1. If you could style yourself what would you choose as the accoutrements?
2. If you can return as any person or thing what would it be?
The Quiero Club.
3. What is a dream you’re working on realizing?
A travel package for the Maasai people to come to our land and see first hand how we live so they too can return home and talk, and talk, and talk about the trip with an air of touching the void as opposed to just going on vacation, to another place, on this planet. Upon landing, transportation in the form of a mini-Cooper sitting on 17-inch anthracite rims, because the host is twee yet hard like that, will await you curbside. To give a little insight into the host, I should point out that up until around four months ago, she thought kosher and vegan were synonymous.
From there, you will be whisked off to camp: a spacious, 2-bedroom located on the idyllic, tree-lined Sycamore Avenue, constructed in 1943 and said to be inhabited by Fatty Arbuckle’s ghost who’s been known to fondle the host on occasion while she sleeps. Buckle up!
You will enjoy local fare at such places as Joan’s on Third, The Kings Road Cafe, Urth Cafe and Le Pain Quotidian, where you will “Don’t look!” look at the “lucky bitch” with the sick, Hermes, Kelly Doll bag, all three Jonas brothers and that guy the host has seen somewhere but can’t quite place but knows she either boned him two years ago, had a chem lab with him at Princeton, or he had a small role on “Breaking Bad,” or he was a bad breakdancer she boned at Princeton.
You will then be taken to ancient spots such as the dive bar down the block to stalk the host’s ex while he partakes in dodgeball karaoke, rustic Runyon Canyon to see first-hand women hike in triangle, bikini tops, immediately followed by the host calling them “gross and way too fat to be wearing that!” Immediately followed by seeing a young woman who actually “can” wear the triangle bikini top but still shouldn’t because it has, after all, been deemed gross while one is hiking.
You will sit in on the host’s therapy session, watching agog as she reclines on the chaise while her therapist, cleverly positioned behind her, rolls his eyes as she once again drones on about how she thought Dustin was going to marry her, how amazing she is, how the world just doesn’t get her and how she’s been wronged by people she thought were friends as her voice steadily rises to octaves only Pomeranians can hear, until it culminates with the therapist passing her a tissue nestled in a ceramic tissue holder he purchased from a reservation gift shop in Minnesota when traveling across the country during his gap year.
You will be whisked down the city’s bustling, oft traveled, alternate route, known as Crescent Heights Boulevard. The host will point out that the road turns into Laurel Canyon Boulevard when it starts over the hill and into hell.
You will be taken to West Elm where you will stare — nonplussed, head cocked to the side — at a Nuyorican, Brooklyn-based artist’s mass-produced paintings of memes of Maasai jumping. You will proceed to get lost in the paintings while asking yourself, “So I’m just a meme to these people? I’m a real, living, breathing person with my own individual needs and wants, however, I’m getting the feeling the rest of the world simply longs to connect to only the idea of me? The idea of a Maasai person. An African. If this is the case, what am I really? The Maasai person. The African.” Standing beside you, the grungy guy who impersonates Jesus on Hollywood Boulevard will be having a variation of the same thoughts as he stares at a cubist rendering of Jesus playing cards with Judas, care of an artist out of Portland.
Next, you will watch as the host gets the hair she washed at home dried at a super bright salon located on the famed Sunset Boulevard! Then, you will watch a flashmob! Go raw! Write a screenplay in a coffee shop! Get sober! Try on shoes at Barney’s! Fall off the wagon! Try not to stare at Lady Gaga as she and her custom-made tornado simulation browse the denim bar at Fred Segal! Get sober again!
You will set out east to the amazing yoga studio where Keanu Reeves has been known to partake in a class or two. Once there, you will ingest the host’s 55 sun salutations, lotus pose, feathered peacock and plow, followed by thirty minutes of silent mediation that will get the host back in touch with her authentic self. After class, “Namaste,” you will sojourn to the lobby where, while waiting in line to ask a question about her account, an old man will hit on the host by telling her her cow face pose was off the “Hee (slight pause) zee” as he stares at her breasts. You will watch as the host accepts the compliment with bitchy politeness but the moment the old man walks away she will present a vomitous expression: tongue hanging out, one eye slammed shut while the other rolls back in her head, “Ukkk.” Next, you will witness the host arrive at the reception desk where the receptionist will have a surprised, giddy reaction to having just witnessed Pauly “The Weeeea-sal” Shore hitting on the host, forcing the host to respond the only way she knows how, “Who’s that?”
