am not in the habit of being turned away like some nonentity (You know, like you.), though I am open to being turned around. More on that below. I was still determined to have my Kodak Theater moment, so on Wednesday evening I showed up there again, but this time at the stage door, claiming to be Paula Abdul. At first, the Crusty Old Stage Manager objected that I looked nothing like Miss Abdul, but I told him how I had tripped over my pet Great Dane, Baskerville (He's so hard to notice), and had landed on the floor face first, so I was completely smashed, and thus unrecognizable. The Crusty Old Stage Manager bought that one, since I had fallen face-first onto the floor no less than three times just while telling him about it, and anyone even casually glancing at me from 100 yards away could see that I was undeniably smashed. "I'm terribly sorry, Miss Abdul," the Crusty Old Stage Manager said, "I didn't realize it was you. You're so much more sober than usual. Gosh; you look much younger in person."
So now, not only was I backstage at the Kodak, but I was being escorted to Paula's dressing room, which in her case, is really an undressing room. I found it's mirror opens up like a door, and when you pass through the looking-glass, it has a secret passage to the male contestant's dressing room. On the wall in the passageway, I found "The Phantom loves Christine" written in lipstick inside a heart in Lon Chaney's handwriting, which is particularly amazing when you consider that the Kodak Theater wasn't built until 70 years after Lon died.
After watching through the one-way mirror as Brandon Rogers changed his underwear, I charged into the room, determined to teach Brandon what pleasuring an American Idol was all about. However, no sooner had I made a flying tackle of young Brandon, than we were hustled out to shoot the above photograph. So I never got rogered by Rogers. "Drat!" as Bill Fields always said when he found I'd polished off his Jack Daniels while he was in the men's room.
Once back in Paula's dressing room, I found some Mormon sugar cubes lying about in plain sight, sewn into the lining of a coat placed in a secret compartment inside a locked drawer in the wall safe. I assume they were Mormon, as they had the initials LDS stamped right on them, I think. I can be a tad dyslexic if my vodka isn't fresh-squeezed. Anyway, I dropped one into my gin and lemon, which was a teensy bit tart, and drank it down.
My old chum Bette Midler dropped by just about then, on her way to sing The Breeze Beneath My Knees, or whatever that ghastly song is. She was drinking a cup of coffee for some reason (WHAT, I ask you, is the appeal of coffee? Not only is it's stench unbearable, not only is it's taste revolting, but the damned devil's brew will sober you up! Just thought I'd warn any coffee virgins out there. One place you will never run into me is a Starbucks.), so I thoughtfully dropped the other cube into her coffee without mentioning it to her, and she went out to sing her number, which may explain a lot about that performance. Who knew coffee could make you sing flat?
But as Bette was out destroying her formerly peerless musical reputation onstage, things grew hazy, and I became dizzy and disoriented. This, in and of itself, isn't alarming. In fact, it's desirable. Clarity is vastly overrated. But as the world whirled around me and I reached out to Brandon for support, I must have blacked out. On the upside, I missed the rest of Bette's song.
When I woke up, I was lying on a tropical beach. I might have been alarmed then, but frankly, this isn't the first time this has happened to me. Read chapter 24 of my semi-best-selling autobiography, My Lush Life, to learn of another occasion when I drifted off in Hollywood, and woke up in Hawaii.
This island paradise was not Hawaii however, even though it looked exactly like our 50th altered state. I knew it wasn't Hawaii, because Little Kent was nowhere to be seen, and there were no hula-dancing Sanjayas either. What was there were tents, a polar bear, and the remains of an airliner. What there was not, was an open wet bar, although everything else was wet. I looked in both of my hands, and they were empty! My drink was --- was --- LOST!
Fortunately, I found the liquor stocks were still intact in the stewardess station in the plane wreckage. What a lifesaver! As it happens, this not being my first disaster, I am more prepared than a Boy Scout. (What a myth that is. Never in all my years, have I found a boy scout to have a condom when needed.) My Joan Crawford "Drill Me" pumps easily convert into flats, the better for staggering about on sand, and the removeable high heels become martini glasses. But still, there were no olives. Reduced to barbarity already! I felt like the Lord of the Flies, only I saw no flies anywhere to unzip and lord it over.
