IMHO Installment #87: Why I Suck at Fantasy (#4)

13 Aug 2007

czjdh.jpg

"I won't be taken hostage by a fantasy!" I exclaim. (Usually, I don't exclaim things, but once in a while, it's okay.) "Not today!"

Yes, you will, responds some inner voice.

"Not after so many failures. Not after Liv Tyler, Condi Rice, and Jodi Foster. I don't think my imaginary heart can stand any more imaginary rejection."

Buck up, Hillman. Remember Beckett? "I can't go on. I'll go on."

"Yeah, but, I don't even like Catherine Zeta-Jones!" I plead.

Yes, you do.

"I do not. She's weird ... She's married to Kirk fucking Douglas, and he was born in 1916!"

It's Michael Douglas, you dick. And, he was born in 1944.

"Hey, don't call me a dick. You're me, after all."

Fact is, she's a total freak -- in the Rick James sense of the word.

"Yeah, but still ... "

And she's beautiful ...

"I guess ... "

And she's got that Welsh accent.

"True ... "

So, you'll imaginarily go out with her?

"I suppose. Will it make you happy if I agree?"

* * *

A wild look in her eye, she shouts impulsively above the club's din, "I am wanting of another name!"

Either she's had one Mojito too many, and/or maybe she's getting frisky. Either way (or both) I'm unable to grasp her intention as stated through the drunken grammar. And after all, Hollyweird celebs often talk in code. It's been said for example, according to the Wonder-Wiki, that Michael Douglas' first words to her were, "I'd like to father your children."

Which he then, as we all know, did. (Only in La-la-land, my friends.) Which, by the way, now renders her, technically, a Welsh MILF for those keeping score. Which is beside the point. Which reminds me to get back to my interpretation of her "wanting of another name."

At first, I simply figure it's code for wanting a child -- someone to give a name to. Although, it's odd; why wouldn't she simply state that she is "wanting of another child "? To refer to a child as a "name" is weird, I think. Although, oddly, there's something almost but not quite Homeric about it, Odysseus blinding the cyclops under the clever name Nobody -- though why I flash that particular epic memory at the time is unclear to me.

Time expands the way it tends to under the influence of hardcore techno. Leveraging this temporal effect, I'm afforded space to give the matter additional thought as I watch her dance, dance for me ... Financially speaking, of course, she's a multi-gazillionnairre. So, it's not like she'd be chasing me down for child support.

Still, I'm uncomfortable about the whole children business. Why can't it simply be a physical fling? An ordinary modern-day fling, sans offspring? What am I going to say, though? It's not like I can say I'm too old (given her husband's age). And it's not like I'm going to suggest she's past her child-bearing years.

As Time throttles up to normal speed, a response becomes necessary to avoid the uncomfortable silence (ironic, I suppose, in a deafening dance club). So, I join her out there, figuring I'll just act normal -- open my mouth and see what comes out, even if it is a little awkward spoken at full-volume in a crowd.

"Look, Cathy, about this whole baby thing ... It's not that you're not spectacular and all but, you know, we barely know one another." Others nearby begin to stare a little, as it's a well-documented fact that I cannot dance [described in two parts: 1, 2 ]. But, I continue, "I mean, sure, it was great meeting you 15 minutes ago; we had a good time dancing to those last two tunes, and I appreciate your wanting to produce my screenplay and all, but--"

She bursts out laughing, interrupting me. "Not a child," she says. "I want to get married again. I want another name for myself." She's a little out fo breath, but continues amid the frenetic ambience. "I began life as one of those people who always use all three of their names. And now I'm going to start hyphenating again, using Douglas ... "

I mock-dance on, not quite understanding and indicating as much with a single confused look.

"But, I'm going to leave Michael and marry you, taking on your last name. Then I'll be the actress in Hollywood with the longest name of all. Can't you imagine it?!" she shouts, twirling to the beat -- "sweet summer sweat" as the Eagles would've put it. "And the Oscar goes to, they'll say, Catherine Zeta-Jones-Douglas-Hillman!"

Oh yeah, she's lit up real good. And, suddenly, I think it's kind of cool. "And, will you rise and kiss me before tearfully accepting the award, mentioning my name at least twice in your speech, thanking me for support and encouragement?"

"I am wanting of your number," she says, more sexily than I can safely describe here -- and I decipher the meaning this time not via any grammarian deduction, but through the unmistakable glance of seduction. It's on, my friends.

Being new to cell phones, it's a wonder I've already developed the instinct to reach for the device under certain circumstances, among them the giving of my number to the soon-to-be Catherin Zeta-Jones-Douglas-Hillman. So, I whip out my T-Mobile ...

The music stops abruptly, as it can only do in this digital age, sudden as a mouseclick -- well past the era of vinyl during which the accompanying sound of a needle angrily ripped from an album would heighten the tone of seriousness in those crazy nights.

Some enormous fuckin' dude, materializing out of nowhere -- hat sideways, sunglassed, jacketed, chains ajangle -- drags my ass away through the elite crowd as no one objects or makes further eye contact. Literally kicking me into the humid L.A. night, he says, "No one uses a T 'fronta CZJD."

Turns out T-Mobile dumped her in late '06. Like I'm supposed to friggin' know that.

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