When is a cigar not a cigar? When it’s– J♥e.
From our iconic mid-century LA compound.
January 27th, 2015.
My thoughts go out to you, sad little readers who’ve been waiting with bated breath for another update regarding my totally narcissistic, useless life of Caligula-style debauchery.
Fact is, I’ve been spending some highly-confidential quality time with J♥e at our LA compound.
As you can imagine, I relish this yearly opportunity to take a Los Angeles-sized break from my usual inner-city Toronto hell-hole routines: doula then undertaker to baby roaches; pulling on another hideous, shredded cashmere-polyester-mix GAP sweater for warmth, and desperately trying to restore the urine-colored bathtub to anything approaching white using a toothbrush and a can of Ajax.
You think I got these chapped hands from skiing at Gstaad? Think again, groveling toadies!
As are the chimes of Big Ben to a Londoner, thus is tradition to J♥e and I in the eternally sunny, almost oppressively perfect Butch Cassidy-Sundance Kid rewrite that is our existence. And it’s no different during the precious spiritual—by which I mean completely focussed on animalistic man-sex—retreat spent in our modest—by which I mean dialed back from palatial to merely luxurious—LA machine-for-living.
We always start by giving Juan and Juanita a surprise staycation, which I like to announce by screaming “la migra! la migra!” while stomping around in my vintage SS boots and slamming a few doors. My word, how we laugh, “we” meaning “I”!
Once the illegals have accidentally locked themselves in the downstairs panic room, J♥e and I put our cell phones on vibrate, close the electronically-powered vertical blinds, throw some tastefully-greyed driftwood on the Xanadu-sized fireplace and order in. It’s gonna be a quiet two weeks!
With these tender hijinks, year after year, begins our cherished ritual of spiritual renewal, with the occasional break for a round of pervy, rules-free naked olive-oil wrestling. It’s a life-balance thing.
pervy, rules-free spiritual renewal creates quite a stir with the neighbours!
Also, it’s important to maximize our remaining time here before the entire mid-century structure crumbles in cinematic slow-mo off the cliff-edge. But hey.
That’s the intoxicating level of existential terror that keeps us coming back to Manson country!
We have several fave activities during our brief but erotically-charged catch-ups. “Eye-gazing” is number one, and many thanks to Jorge, our part-time bromance coach, for this technique.
You could probably try it with your frumpy, Goodwill-clad partner some evening, once you’ve finished scraping the congealed Kraft Dinner residue off the plastic tableware. But I doubt it will have the same effect without the exorbitant fees.
Anyway, eyes are the windows of the soul, or something, and we—that’s J♥e and I if you didn’t pick that up on the first mention—spend a couple hours each day, eyeball locked to eyeball, and J♥e says the utterly black void he sees through my windows is very soothing after a tough day on set.
First bro to break contact gets to “bottom” for Juan, which adds a little extra frisson.
Sorry to be so TMI. It’s the way I get when I feel the subterranean rumble of subsiding foundations. Mister Devil-May-Care, that’s me!
Dialed back to merely luxurious and crumbling off the cliff edge: life in the slow lane.
(Evernote reminder to maid: “Hey, Enchilada! How’s the PTSD? LOL!! Just goofin’ around, Grape Picker!!
“Listen, this trip our world is all about sourcing wholesale collectibles – recently spotted 40% off marble fruit paperweights at Jonathan Adler, also stoneware vases inexplicably covered with 3-D breasts. WTF, right??
“To anticipate your objections, these days even the Pope has a couple of those on the mantel! Yes, siree, Ms Francine Vatican Herself!! And if that doesn’t convince you, two words: electrified fence. Capisce?
“P.S. – I lost the eye-gaze challenge! Again!! I know, seriously??! Am I a li’l freckle-faced rascal or what? Am I? You know I am!!!!
But lest you think that life is all piña coladas and expensive spirituality in our kastle-by-Koenig, let me tell you something.
While you turn three more shades of chartreuse from envy!
It’s not. Far from it!
Though I bet that’s something that never occurred to you. While you were thinking it was. All those things.
What was I saying?
Oh yeah. We, too—that’s J♥e and I—have our small yet impeccably man-scaped problems which obviously far outweigh yours. For example, I recently started to obsess about whether he’s secretly disguising some male-pattern baldness with discreet hair weaving—
—but I promised I would let that go.
When I wake him up every night at 3 AM to settle the question once and for all he calls me OCD in a really testy voice, and in response I throw an abalone shell or other similar knick-knack against the polished concrete mantelpiece, then fake-cry.
He has gradually begun to ignore this, and thanks a bunch, Jorge, for that technique, too. Nice work, bromance coach.
Then there’s the body hair issue. As you can see, J♥e is rigorous about nuking every last follicle till he’s smoother than a Vatican choir-boy, which ups the eye-candy but means I keep sliding off his chest. Clamber, slide, clamber, slide. Jesu, Maria! It’s like trying to perform frottage while scaling a glacier.
Which pretty much sums up bromance in general.
That’s my status update—call me blogged, Facebooked and tweeted!
While J♥e finishes his cigar, I’m going to take my morning constitutional on Wilshire Boulevard with our Yorkies, Macy and Saks. Those toxic LA breezes help clear the cobwebs, and, bonus—free chemical peel!—while I, with my astonishing gift for 24/7 visibility, whip up a wee bit of a stir in my fishnet tanga.
And let’s be frank: If those little yappers get thrown under a stretch Hummer, oh well, they get thrown under a stretch Hummer.
That’s just life in the slow lane. Ciao, bello!
(Attention Ge♥rge Cl♥♥ney: Please don’t start imagining this whole piece is intended to shame you, or that I’ve wasted even one more second thinking about your chiseled jawline. Or the sweet-pervy nothings you might be whispering in my ear right now, none of them about restraining orders. All is forgiven if you’ll just answer. C’mon. What would Rosemary have done? That’s right. Answer the phone, baby.)
This post first appeared in January, 2015.
I'm repeating it here, updated and revised, as part of my
"best of my blog" series.