Annual Birthday Blog: I'm Half My Age

I turned 23 in 1991. Internet was in its fledgling stages, most people had never heard of it. Portable cell phones were gigantic and only rich people and drug dealers had them. It was possible to plug a TV into the wall, plop "rabbit ears" on the top and watch network programming. Bush I was president. Kurt Cobain and River Phoenix were still alive and the 105 freeway wouldn't open for 3 years. Holiday Spa (later Bally's) still had segregated men's and women's workout areas. People got their information from newspapers, magazines and television. People wrote letters. That was nice.

The following is a visit from my 23 year-old self, written with the kind of brutal honesty reserved only for my diary. Some people tell me they don't remember much about their younger days. I remember it like it was 10 minutes ago.

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I'm staring in disbelief at what my boyfriend gave me for my birthday. I'm happy because he got me exactly what I wanted but a little sad because he felt like he had to do it--drugs and booze to feed my voracious appetite. We're at the Eldorado Motel on Pacific Coast Highway. I know he blew his whole paycheck but I don't really care about that. On the credenza: an enormous bottle of Jack Daniels, a big bag of pot and an impressive bag of good powder cocaine.

Earlier I brightened up the hair color, eyebrows, all 20 nails, trimmed and shaved everything and moisturized. I use 4 different kinds. 1 around my eyes, another on my face, a different one for feet and one for hands and body. I'm terrified of wrinkles. I did 20 minutes in the tanning bed today so no alpha hydroxy acid or I'll look like I went swimming in a volcano. However it's accomplished, my hair should be lighter than my skin. Earlier I ate Jack In The Box. I threw it up as soon as soon as I got home. My diet plan is easy: carbs earlier in the day, protein later and throw up anything that's not healthy. I call it selective bulimia. I have a 30 inch waist and it's going to stay that way. I want a nose job and some liposuction. Some nights after I get home I flip on the TV and iron for hours. I turn my t-shirts inside out and iron all the seams 1 direction. I double-starch them and crease the sleeves. I do the same to my jeans and of course slacks and button down shirts. If my shoes or boots don't look fresh, I have them professionally dyed. If I find a shirt I love, I'll buy it in every color they make except yellow. I'd rather buy 1 quality item of clothing than 10 at a discount store for the same price. For jeans I only wear Bugle Boy, Gibraud and Guess?. I only wear Calvin Klien string bikini or briefs. I have them in every color and pattern. Not a week goes by that I don't buy clothes.

I work out 6 days a week, 1 day to let the body recover. I take good care of myself so I can party hard. If your body doesn't look and work good, you have nothing. My gym is full of guys in their 30's leering at me. Yesterday a guy followed me into the steam room. He must have been like 35 years old with all those wrinkles around his eyes and creases by his mouth. I don't even like being near the chickenhawks, it feels like they just want to suck the youth out of me. I wish they'd leave us alone and go after guys their own age.

I spend an hour a day soaking in the tub. This is where I make my phone calls, like Crystal Allen in The Women. Lately Grandmother has been ruining everything by hooking her computer up to something called Prodigy. I guess she links her computer up with other computers so her and her friends can send each other messages about rubber stamps and genealogy. I always know when she's on it because the phone makes a screeching sound. If I hit the button on the receiver enough times it knocks her off.

Last night was some club in Hollywood on Cahuenga. They have real orgies on stage. They're supposed to just simulate the sex but it's pretty cool they do it for real. It's almost as good as a friend of mine who lives in a converted 10,000 foot warehouse complete with a torture chamber. Epic parties that don't get busted because the cops are all her clients. Dominatrix. Her last party I found a chair to chill out for a while and looked up to see a group of lesbians having an orgy next to me.

I ditched school today. I signed up for classes I think I should take in a major I was told I should be in: Business Administration. I used to write creatively, from the time I was a kid but I gave it up. My law classes got me fired up for a minute but my favorite professor told me there were already too many lawyers in LA and to figure something else out. After that, I stopped going. Sometimes I'll go to school and nap in my car or create a really amazing salad in the cafeteria and sit there for a long time and then go to the library.

I hit some kind of spiritual bottom in Accounting 101. I knew 10 minutes into class that I'd never be able to do it. It's a core requirement for my major. I wanted to study music, writing and literature but let well-meaning people talk me out of it. I'd love to have the Mercedes and the big house. I don't know how I'm going to do it. I love the act of going to school, I just hate my classes. I'm taking a voice class in secret. Actually this is my 3rd. My voice teacher told me to stop training my abs for a richer voice. That's not going to happen. I have an almost 5-octave range and performed from the time I was a kid but I don't do anything with it. I'm a BUSINESS major. This and weight training have been my only passing grades.