I was just settling in with my third drink, when Dr. Jack Shepherd came running out of the woods (How did I know his name? Another mystery!), being chased by the foulest-tempered column of second hand smoke I've ever seen. If anyone ever tells you that second hand smoke doesn't kill, you tell them to ask Mr. Eko. Jack was hollering something about how "The Others" were coming.
"Well, hold up a minute, Jack," I said, "Give me a second to floss and undress, and we can be coming too."
"No time!" he screamed, although a real man makes time.
"Besides," said Benry, who was tied to a nearby tree, his bloody face bearing testament to the rough sex he'd been indulging in (Not my thing at all.), "If you get pregnant on this island, you'll die."
"Darling," I said to Benry, "If he can get me pregnant, I will die --- of amazement! I'm less than a week away from being 110. My meno hasn't just paused. You can stick your arms and legs outside of the vehicle, because it's come to a complete halt."
"But," Benry replied, tremendously talkative for a man spouting blood from his mouth, "The island heals people. Just ask Locke or Jin."
"Well unlock that gin and break it out, darling." I said, "Get enough gin into me, and I'll do both of you. I'm just kidding. I'll do both of you anyway. But I'm not kidding about unlocking the gin."
"No time," said Jack, "We have to get to the transmitter."
"I have time." said Tom Sawyer, who was whitewashing a nearby fence. Noticing that Sawyer was every bit as yummy as Jack, and actually in better shape, I was only too happy to show him some of my own personal Dharma & Greg Initiative. Sawyer was "Up" for it, in every sense. He pressed my buttons, and our good vibrations could have knocked 20 airliners out of the sky, though that would have hopelessly overcomplicated a plot that's already impossible to follow.
But then my cell phone started jingling the Heat Crazed title song (My first hit record and my personal theme song.), and Jack yelled, "He's done it. The ringbearer's quest is ended. Frodo has cast the ring into the underwater hatch, and we're saved!"
"Fabulous darling," I replied, "Why don't we celebrate with a three-way shag, while Benry just watches?" But before I could lift my heels back into the air, something I can usually do very rapidly, we flashed-forward, and suddenly Jack and I were on a bridge over the Mighty Los Angeles River, where a terrible car wreck was occurring just off-camera, which is the cheapest way to stage an accident. Jack, suddenly unconvincingly bearded, grabbed me by the shoulders and said, "We have to give back!"
Although giving back isn't my usual thing (as opposed to Little Dougie, who lives for nothing else.), I remembered just a few weeks ago, when American Idol Gives Back raised millions of dollars for all the adorable African children waiting to be adopted by American film stars, by giving back on a huge scale. Everyone in Hollywood is into giving back, although Ryan is still denying it. We're naturally generous that way.
For instance, here's a shot from an episode of the lovely TV series Six Feet Under, of some nice Hispanic merest whisper giving back to Ricardo Antonio Chavira, who plays Carlos Solis on Desperate Housewives. Ricardo is, in my humble and always abject opinion, the hottest of the Desperate Husbands.
I can only assume that during American Idol Gives Back, Little Simon Scowell and Extremely Little Ryan Seechest were giving back right and left. And now, here was Dr. Jack telling me "We have to give back." As I said, it's not my preferred way of making ends meet, but on an island where my fried eggs might turn fertile, and pregnancy is always fatal, perhaps it's a good idea. True, we weren't on the island any more, but you never know when one might flashback to it, so why take chances? As Jack requested, I turned around, and reached for my toes.
And suddenly, here I was, back at Morehead Heights again, lying on my chaise, mouth open, empty vodka bottles scattered all around, the TV running, the Headless Indian Brave snoozing on the settee. What had happened? Where had I been? Where is that island? Why are The Others so nasty? How does eye-patch guy always recover from his numerous deaths? (Is he a cheerleader? He's certainly no hero, the hobbit-drowning swine!) How does Hurley stay so plump on an island? How could Melinda not have won? Who's the better lay, Jack or Sawyer? Why did the judges put Sanjaya on the show in the first place? If it's only been a couple weeks, why is Walt suddenly so much bigger? I'm Lost!
One thing I am certain of; this is the last time I get drunk with Hiro Nakamura, even if his father is Mr. Sulu, who has given his fair share of back over the years, I assure you.