5/2/06
I went back to the old house yesterday. Vines were overgrowing the staircase leading to the mottled and mildewed door; locked, but the back windows always gave easy purchase. A little shove, and they burst open, and the familiar smell whooshed out like an old sepulchre being pried open.
I had come for some old negatives, long rumored to be in a hallway closet never cleaned, but they were no longer there. Nor were the residents, each of whom had moved out when their fear of change was overcome by their misery. It was palatial, the old house, and each room had died month by month, first losing heat and then electricity. An ancient being whose fingers and toes fell off, then the major organs shut down until nothing was left but the husk.
The floors were the same, I had stained them charcoal, treated them with chemicals. The tile was still there, as we had grouted and all began to loathe each other. Still, the house was cold, bitter cold, the last nook in the mountain to have snow in July. Perfectly situated for no air to come or go, an anaerobic capsule stuck in the Hollywood Hills.
I remembered some of our housemates, rotten people with filthy habits, long ago having lost any sense of decency. I remember the ones that had come from small towns to live in the glitter city, and how they nurtured their resentments and petty quibbles to the status of Greek myths. And I also remembered myself in those hallways, stuck in that room, drinking concoctions of equal parts guilt, shame and indignation.
That kid had sneezed in my soup; I was broke and could not buy another, so I ate, knowing full well I would be sick. And sick I was, for a full month, unable to breathe even though the sun was shining in some other canyon. I took to starting romances just so the first flush of possibility might puncture the gloom.
It was the house where fun, spontaneity and gleeful happenstance went to die. Keep rolling the dice in those rooms, and see how many permutations of "seven" there really are. Nobody came out the better. It was a study in reverse engineering, turning crushes into divorce, and the big ideas into a silent phone.
I saw my name on the wall where we all measured our height, and I felt sad for it, remaining at six feet high in this place, but some things were written in pen. All the other names dotted the different heights, like a memorial for those lost. We etched our names, did our time, and the back window let us out as easily as it had let us in. I went back to the old house yesterday, and I will never do it again.
Although I may not have been to this particular house, I have revisited one in a parallel universe, and I thank you for capturing with such poignance the places we must pass through to get where we are today.
wow.
But you made it sound so much fun all the times you tried to get us to come out and hang in that house.
OK, that was mean, but just think, if more Right Coasters had taken you up on the offer, it might have made things tolerable enough for you not to move to The City.
I gotta agree with Lindsay. If alcoholics have to reach rock bottom (in, obviously, a much more dangerous way than you or I did at that house) in order to finally get better, then the horror of that place is justified.
Each person in that place taught me something that I still remember. I asked you why you weren't gonna come with us to try to have some fun and you looked me dead in the eye and said, "we've got nothing to celebrate." That, more than anything anyone else has said to me, contextualized "partying" and "fun" in a way that made it possible for me to walk away from it.
I hope that, as bad as things were there, they won't ever be that bad again. We're gonna be really lucky if those days are our darkest.
Not to dismiss entirely your return trip to the old apartment (the Barenaked Ladies' version of their 'Old Apartment' is a lot more peppy), but I had a question for those of you Hollywood types in the know about the TV show: "WHAT ABOUT BRIAN".
My wife and I have gotten into it--reminds me of THIRTYSOMETHING and we can relate to parts of each of the couples in the show. I saw last night, however, that the season finale is next week. There have only been like 5 shows.
Is it cancelled? Is it being pulled? Why so short a run for a show that is pretty good?
And, is HEIST ever coming back? Any grass roots effort to revive the show?
Whaddya think about the new movie about Flight 93?
Yes, the smell of that place. I only lived there for a month, and the smell of it- and how cold it always was, and the thin girls with hairless arms drinking all the good wine while committing sacrelidges on the pool table- haunts me. I can't even go back to Hollywood, let alone that house.
I read this wondering if there really was such a house or if this was all just a terrific metaphor for revisiting one's shameful past. When I read it like that it was incredibly beautiful and poetic writing.
GFWD:
Everytime I start to convince myself that you do have a masculine side, you send an email or a post that includes references to Barenaked Ladies, Thirtysomething, and What About Brian!!
If I had a needle and thread . . . (you know the rest.)
DFB's&T's:
You well know that I have been in touch with my feminine side ever since crying in that Sunday Night movie of the week about former USC running back, Ricky Bell, and his work with that kid from the Special Olympics. I've gotten even less masculine the older I get as I now I find myself misting up at my kid's little gurgles and coos and Ian's well-written stories about his traumatic experiences growing up. I try watching a lot of sports to "man-up", but I'm still a hopeless wuss.
Sigh.
I guess that fact that we watch Desperate Housewives and Grey's Anatomy does not help either.
Ian, when is your show getting on the air. In the next few weeks, I lose out on The West Wing forever. I've got a void in my TiVo. And, can you at least share with us all whether your show will be masculine enough for me to avoid Dean's barbs? I'll watch it either way. I just want to prepare for Dean's inevitable attack.
What irony in the fact that that house, and several of the people in it, to me represented such a profound respite from my own miserable gloom in SF that year...1999 it was, winter and spring, and every chance I got I rocketed from the chilly despair of the Bay Area to the truly warm and sunny embrace of my dear friends in LA. Sad to think I had so much more fun than everyone else! If no other particle of positive, life-affirming energy can be remembered from that time and place, know that you all saved me from a deep loneliness and alienation, a crappy resturant job, and a dearth of recognizably kindred spirits. I even have a fond feeling for Derek because of it!
to me this read the way red house painters sounds.
You are such an inspiring writer, Ian. After reading your entry, I've reflected on painful days of low ceilings, little light, camel crickets and those damn cinder block walls. I find the endurance of the structures that housed my lows threatening, a 'you could be right back there again' and I'm comforted by the walls and doors that keep me out.
I watched the premiere of What About Brian at the urging of a male friend who'd read about it. He loved it, but the characters all seemed too shallow and superficial to me.
If there was a season finale already, it was probably some sort of sample run to see if it gets picked up for next season. But I'm sure the Hollywood folks can answer this better...so, y'all...
quickly: my friend was staffed on WAB, and last I heard its fate is still in limbo and the ratings nor word of mouth/reviews not great, which means it's probably done. they only shot 8, I think cut back from an order of 13.
(ps -- what about brian? here's what: another self-absorbed rich white people show about ennui, generically attractive people and their dumbass problems, replete with current LA "in" references.)
back to work then.
xuxE -- goin' solo? what happened to your punk band? sounds good, btw. consider me a fan.
oh, and ian. dear lord. great piece.
"we've got nothing to celebrate." -- thanks sean for adding that.
CP - thank you mucho!! yes, i had to quit my old band - a bit heartbreaking but very necessary to keep my life sucka free! anyway, more punk-disco-house will be coming soon, now that i am free to release my inner mudd club glamour artiste. :)
without question, a "sucka free" lifestyle is the only way to live, which I think is an appropriate sentiment given ian's entry today.
Amen.
And yet, it wasn't always bad and hopeless. The meaning of the place, of course, wasn't the house itself, but who lived there. In particular, I recall a short-lived two or so months where the only Manor residents were you, me, and Sean. We couldn't conceive of keeping it that way -- goodness, I was paying nearly one-third of my current NYC rent. So to make it economically feasible, we made it socially impossible, and then as a result I moved out, and took your brother with me (where we lived as a perfectly happy gay couple down the road), which I've always marked as the beginning of the end.
(Well, either that or the models snorting heroin in the bathroom.)
I really enjoyed the memoriam.
Oh,psI'mnotgay. Bading!