FOOTLOOSE
There has been a woman coming to the Dog Park with her (25 yr. old) daughter and a beagle named Belle. She lives in Kuala Lumpur but has been visiting LA the last two months and returns to her husband and house tomorrow. Her 50,000 SQUARE FOOT HOUSE. With servants and bodyguards (!!!). I pictured big swarthy bodybuilders in dark suits but maybe that’s just me. Her name is, enigmatically enough, Jane.
Jane grew up in Greenwich Village. Did Woodstock and admits she doesn’t remember a thing. Jane was also a major hippy involved in the jazz/modern dance/free love movement of the sixties. I shit you not. There’s a lot going on.
I can’t quite put my finger on how she looks but let’s just say it’s a Cartoon I’ve Seen not a real person. She smokes these long thin brown cigarellos but assures me her husband smoked Dunhill’s for years. Oh, she wears jean mini-skirts.
She’s also a Chef. Did I mention she has bodyguards? What do they do while you cook? I ask. Just watch? I imagine my BodyGuard/Builders helping me dice onions or knead dough.
Oh, and she paints. The process involves something I’d never heard of but it takes a year. I would tell you more but it was a conversation I was afraid to pursue.
Her husband was involved in “the disco business” in the early seventies. This information vis-à-vis her knowing of the Gays. Also she was a Dance Student in the sixties. And a jazz singer. Her Story weaves in so many directions, you are forced to just let it all sweep over you.
Her daughter seems impressively unscathed. Other than a penchant for hats and involvement in the theater, she’s quite charming. Not that the mother isn’t, mind you. She brings candy - Tootsie Rolls and Tootsie Pops. I taught her to look for the Star on the Wrapper for good luck.
Now she prescreens them and only brings the one’s with Stars. We sit on the bench, white sticks poking from under our sunglasses and I make Jane giggle with my flawless Billie Holiday impersonation. “Actually”, Jane reminds me, “it’s also Lady Sings The Blues.”Them that’s gots shall have...
Jane tells me of sitting next to Carmen McCrae one night at the Village Vanguard.
“I heard her turn to this man next to her and say “Buddy, get off my foot.” I thought that was such an awesome phrase and I was hearing some real hip lingo. Buddy, get off my foot. Then she says to the guy “Buddy, really, get off my foot. Your shoe is on my foot.”
Man oh man. Buddy, get off my foot. That fucking rocks.
12:35:35 PM  sro home /
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Monday, August 1, 2005
