Tallulah Bankhead!

I had the flu, so I stayed home and watched Cary Grant movies and this Tallulah Bankhead movie, “Die! Die! My Darling!” I know Tallulah Bankhead had done worthier films and in fact, I had always been intrigued by her, so I looked her up. We all know Wikipedia is “iffy,” but if the basics stand, Tallulah was completely deranged, someone I’d like to party with. Here are excerpts from the page:

…During these early New York years, she became a peripheral member of the Algonquin Round Table and was known as a hard-partying girl-about-town. …[She] began to use cocaine and marijuana, going as far as saying, “Cocaine isn’t habit-forming and I know because I’ve been taking it for years.”

…She didn’t like Hollywood either; when she met producer Irving Thalberg, she asked him, “How do you get laid in this dreadful place?”

Her 1932 movie Devil and the Deep is notable for the presence of three major co-stars, with Bankhead receiving top billing over Gary Cooper, Charles Laughton and Cary Grant. It is the only film with Cooper and Grant as the film’s leading men. She later said, “Dahling, the main reason I accepted [the part] was to fuck that divine Gary Cooper!”

In 1933, Bankhead nearly died following a five-hour emergency hysterectomy due to venereal disease. Only 70 pounds (32 kg) when she left the hospital, she stoically said to her doctor, “Don’t think this has taught me a lesson!”

She rented a home at 1712 Stanley Street, in Hollywood and began hosting parties that were said to “have no boundaries”.

Bankhead circulated widely in the celebrity crowd of her day and was a party favorite for outlandish stunts, such as doing cartwheels in a skirt while wearing no underwear or entering a soirée stark naked.

Rumors about Bankhead’s sex life have lingered for years, and she was linked romantically with many notable female personalities of the day, including Greta Garbo, Marlene Dietrich, Eva Le Gallienne, Hattie McDaniel, and Alla Nazimova, as well as writer Mercedes de Acosta and singer Billie Holiday. Actress Patsy Kelly claimed she had a sexual relationship with Bankhead when she worked for her as a personal assistant.

Bankhead never publicly described herself as being bisexual. She did, however, describe herself as “ambisextrous”.

She had been investigated by MI5 during the 1920s amid rumors she was corrupting pupils at Eton. The documents alleged that she seduced up to half a dozen private schoolboys into taking part in “indecent and unnatural” acts.

On December 12, 1968, Bankhead died in St. Luke’s Hospital in Manhattan at 7:45 a.m., aged 66. The cause of death was pleural pneumonia, complicated by emphysema, malnutrition, and possibly a strain of the Hong Kong flu which was running worldwide at that time. Her last coherent words reportedly were, “Codeine … bourbon.”

Hattie McDaniel? The Hong Kong flu? Even her death was extravagant.

Well folks, my next post may be about how I had to quit Clark Gable for Cary Grant. Until next time!

Anal Acoustics

“Hey gurl.  I heard you blow that fart in there.”

“Haha!  Yeah.”

“I can dig it — ‘cause you ain’t know nobody was up in here.”

“I wouldna gave a shit if they was.”

“Mmm hm — ‘sho you right.”

“Once, a guy – after a night out together – he came over.  We were drunk and high as fuck.  Something about drinking heavy and the next morning — I always woke up and had to fart, loud and hard – the loudest fart you ever heard.  Great acoustics —  I looked forward to it really.  So we wake up —  I don’t even remember the night before, only his saying, ‘Uh! Sandee’, then it was over —  In the morning, I make one of my farts – they never smelled, which is strange, because I can whip up a stench with the best of them usually.  So my guy’s like, startled – ha!  But dig this — he says, ‘You know, that turned me on.’  I’m like, to myself, I knew it.  I knew I couldn’t be the only one who thought that was hot.”

“You are blowin’ my mind right now…”

“So oh, hey, look – you want me.  Right?  I know you do.  You like hearing my farts too.”

“The kinda luck I get, you fart on me, right?  It smells like, Noooooooooooooooo!!  Nothing like that trombone you played for your boy.  And after a fart like that, I have to wait a while before, you know.  I mean, I understand and all.  It’s natural.  But I can’t just, Mm! – yeah – after that.  It has to like dissipate.  Know what I’m sayin’.”

