TITANIC

Man, I had a shitty day. Two words: car wreck.

It was the middle of the day in the clear California sun, adding to the sureallness of the event. Here in Los Angeles, even automobile accidents are lit for television and regrettably the only concept missing is the rewind button.

The other driver was a non-English speaking Abe Vigoda who abandoned any concerns over my well-being (I couldn’t get out on the driver’s side) to buy a portable camera to take pictures. Finally a policeman arrived and when the man returned, the cop was extremely helpful. Policemen bring out the Southern-ness in me, I end every sentence with Sir and if I were a dog, I would immediately roll over and not in a cop/uniform/Penthouse Letter kind of way. I become Miss Holiday off the bus, writing the lyrics to “Strange Fruit” while avoiding the chaos around me.

Finally, the other driver (whose car worked) left and mine obstructed traffic while waiting for a tow-truck to arrive. I sat on the grass median and lit a cigarette while cuddling Polly. Several drivers stopped to ask if I was ok - not a good sign - and one man asked if we needed a push.

“I don’t do push” replied the cop who was directing traffic around my stranded Jeep.

I felt very alone. I actually thought of several of my friends from blogging ( the RLP, Paulapalooza) I could have called who would have rushed to be with me. I asked the policeman if there was anything I should do and his reply was “Enjoy the weather.”

The tow-truck finally came and took me to my local garage. I called a friend who came to get me. As I waited, I sat on a pile of magazines outside of the gas station’s office and held Polly, wondering how this had happened and why. I replayed over and over my decision to leave the coffee shop and get in my car. What if I had waited one more minute? Second? What if I had stopped and spoken to someone? What if I had been someone else who stopped to change the CD while I was parked?

This is Who I Am. A person who got in a car wreck. A person who has AIDS. A person who wonders why there is noone around me to call when I’m freaked out. Here I am in the Universe and there is nothing to do but keep moving, even when I have no way to get around.

9:27:35 PM    sro home /

A.S.

As a Californian, the possibility of saying “My Governor has a better ass than yours.” seems oddly appropriate. After all, I live in the Land of Taut, be it face, tits or glutes. Tits and Ass, won’t get you work, unless they’re yours. Who’d a thunk the infamous song from A Chorus Line would somehow apply not only to chorus girls but politicians. T&A got Arnold where he is today, even more than his high-profile marriage and numbingly Neanderthal dialogue.

I vaguely remember some Arnold Ass in the first Terminator. It wasn’t, however, until the sequel I fully appreciated the scene where he lands from the future and walks away from the camera towards the city lights in full Butt Cheek mode. Actresses often strongly insist they do “nude scenes” only when appropriate to advance the “story”. Arnold Ass in TII was the story. No other image could have immediately made clear what the Bad Guys were dealing with. After all, anyone can get a gun or a bomb for god’s sake. Tight, high bubblebutts are the Mount Everest of bodybuilding, one of the hardest achievements and one which requires commitment. “I’ll be back... after my deadlifts.”

Questions have arisen over how many photographs of Arnold naked actually exist. Do not think you will hear the last of that mystery. One picture I’m surprised hasn’t garnered more attention is the portrait he did for Robert Mapplethorpe. Pre-Conan, his hair curling like an Italian statue to his shoulders, he stands in the most asexual of poses for the notoriously gay and kinky photographer. He’s less of a sexual object than a hood ornament, his bulldog expression challenging you to touch him. Frankly, I think his inaccessibility is a turn-off. It’s not until later when he exposes himself internally as well as externally in the Terminator franchise does there seem much honesty. It’s almost refreshing to discover that under his cold exterior lies, well, a robot. Would that all men give you a glimpse of their hardware before going berserk and trying to destroy the planet.

In fact I wonder how many politicians could withstand such scrutiny. John Ashcroft may arrive as a relic from another time, but do we really want to see his pasty flat butt hanging like old lady’s boobs down the back of his legs? Cheney might have genetics on his side (the chunky ones often do) but how far would his medical competency fly after a few hundred voters do the Pinch Test?

The final vote will determine how gullible people are to the Hollywood Story. Living in LA makes it abundantly clear how much is lights, makeup and CGI, a world that creates it’s own rules, a world we rationally know doesn’t exist, a world just like Politics.

7:19:07 PM    sro home /