I know, I said I wouldn’t use any more gratuitous alliterations after Monkey Monday, but in the case of this story it was harder to pass up than a free sample of organic taramosalata on a freshly toasted bagel chip at Whole Foods.
Once upon a less-than-a-week-ago, I got an email from a hooker who wanted me to write content for her website. In the email, she described herself as follows:
“I am a young savvy cosmopolitan woman. I enjoy all things that encompass the fine Mediterranean lifestyle, gourmet cuisine, fine wines, theater, high fashion, laughter and keeping great company. Well cultured and traveled I am the perfect companion to accompany you in any social or private situation.
My hair is made of spun gold and hangs just above my waist; crystal green is the color of the eyes that you will want to gaze into for hours at a time! My body is firm and fit, I keep a rigorous workout routine and practice yoga daily to keep both my mind and body balanced and whole.”
Now, if you were a red-blooded homosexualist like me, who only gets confused about his sexuality when he’s had too much to drink and ends up dumping the guy and snogging the girl, you would see this after reading that:
Amanda Seyfried as the crystal green-eyed, spun-gold-haired hooker with magnificent breasts in Atom Egoyan's "Chloe"
Am I right or am I right? This presumes you’ve actually sat through Atom Egoyan’s lullaby in soft porn, “Chloe,” in which a young hooker (Amanda Seyfried) seduces an upper-middle-class Canadian gynecologist (Julianne Moore, whom I always want to call Marianne Jones for some reason) by pretending to have seduced the gynecologist’s husband (Liam Neeson). Even if you haven’t seen it, I highly recommend it for any sleepless night. Just pop it on, grab a piece of toast with peanut butter, a glass of milk and you’ll be out like a light in half an hour.
Indulge me with a quick side trip to the subject of Atom Egoyan. I mean, the guy has always been willfully trippy — as if making films about incest and other horrors is somehow more palatable if they’re hypnotic and tasteful — but now watching his films feels like the last time I took a quaalude back in ’89, when that drug was losing favor and dying out: feebly erotic but above all soporific in a party-pooping kinda way.
And what is this about relentlessly portraying the upper middle class as even-toned, spaced-out, gorgeous successes who endlessly attend concerts or museum lectures or cocktail parties that look like choreographed routines at Sea World accompanied by … what is that music called, Atom, ambient synth jazz? That ain’t the UMC I’m from, baby. Maybe they’re like that up in Canadia (again, spelling intentional), but not in New York City. Where are the rollicking, fractious, alcoholic, socially insecure, nerdy, witty banter-ful, mentally unstable, erratically pulcritudinous folks I know, love and have major problems with? (I was actually laterally moved out of the UMC to the lower upper class in the late 90s owing to the strong scent of gutter I have acquired.)
Atom, listen: if you want a good, truly sexy, realistic script about Our Crowd, have one of mine. I’ll even give you a discount on the front end and take a chunk of the back, that’s how confident I am that one of your movies will finally make money. (This is where I link-plug our feature film company, just in case Atom is bored enough to deep Google himself and take me up on my offer.)
Anyway, back to my hoodwinking hooker. So I got really excited about this gig, like, texting-my-friends excited. I was going to do the content and maybe the design for the website of this smoking hot, high-end hooker who charged her clients $1,000 an hour, or $10,000 for a “pajama party” sleep-over. This was going to open up a whole new venue for me. I was going to be the gay Hugh Hefner of web content. I spoke to my prospective client on the phone, and we hit it off beautifully. I even sold her on the idea of doing video for her site when she comes out to Los Angeles in March. Video is what Pure Film Creative — sorry, another link-plug rudely squeezed itself in there — is really trying to sell its clients; people won’t pay a lot for text, but they’ll shell out some decent dosh for good video.