“Don’t be – negative.  Have faith.  I’m quite sure that I could, “compose” something just as nice, for you.”

What’s going on here?

Looking after my neighbor’s apartment has HAD its perks — emphasis on “had.”  And there were things that I had come to expect, like availing myself of loose quarters.  This time around was ever so disappointing – and I’ve never seen so many roaches!

When I went to their apartment to bring the mail and water the plants, though I was attacked by roaches, I still looked for the many packages of cookies T has insanely hoarded for like — ever. But, as mentioned in my previous post – there weren’t any – I would still have eaten them with roaches there – he usually keeps them bagged and in jars and shit.  Okay so fine – I accepted that I’d be responsible for purchasing my own snacks.

Then one night, I steamed vegetables, opened the cabinet for olive oil and had the hideous remembrance that it was on my shopping list since I’d run out.  “Oh dang. But T prolly has some!”  I go downstairs and grab a bottle — I don’t know what the hell kind of oil was in there but, that, was no olive oil!

Okay so next, T has always kept quarters on the foyer table.  Other times when I watched his apartment when he was in Ireland, I would take them if I ran out of laundry quarters and replace them later.  This time the quarters looked like commemorative quarters – I was scared to touch them, so had to wait till next damn day to finish laundry.

Yesterday I came to terms with the fact that I was spoiled when it came to T’s apartment.  The only thing I could partake of in there was the liquor, but I’m not apposed ta drink it.

Back home after dropping their mail and flicking off roaches that leeched onto the black garments I’d worn the last four days, I realized that looking at liquor bottles did much to warm my mind and much to loosen my sphincter – I had to take a shit.

Oh so marvelous, but, alas, no toilet paper… Thank God we live in a century where we needn’t waddle down to the babbling brook to wash our asses when this happens – so I hopped in the tub and got under the spigot.  But what happens upon the ‘morrow, I mused, as it was too late to go the supermarket.  Then the light bulb came on in my noggin, and I dashed down to T’s.  He’d be good for at least one roll.  And.  He was.

Why’d it have to be weird?  It was some generic brand that had been perfumed.  And you know what can happen when you use tissues laced with industrial fragrance?  But, oh, I am happy to report that all is well in the nether regions!

I await now the return of my neighbors, and will disclose not the least of my disappointments.

Oblivion and *penis

I saw my friend outside of the bar, taking a break from drinking to smoke cigarettes.  I hadn’t seen him in a while.

‘Hey you.  You drinking these days?’  He says.

‘Nah,’ I told him.

We used to stay in the bar until daylight — what a waste of time.  We even ate our dinner at the bar counter.

My friend’s an ex-cop.  He’s pretty tough.  He looked out for me when we drank together, way back when you could smoke in bars.

‘You were so bad ass,’ I said when I saw him.  When I got drunk he’d bring me home and be a gentleman about it.  At some point we were “romantically” involved.  Some “romantic involvement” I remember, some I don’t.  Shame.  But anyway — I miss that lifestyle when I want to glamorize it, because I’m an asshole.  It was pathetic, going around in circles, obsessed with drinking.

I wasn’t there to experience what should have been good times because I’d be drunk, blacked out.  Sorry to be a drama queen, but I’m lucky I got away from it with my life.

This video from the movie Shamus reminded me of then.  I would be in the Burt Reynolds’ role, minus the penis and mustache – though, sometimes I think it’d be nice to have a penis.

By posting the video, maybe I am glamorizing the lifestyle, because Burt Reynolds is a sexy bastard, but when I actually imagine myself in this position, it’s sad – especially when it happens more than once.  Like, grow the hell up!

After a night of cavorting, Shamus gets up — no shower — just puts his funky ass clothes back on…ah, memories.  Check out the way he looks at the shoe – haha!

* “PENIS” was just a cheap trick to get your attention I’m afraid. 

Earthquaaaaaake!!!

