LA life: actress next door singing a Gwen Steffani song in the shower while I write & stay off tilt from the noisy landscapers in straw hats.She lives upstairs on the second floor in the salmon painted apartment building next door. The straw hat-clad landscapers in black jeans with green stains mercilessly whacked the weeds and chopped four inches off he pathetic thing the slumlord called shrubbery.
The window to the her bathroom faces the alley, and her melodious voice trickles down into my office when she steps into the shower, turns the knobs and the water rushes out washing away the grind and grit and filth from another day humping a shitty waitress job on the West Side and being herded along in humbling auditions with the hundreds of other starving starlets.
The waterfall recharges her battered soul and she loses all her inhibitions, completely naked and lets it rip with a titillating performance worthy of a thumbs up from the tribunal of cool at American Idol. Singing in the shower brightened my day. Her daily routine was a much needed daily reminder of why I chose to hunker down in a city of known for smashing dreams on an hourly basis, yet I sat in the Ikea chair every morning and and cranked out the pages and dispatches from my loins.
The enchanting singing popped up at random times and she unleashed vocal exercises that seeped through the walls of both buildings and blanketed whatever music spilled out of my iPod. Sometimes, she just needed to perform.
Whenever I hear any Jimmy Buffet song, I have a sudden uncontrollable urge to down a shot of tequila and snort a colossal line of cocaine.The songs of Mr. Jimmy Buffet triggered something in my brain and an explosive chemical reaction commenced and altered every single one of my senses. I'm transported back to the days during the Bush I's lordship... on a vast porch in Georgia, sipping a stiff Jim Beam and diet coke cocktail and sitting around in Umbros and t-shirts shouting sexual explicit cat calls at attention-seeking sorority girls as they jogged down Fraternity Row. A Jimmy Buffet song pumped through the speakers from the sound system and all you thought about was leaving the sweltering gnat infested brokeass redneck South and headed to the brilliant sunshine state with water and sun and drugs and the seaside towns on the Atlantic coast were inhabited by gun-toting meth-snorting pick up driving Obama hating rednecks, former Cuban revolutionaries converted into Big Mac chowing masses, retired millionaire golfers soused to the tits on a Viagra & gin cocktails, tons of churches with standing room only and congregations filled with Bible thumpers and zealots from every faith possible -- Scientologists, Mormons, Amish, Rastafarian, Moonies, Sufists, and don't forget those old Jews from Brooklyn).
Florida. Home of Jimmy Buffet and the best cocaine in America... in 1991. We didn't have enough money to do coke in college and had too much trouble trying to getting anything bulk that wasn't better that ditch weed smuggled up from Mexico through Texas. Cocaine was not in sight, at least good stuff, like the primoshit that the cowboys chopped up for billions of dollars.
The lyrics and songs struck deep in the heart of the most degenerate and addicted sections in the lobes in my brain. Not only did I want to snort the largest biker rail of blow on the planet, but I wanted to kick off the feisty festivities with a shot of Mexican truth serum.... the all mighty tequila. Is there anything on the planet more courageous than someone on a dedicated tequila bender? That's jawdropping hardcore.
You're not fuckin' around with a pussy-assed pink cocktail slurped down by a bubbly ostentatious protagonist with an flaming bi-curious confidant from one of those mind-numbing chit lick books that are selling like hot cakes at Barnes & Nobles, which used to be the secret guilty pleasures of Upper East Sider women, but these days, it's a daily staple for soccer moms in flyover states. Just the thought of how much that Shopoholic movie is like printing money (which is going around much these days) that makes me want to numb my brain with a gager of Bolivian white lightning.
I'm giving up irony for Lent.The above statement is self explanatory.
I watched all of '27 Dresses' hoping that Katherine Heigel would show her boobs. Sadly, no boobs. FMLI never really thought that Katherine Heigel was as smokin' hot as everyone hyped her up to be. Yeah, her tits are huge pillows of flesh, but their nothing compared to the handfuls of happiness that belonged to Scarlett Boobies. I enjoyed Knocked Up and she can play funny, but you know, she was knocked up and never exposed her tits, and she was pregnant in most of the scenes and it was hard for me to rub one out to a pregnant chick, not that I have never done that before, it's just it's not something that happened on a daily basis and had not happened in a very long time. Thank God.
Anyway, back to Katherine Heigel.
She was in this bad chick flick titled 27 Dresses where was was one of those thirty-something A-type personalities but couldn't find the right guy and she was a bridesmaid in 27 different weddings of her friends and I sat through it because I hoped that she'd show off those watermelons and then it could have justified why I wasted my time on that crap when I could have watched Sunny in Philadelphia DVD instead and that would have been a lot less... manly. Anyway, Katherine Heigel was quite fetching in the movie, even though she didn't show her massive mammoths coconuts.
I'm joking by the way. Maybe not. I can't tell. I was pretty shitty at that point of the night and kept smoking and smoking hoping to pass out and the movie kept playing yet I was too lazy to change the channel and I kept smoking until the credits rolled and then I saw it on the next day as I waited for Nicky to finish up cooking a fantastic dinner with some wort of French mushroom and wine cause and I sat on the couch as she blasted Charlie Hunter and I watched 27 Dresses with the sound off, but I had already seen it the night before when I couldn't sleep, so I knew what was happening.
Katherine Heigel. She never thought she was good enough to be loved that's why she couldn't find it.