En route back to camp, you will look on as the host stealthily locks the car door and pretends a homeless man isn’t staring directly into the car while his clever sign asks for change. You will then witness the host speed way up on the cramped 101 Freeway when she spots a car in another lane, with blinker on, attempting to move in front of her.
Saving the best for last, on the final evening, you will get to experience first hand the ancient, Western, female ritual of lying in bed wide awake late night, nervously chewing the bottom lip until, imbued by the ancient spirit of Crazy, the host suddenly thrusts up, throws on her Brown sweatshirt (because one can never tell enough people exactly where they spent 4 years of their life), grabs her car keys and sprints out the door.
Moments later, you will yawn while looking on from the passenger seat as the host waits for her ex to return home with his supposed, new girlfriend and hear such bombastic chants as, “It’s like midnight and he’s not even home yet! His car’s not even here! You see that red Jetta? That’s his roommate’s. His car’s always either in front of it or behind it. They can’t park on the street ’cause they don’t have permits. Shit! That’s him! Get down!” With eyes peering over the dash, you will watch as the ex exits the car and travels to the passenger side to open the door for the supposed “fucking, dirty, stupid, poor whore.” Then, there it is. A smile through the tears on the host’s face because the only truth that can bring a silver lining to her waking nightmare is, “She’s ugly!”
This ritual will immediately be followed by a celebratory meal where you will feast on a Double Double Animal Style, luke-warm fries, a root beer and a small vanilla shake. A cultural tid-bit break will come in the form of the host pointing out that on the bottom of each cup is a strange reference, “John 3:16… It’s like God did something then forgot it. Who knows…They’re like some weird Christian cult or something but who gives a shit. The food’s so yummy.”
Upon airport arrival, the host will curtsy and bow with prayer hands her farewell. A final custom will come in the form of the mini-Cooper almost getting slammed by a shuttle, causing the host to fling her hand out the window and flip off the shuttle driver, simultaneously exclaiming, “I’m fucking driving here, dick cheese!”
While traveling up the escalator, taking in the various people staring at you as if you’ve dropped down from the cosmos, you will realize that unless you actually spend significant time here — time beyond the 10 days the package allowed — this place will soon find room in your brain on a very base level. The memory of it won’t be so different from how you had imagined it to be in the pictures. And as much as you experienced the city and all of its trappings — the host, the mini-Cooper, Dustin, Joan’s on Third, the Double Double, Pauly Shore, fake Jesus, what you think was Fatty Arbuckle’s knee — the memories will be fleeting, eventually settling into your head as just a thought, a simple memory that you’ll come across when life allows you the time. Upon returning home, you will gather your friends and family around and talk, and talk, and talk about the trip with an air of touching the void simply because you kind of did. You did in the same way we all do when traveling to a foreign place. Days will pass and when you’re finally finished showing every solitary person every, single picture, your little sister will take the memory card from your camera to school, upload the photos onto a computer and sift through, eventually stopping on a picture of the host — hair whipping in the wind, aviator sunglasses, duck lips, holding up a peace sign with the Hollywood sign in the background. Your sister will come up with a clever quip for the photo then send it out into the world via the information superhighway. And for all those who will never in their lifetime travel to this land, the photo and caption will represent the full essence of this place. The idea of it. The meme.
4. Okay. A few things. First, I need that baby in my life. Second, Mr. Shore didn’t deserve that. And third, the host sounds absolutely awful. With that said, I hope our Maasai guest enjoys his or her visit in spite of it all. Now, what is your favorite malapropism?
Silly me. I was under the impression this was a safe zone for garments to air anything and everything but I guess I was wrong. With that said, I do have a favorite malaporpism but I don’t too much feel like sharing it with you at the moment.
5. To quote Jane Craig, “Sir, you can do whatever you want. It’s your choice.” Now, what is the scariest advice an elder has ever given you?
The Lacroix fringed jacket once told me to always, always date, marry, one-night-it, whatever, someone who loves you more than you love them.
6. That is very scary and sad and depressing. What do you say to all those leering at their mates right now, trying to figure out who has the upper hand in this thing called a committed relationship?
I wouldn’t wanna be you. But that aside, I did think the advice odd due to the fact that fringed jackets are asexual.
7. Wait a minute. So, if I was to show you a picture of, let’s say, a Dion Lee Thermal linear spiral skirt?
Absolutely zero needs in the carnal department.
8. The Lonely, high-waist brief?
9. Man, this is harder than I thought. Okay, I dare you to not get just the slightest tingle for the rare, Halston, Pollack-inspired extravaganza?
Wee-ooo-wee-ooo-weeeeeooooooo… Dry as a bone, my friend.