We had an earthquake in Manhattan last year.  I felt it when a lot of people didn’t.  I had just joked about how that fault line in our neighborhood happens to be under a street with a strip of outdoor cafes.  It’s a weekend hangout.  Motorcycles race up to the street and park.  The drivers commune with each other, with people standing around the cafes.  There’s a garden across the street where people socialize.  If an earthquake came on Saturday, all those folks would be sucked into the earth’s core, I said.

A day later, my TV stand shook and I knew immediately what it was, though I live in an old building that shakes when trucks rumble by.  I knocked on neighbor’s doors to warn them.  They said they didn’t feel anything.  “I’ll turn on the news and see,” one said before going back inside.  I ran down six flights of stairs — Smokey the Bear said you shouldn’t take elevators if there’s a fire, so I figured you shouldn’t take them if there’s an earthquake either.

I got outside and stood there.  People strolled.  They waited for their dogs to finish pooping, talked to neighbors.  I squinted, looking for signs of panic in their faces, for people screaming, running around with their arms flailing.  Didn’t see any.  The super of my building whistled while he hosed our sidewalk.

“Did you feel that!  We had an earthquake – I know it.”  “Yeah?  I didn’t feel anything.  Where are you going anyway?  If there’s an earthquake, you’re probably better off upstairs.”  I told him I’d go to the armory, but I wasn’t really sure.  A couple with a baby in a harness walked by chuckling lightly.  I did recall hearing that you should stand in the door sill if there’s an earthquake.  I looked at the sky.  No answers up there.  I went back upstairs.

My phone rang.  “Are you okay?” It was my sister.  She’d heard there was an earthquake here.  “I knew it!”  I said, turning on the news.  Gotdammit I knew it.

Same thing happened around ’81.  I lay in bed Sunday morning hung over as usual.  The bed shook.  “Ma!  My bed just shook!  What was that?  Oh my God!”  “Sandee go back to sleep.  Nothing’s shaking.  It’s just you,” she sighed.  Turned out, another earthquake had happened.  Mom didn’t believe me.  She thought I was having the shakes, the DTs – I know, it’s messed up, but that’s another blog post, maybe…

[Sing to Olivia Newton John’s Physical song] Let’s get metaphysical, metaphysical, I wanna get me-ta-phy-sicaaaaal!  Let’s get into metaphysical [okay you can stop singing now] — Why do I feel the earth vibrating when others don’t?  And my joke about that earthquake a day before it happened.  ESP?  Hmm…

Fallen Angel

People comment on my author status on face book.  I’m an author all right, ‘the mad author of anguish’ I am.  This quote is from Sticky Fingaz of Onyx.  This phrase from another one of their songs ran through my mind like a loop the other day:  “Ahh, I hate your fuckin’ guts, and I hope that you die.  Sticky Fingaz, the name, and my life is a lie’, cause I’m havin’ a bad day, so stay out of my way…”  How many of us relate to this on a crummy ass day, huh?

I won’t insert these Onyx videos because my friend who lived in the shittiest of neighborhoods with rampant gun fire and rats running riot said that the video scared her.

But I’ve got a lovely song to temper all that filthy rank.  Le Clown reminded me of King Crimson in an earlier comment.

Here’s their “Fallen Angel” song.  The fallen angel could be the Devil.  Or it could be me in all my unchecked grandiosity – hahaha!  When I was 19, I used to get pissy stinking drunk with my boyfriend.  I would cry lugubriously and this song might be my background music while I mused over being oh so lonely and oh so misunderstood – bahahahaha!  

The Grandfather Clause Lets All the Lames In

My friend says that he was grandfathered into all those house parties back in the day because of his cousin, who was very outgoing.  I laughed my ass off!  His cousin lived next door to me, and I got to tag along with her so I was ‘in’ too, by default.  He says he was lame in high school – he wasn’t.  If he was lame, I was lamer, socially awkward. Neither of us were the dynamic outgoing types.  I was introspective, neurotic and insecure.  Yay!  I’m not being down on myself – I just was so out of it and I knew it.  It threw me into a state of confusion.  I would think “These are the rules?  Holy shit – how’m I supposed to keep up with all this?”  You know teenagers with all their codes and rules.  So I was stunned quiet ‘till I discovered liquor.  I was a weirdo and a free spirit who didn’t have an outlet or other weirdos to hang out with.  I think my childhood disease had a lot to do with alienating me.  It fucked me up physically, took away my confidence.  My parents were so young and didn’t know how to handle it.  It would have been cool if I could have stayed weird but had the nerve to back it up.  But it’s useless to say, if only this was that way, or that was this way…  Today I don’t whine about how miserable I was.  It’s not like I’m so tough either – let’s just say I had help with that childhood trauma in my early twenties.  A group therapy type thing you know.

