Hollywood Boulevard is darkly referred to as the "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" or the "Boulevard of Broken Promises". The city of Los Angeles, which houses this Boulevard, as "The City of Lost Angels" or the "City of Lost Souls".
When I am asked by an aspiring "dreamer of dreams", who is toying with the possibility of making the trek to Tinseltown, about what LIFE is really like, all of the aforementioned clichés used to describe this town, which I call my home, come to mind. These clichés have as much legs as a well-decanted bottle of wine does.
If you move here from another state or country and have no established support system or relatives, you are in for a psychological thrill ride that might send you back packing or at least develop an expensive and possibly illegal coping mechanism that force you into some kind of twelve step program. The upside of the twelve-step program is that you will at least be around people and you might swap battle wound stories with someone famous.
Sidebar- I do know someone who ended up on a short lived television series because she and the casting director were in the same "group". They never offer that up in the books about show business as a possible entrée into the biz, do they? (Note to self- attend a meeting this week Nadège)
What is inspiring me to write about this issue of aloneness in Tinseltown is a combination of having spent the last three days in bed with what I know was a close brush with death and my still gullible belief that people will do what they promise and say with their own mouths. I assume that everyone lives by the tenet "Be impeccable with your word".
I took an eye opening stroll on the Boulevard of Broken Promises this week.
Day 1
My land line rings and it's Rachel returning my week old phone call. I told her that I stopped my day abruptly at noon and just had to come home and take to my couch. She mentioned that her best friend was hanging out at her place and if I wanted she would come scoop me up and I could partake in their girlie time.
"I see", perhaps she did not hear me, "I am not feeling well, everything is spinning...but thanks for returning my call."
"ok, well...Sorry... feel better".... "Call me if you need anything."
"Thank you, I... will?"
A few hours later, I cancel a date that was supposed to happen the next night via text and since it was a blind date, it was impersonal enough that a follow up on my well-being from the "dude" would seem presumptuous. Besides, he probably thinks I am faking an illness. He could even be pissed that I took away his excuse. We'll try for next week.
Early evening, I get an invitation via text from a friend I haven't seen in over a year. He was going to fire up the barbecue grill and if I brought the wine, we'd have a perfect evening under the stars catching up. I text back that I would love to but was deathly ill and couldn't make it. Raincheck? I ask. No reply.
I get into my pajama's, bring a jug of water into my room, pop a combination of whatever medicine I have that seem appropriate for my symptoms, pretend that I am being held by loving safe strong arms and fall asleep. It's 7:30 pm.
Day 2-
Not much improvement, the room is still spinning. I should go to the doctor, but do not trust myself to operate machinery. I remembered how Lisa and I had a conversation at the Village Idiot one month ago. We were psychoanalyzing my existence and my penchant for the after-life. She made me pinkie swear that if I ever felt a calling for the after-life that I would call her first.
"Call?" I inquire, "we planned our meeting at the Village Idiot via text? Why would I call when the after-life seems super tantalizing?"
Laughter!
" Nadège, you are too funny! Ok, fine, just text".
We agree on a code word. If Lisa ever gets a text from me with the word TANQUEREY, she will know that I am in serious crisis and she would take action. We were on our third blueberry mojito when we came up with this genius plan. We pinkie-promise again.
I text Lisa. TANQUEREY!!!
Lisa texts back, "Forgive my ignorance, but what is a TANQUEREY?"
Against my better judgement, I remind her of our pinkie promise at the Village Idiot.
"oh, right" she texts back, "do u wanna talk?"
"Well, I don't wanna b a burden" I reply.
"Actually, now is not a good time, but how about tomorrow, say between 3-4 pm? I'll call u then."
If only my crisis could wait until tomorrow between 3 and 4 pm. If only life worked on our own schedules.
Day 3
I think about who do I know that will show up for me at this time? Anyone can and always says they will but never quite state the convenience factor. Calling an ambulance comes to mind, but despite the accelerated heart rate I am experiencing, the city of LA might impose a fine on me for disturbing them. I am not bleeding nor is any part of my skeletal structure exposed. I probably took the wrong medication or the wrong dose.
My former service provider comes to mind. There was a time, not long ago when he would have dropped everything and acted in a capacity which had nothing to do with performing the horizontal samba. We were in-lust then. Lately however, his coping mechanism-the one I am aware of- has taken over. He has issues not with something chic like diet pills, but with honesty. The beginning of the end of our torrid affair started when he reported for duty with red lip prints all over his face and neck, and actually denied that they were there as he was wiping the evidence off. Then proceeded to act more indignant than I. I reminded him that we have a loving monogamous arrangement NOT a commitment built on exclusivity. ( I am a law school drop-out, and Bill Clinton is my secret hero.)
I often told him one of my preferred philosophies about honesty: "Hurt me because you are telling me the truth. Pain, I can take but lies..."
Because I honor my arrangements, I kept him on for tune-ups. I can only surmise based on his last two ho-hum deliveries and chronic absenteeism of late that he might have a return to the red lipstick wearing customer. The last time I saw him was a few days before I got sick. We were celebrating his birthday. As we were parting ways, he said the famous last words:"I love you and I'll call you tomorrow about the details for my show. Would love for you to come."
Haven't heard from him since. (He is an artist, the show went on and I did know better than to get entangled with a blactor)
A call from me, to him, might be an inconvenience at this time.
Day 4-
It's 7:11 am and my phone rings. The raspy voice on the other end calls me "Franck!". I say: "wrong number", he politely points out that I "sound like shit" then hangs up. I end up laughing myself back into health thanks to this stranger! Another viable cliché, "laughter is the best medicine".
I do have plenty of uplifting stories of extraordinary human beings who've shown up when I've needed them most. But the point is, there are times such as this has been for me, where you have to pause and question whether living in a town built on self-absorption and self-masturbation is a place you can call home. Where honesty, even when requested, is not accorded. Where promising to do the right thing does not necessarily mean the right thing will get done. Is your dream worth it? I can't answer the latter for you, I can only share my own extreme experiences on this aspect of daily living here.
Life on and off The Boulevard of Broken Promises can be MAGICAL. How resourceful, self-sufficient and comfortable you are with your aloneness, are part of the fairy dust ingredients needed to help make your MAGIC happen...I think.