I picked up another stalker at school. My pager went off, I don't know how he got the number. I didn't have any change for the pay phone so I called him back when I got home. He has a sexy voice. He always knows what I'm wearing and where I've been. "Your ass looked better in those jeans you were wearing earlier at school." It's creepy and exciting at the same time. He knows I have a boyfriend and doesn't care. I don't either. What my boyfriend doesn't find out won't hurt him. He's probably cheating on me anyway. A couple days ago my stalker called me, masturbating. What he described doing sounded physically impossible. He must have been really experienced. He asked me to wear a white t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up and some pale blue Guess? jeans I have so I'll give him a treat.

I have different wardrobes for my different personalities. During the day I let my hair flop around. For work I slick it down. When I go to clubs I carefully straighten it or pull it back. I compartmentalize my life. Family sees one person, the bar scene sees my sleazy side, up in Hollywood I'm someone else. I never, ever let my lives overlap.

I met my boyfriend in a drag bar. I only went there because a friend liked the place. He's the only guy I've ever met who can drink more than me. Out at clubs I guzzle bourbon like it's water but this guy's tolerance is insane. My last boyfriend I met from an ad in the back of the Recycler. You write a letter, the newspaper forwards it to the person with the ad and then they either write you back or call you. I talked to him on the phone for a couple weeks before we met. I crossed my fingers that he'd be cute, luckily he was. It's kind of cool talking to someone and having no idea what they look like.

I'm not sure it's a good thing having a drug dealer at work. I'd been off the snow 5 years on my own. Listening to her, buying a bag seemed like a good idea. It quickly became important again but I'm not going to be bad like I was at 17. A few months ago I had been out partying and got pulled over on the way home. I knew I was fucked. The whole thing flashed before my eyes: my hot little sports car getting towed away, me going to jail and everyone finding out. I got lucky--they got another call and sped away. I lead a charmed life. Booze loosens me up and makes me the boy I was meant to be, plus it dulls the pain I've carried with me all these years.

The biggest confession in this whole thing is that I'm a pussy. I can't stand up to people. I let them walk all over me. I can't even go to a business unless it's been recommended to me first, this includes car washes and dry cleaners. I think most people are better than me and that they look down on me for one reason or another. There's an old black guy at the gym who comes in the sauna and just starts jerking off. I want to tell him he's gross and to stop but I never say anything. I'm weak. The only thing that helps is booze. Once I have a few drinks, I can flatten anyone with my tongue. I obsess about the way people talk about me and what they think. I'm always conscious of the way I walk and my voice. I don't want to sound faggy or shake my ass too much.

My current greatest accomplishment is to get my name on the list of pretty much every good club in Hollywood. I do that by being a phony. I sell the image of the surfer boy who just broke up with his girlfriend. Don't look too closely at my surfboard, the dust has gotten pretty thick.
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A few months later I got arrested for drug possession. I've been meaning to get a copy of my mug shot, I must have looked like Courtney Love. There was a beautiful couple years when my drinking was still working and I was pretty and doing fabulous things, roaring round in my little sports car with a trail of boys behind me and an ego the size of Texas. The nature of alcoholism insures things don't stay that way. By my 25th birthday I'd lost everything except for my awful boyfriend. It took another 3 years for the universe to dispose of him. Life went from being a party to descending into a kind of hell that's hard to describe unless you've been there.

When I look back on being 23, I mostly remember being insecure, obsessed with my looks (because I thought that's all I had) and having no self-confidence. I lived in a tiny world with rigid thinking. I was full of self-hatred because I couldn't fit myself into what I thought was someone else's idea of what I should be doing. Business Administration, indeed.

It was exhausting being that boy. I would have loved to go with him when he was registering for school. In those days you did it in person, filling out forms, writing checks. I would have encouraged him to do what he wanted, not what others told him he should. I would have told him to deliver a resounding "fuck you!" to those giving unsolicited advice or passing silent disapproval on his dreams. I'd tell him to drop the hypervigilance and be himself. It's hard to believe all these years have flown by. I don't feel old. My waist isn't 30 inches anymore and I don't think about my age until someone reminds me.

Age has brought assertiveness--in my case, probably too much. I haven't had low self-esteem since my 20's. I don't look to others to tell me what to do. I'm still working on pursuing dreams instead of "shoulds." Walking through artistic shaming (see my last blog) is the last frontier.Although I went overboard when it came to fastidiousness about wardrobe and fitness, maybe I could borrow a little of 23's zeal. I am now an unapologetic discount shopper and can't believe how much money I used to spend on clothes. My wardrobe is about 1/100th the size it was. I'll still buy a shirt in a couple different colors if I like it. The big one--I'm going back to school. Yes, I already did that in my 30's. 3.9 gpa and a new career--but this time I'm going to take the classes I always wanted.