I was so pumped about this that I sailed through my workout at the gym. Things were looking up. This was something I could enjoy and make some worthy money doing, once the word got out to the other girls and I was soon surrounded by prose-depraved harlots (they prefer the word “courtesan,” as if everything they learned about describing the business came from Memoirs of a Geisha), who would swaddle me in some of that delicious $1,000-an-hour green.
No sooner did I get home than I got an email from my new client:
What a pleasure to speak with you! If we’re going to work together I believe honesty is the best policy. My name is S __ and my assistants name is S ___ you will be dealing with either of us at any time, but primarily myself in regard to my creative needs. My true description is 5’7 165 lbs long brown hair, brown eyes curvy and firm 38F 30 42 size 12 dress all natural I’m latina and african american mixed.
And accompanying this fantasy-shattering confession were two images:
Miss S__, the hooker who needed a content makeover, after full disclosure
WHOA! “True description” indeed! This has to be the exact opposite of the crystal green-eyed, spun-gold-haired Amanda Seyfriend look-alike with whom I imagined I had chatted on the phone. This was not at all the sleek, lusty-yet-intellectual heroine of my forecast of the future, whose web content and image I would reposition so brilliantly that the poor woman would never get off her back with the amount of clients she would be raking in, all thanks to me; she would be diving and swimming in a pool filled with cash, just like Donald Duck’s Uncle Scrooge.
After picking myself up off the floor, I shook out my shock and disappointment like a Turkish housewife beating a carpet, and rose to the challenge anyway. 38F bust size! Hmmmm. As S___ herself admitted in our further correspondence — I called her “extra voluptuous,” was that wrong? — she is a particular taste and has no trouble securing regular clients. That made sense. What I liked best was I was learning something about a whole new business sector and how it is marketed on the internet. I’m serious: this was a modern cultural curiosity, a revamping of the world’s oldest profession. I learned from Miss S __, for instance, that hooker websites are mainly developed by a female-owned service named Veda Designs. It’s a very clever model, everything a professional “companion” could need, from private photo galleries, to online payments, right down to finding an assistant.
Unfortunately, Miss S __ didn’t want my design services, just a polishing of her content, particularly her bio and her “philosophy towards the business,” which in most other industries is known as a Mission Statement. Copy like, “My goal is to take your face and smother it between my 38F ebony pillows until you pass out from ecstasy or from burst blood vessels in your brain,” sprang to mind later during my hike up to the Hollywood Sign, always my favorite way to regroup and re-strategize. (I saw Moby again on the street while I was hiking up there, greeting Heather Graham as she got out of a car. He just bought and fixed up this mini castle, the lucky bastard. We waved at each other. We’re becoming waving friends.)
Then came the unfortunate question of money. She wanted copy up front, I wanted a deposit up front. Yes, I even put my policy in terms she could understand, you would have been so proud of me: “Listen, you know the drill: put the money on the dresser first before we get into bed, and I don’t take checks.” I actually said that, in my usual cheeky way punctuated with a laugh. I gave her my Paypal account, but she must have balked because I haven’t heard from her. So much for my career as the gay Hugh Hefner of hooker web content. That’s really Veda, bless her; I hope at least she’s a lesbian.
Can you believe it, it actually rained a bit last night in Los Angeles. I’m sorry I missed it. Back on January 25th, when the umpeenth blizzard struck New York, I sent some of my friends this screenshot of the weather forecast for LA:
It was like that for the five days after that, too. Yeah, not nice sending that to the blizzard-battered, but I couldn’t resist. It’s fun to be wicked sometimes. As my niece Savannah once said when I was scolding her, “But I like to be bad sometimes, Uncle James.” I know what she means. It’s not the same as being truly evil, like my landlady, Susan Blais; in my opinion, she’s the raw, pure Mean ‘N Nasty, the kind who can’t eat ice cream because it scorches her mouth.
Sorry, was I unkind? Just getting started. But I have to be careful to phrase everything about Ms. Blais with “in my opinion,” or she’ll sodomize me with a razor-barbed defamation suit as well.