Last part of rub was intense. Took as much energy from her as I could, and it just drained and drained, like venom from a snake. I took energy from her sexual organs — maintaining professional propriety at all times, I firmly pressed down on the lower stomach close to Pubis, while telling her to breathe deeply. I think too she was loaded. I know I could have done stuff to her but would like a possible mentor-like relationship so didn’t want to indulge any hijinks; they tend to backfire. By maintaining pressure, I believe I gained access to areas of her disipline (film structure, dialogue, arc of character) that will be useful, even temporarily, as it is tapped — pure, without extraneous neurotic bullshit she carries around in daily life. She was relaxed afterward and pleased enough to make another appointment. She is entering my webb.
Amazing brillant brainstroke! I was about to call Erica Miller (the NPI referral) but instead rang Doctor Calliope Dolittle Starfucker back and left word with her secretary that I was Katherine Grosseck! Gave my cellular and she called back within the hour. Said she loved Imitations of Drowning, can you believe it? Physician, heal thyself! Dolittle Starfuck went on to make it clear she ‘is still Donny’s therapist’ and me being the slow wit that I am took a while to catch on that this was possibly a reference to a former relationship. (Donny Ribkin? Could it really be? OHMYGOD!) I disguised my voice slightly — suddenly worried she and the ‘real’ Katherine had spoken before; a worry soon dispelled — snuffling and saying I had a cold, I was entering the Canyon blah blah yakkety yakkety. It was a ‘natural.’ Made appointment for three pm next week! Her office is near an Rx on Roxbury with a coffee shop within that I love called ‘Mickey Fine.’ I saw Charles Bronson there once, when Jill Ierland was still alive (a handsome man who walked like a panther). I think I could have helped by rake her energy. She was so beautiful and in such pain.
You’ll Never Eat Me During Lunch…
Eric, you’re gonna love this. Went to a benefit with Cat — oh! he told me this crazy thing about River Phoenix. He said that guy from The Donna Reed Show—Paul Petersen, isn’t that his name? — I’m serious about this — Paul Petersen started a support group for washed-up child actors. Because so many of them are fucked up? And a few months or weeks or whatever before River died, Paul and his group actually stopped by River’s house to do an intervention because someone saw him shooting up in the bathroom of a club. I don’t even think it was the Viper. Try to imagine some over-the-hill Brady Bunchers at your door like a post-pimple passel of Pentecostals! It’s enough to make anyone OD.
Now where was I? Oh yeah. So we go to this benefit, me and Cat, which was good because I saw Jodie Foster there and (thanks to Saul) she already knew about Pargita being hired for Teorema and had even talked to Katherine. E, remind me to call Saul — Shelby says she talked to Keitel and he’s mightily interested in working with Holly again, if we can make the schedule fit. I think we only need him for three weeks. So…after the benefit we go back to Cat’s house in Sunset Plaza, which is like anal high-tech with token grunge messiness::::::::::the CD system’s plugged into his Mac — the album covers actually appear on-screen! He put on Mozart’s “Requiem”; can’t get away from Teorema. All the hot, hep young things dig Pasolini and he lobbied, very sweet and humble I might add, to be the Son. Well, if he’s serious, we’re definitely a Go. I sort of smelled this coming in Park City::::::::::I tried to talk to him about Oberon Mall but he buttoned up. I really think he must have loved her but he can’t go to the hospital to see her because it’s too much like when he had to go sit with his mom. (She died last year, ovarian cancer). Anyway, we get into this long rap about how he misses her (the mom). Poor, sweet kid. He told me that when the agency called with his first million-dollar offer — that Dustin thing that never happened, Homeless People—when he got the offer, he took his mother to Dominick’s and they got drunk. At the end of the night they made out! Isn’t that fantastic? I mean, he’s so guileless.
If you talk about this, E, you’ll be jailed and castrated (not too much of a leap). But seriously, you cannot discuss this with anyone, even if they’re terminal — and I know that means most your friends. So he’s telling me about his mother and then he starts to cry and within like twenty seconds he’s licking my pussy like a tiger cub: his tongue is serrated. He begged me to stay but I left around three. Go figure::::::::::Zoloft makes me so sleepy I actually have to cut it into fours. Hard to believe a sliver of whiteness could make a difference (and it doesn’t seem to. Not yet, anyway). Calliope says I’m depressed but it’s an “agitated depression.” Oh really? If I’m so agitated, how come I feel like Phylliss Epstein-Barr? Shit, there’s the phone. Gotta run. Nexus calling—
Maps to the Stars
I read in THE HOLLYWOOD REPORTER about a project called TEOREMA, a remake of the film called TEOREMA {CIRCA?} by an Italian: P. PASOLINI. I’m going to Blockbuster on my break to rent it {I called — they actually have it}. The article implied that CAT BASQUIAT was possibly one of the actors to be slated — I think he is amazingly beautiful and have been in such sympathy for him since the death of his mother, RIALTA LOPEZ. (CAT’s stepfather is Mexican.) PEOPLE magazine said they were thisclose. With the tragedy that struck his girlfriend, OBERON MALL — well, it was a terrible year for this multi-talented {and extremely well paid!} manchild. {That was mean of me.} I am going to pursue the TEOREMA audition — I have always wanted to work with a foreign director, particularly MERCHANT-IVORY Productions. {EMMA THOMPSON is an ideal, she was so wonderful in IMITATIONS OF DROWNING, a role of a lifetime — and now an AWARDWINNING WRITER, too! {{SENSE AND SENSIBILITY {{{CIRCA 1995}}} }}. I haven’t included her in the PANTHEON because I am selecting domestic actresses only, to keep the list manageable. NOTE TO EMMA: Get Thee Back to Kenneth!!!} There should be no limits to our dreams.
A red-letter day: I have just been offered a position at the popular restaurant Sweets, which is partially owned by the powerful ICM agency! Jabba and I are going to the Monkey Bar to celebrate. We hope to run into Mr. JACK NICHOLSON, who, as owner, is a frequent booth sitter.
We went to visit her mom and I think that depressed her, as it would have anyone. Lavinia is grossly overweight and a “rager,” to boot; I’m surprised she hasn’t had a heart attack {or two}. The house is unbearably humid because she is always cold so that the heat is on constantly. It smells of sweat and cake mix {and did I detect urine?}. When Lavinia went to the bathroom, Jabba led me back to a former maid’s room where a tiny television was connected to a VCR. A cassette of one of her father’s old shows was on the screen! It “is-was” called THE CHET STODDARD SHOW. Evidently they were bitterly divorced some years ago and this is what the poor woman does all day — namely, watches the soap opera of her life, as if suspended in animation. I find this so sad. Yet, at the same time, as an actress it is quite the character fodder. It is something that could only happen in Hollywood. We went to an NA meeting after and I asked Jabba about her dad. She usually sees him around the holidays and said if I didn’t go back to Vancouver, maybe we could all have Turkey Day together. I told her I would really like that {which I would}. She said she’d take me to meet her grandfather next, an apparent recluse who lives by the HOLLYWOOD SIGN and once wrote for Mr. BOB HOPE. Another Hollywood story, no doubt. What a melancholy, magical town this town can be.