When I was 14 the brother of the alpha male of the wolf pack, the second     lieutenant — he fancied me, so that made me more noticed, I suppose.  ‘In’ by default?  Haha.  The funny thing is that I never really cared to be ‘in’.  Those kids who were more at ease, popular, they intrigued me of course, but I really would rather have been left alone.  My dad used to make me go out and play with the little kids.  “Sandee, it’s not healthy to stay in your room – what the fuck’s wrong with you!”  No, he didn’t say that last part.  All I wanted was to listen to AM radio on the window sill (all those Bread songs from the 70s), write stories, read and play with my dolls.  Why wouldn’t those damn kids yelling out the window for me to come out and play just leave me alone?!  They’re all the reason I became an alcoholic!  But seriously, [mocky voice] if I hadn’t had these experiences when I was a child I wouldn’t be the person I am today – blech.

Non-nictitating Pork Sandwich

“You’re making fun of me because I’m deformed?”

“You’re trying to wink at me but your nictitating muscles aren’t functioning properly.”

“You’re a hateful person.”

“You smell of man funk covered over in cheap cologne.  But, not to worry, when you get that facial thing healed you’ll be restored to your former state of average handsomeness, and all the half-ass bitches will continue falling all over you — unless you keel over from eating too many hamburgers first.”

“You’re not a very nice person.  Not the person I used to think you were.”

“And who did you think that I was?  Someone who’d follow you to Best Western for a five minute fuck?  Frankly I think that’s all you’re worth — if that.  I think you’re a pork sandwich.”

“You stupid bitch!  Sam says you’re an alcoholic!  I can see that now — you MUST be drinking!”

“Darling I haven’t had a drink in years.  I swear you boys are such gossips.  What else did he tell you about me?”

“Do you REALLY want to know?”

“Oh brother!  I thought it was well known that I would have him wreck me anywhere, anytime, any place with any implement.  What?!”

“You really stink!”

“And you really can’t nictitate.”

Drunk Blogging

While drunk in the good old days, all I had to worry about was drunk-dialing, i.e., calling someone, perhaps someone I might not normally call, and uninhibitedly pour my heart out.  I might profess my love, confess my sins, or talk about all the freaky things I really wanted to do to them (Hopefully this wouldn’t be someone I’m related to.).

These days, one has to be concerned with drunk-texting, drunk-emailing, drunk-tweeting, and posting on face book while drunk; but the worst would be drunk-blogging!  With blogging you have perhaps an international audience larger than your list of fb friends, or the address book in your phone, so the whole world would be a witness to your verbal diarrhea.

Here’s a list of things I might blog about while drunk and/or drinking (intermittent swigs of Jack Daniels, Jäger, corn liquor, lighter fluid, rubbing alcohol, Nyquil):

1. My idea for a new government based on the barter system with some characteristics of the Amish culture.  I would insert cockamamie graphs and charts of course.  It would be pages long, with plenty of my philosophical musings.  Some of the ideas would be repeated several times over, depending on how drunk I was.
2. I would go on and on about how much I love my mother even though she thinks I hate her.  I would talk about the time I did hate her then how I became compassionate and started to love her again, but how I hated her again for a brief period after that.  I would then write out the entire history of our family which would eventually lead to why my mother is the way that she is.  I would justify why she did the things that she did, then start crying while typing about the time when I was twelve and in the hospital how she bought me chocolates, pretty pajamas and stuffed animals.  Of course this would lead to the chapter on how my childhood was so magical, with unicorns, rainbows, and lollipops, and with my mother singing and reading stories.  I’d end it all with a blubbering sob while typing out in all caps, “MY POOR MOTHER NEVER HAD A CHANCE TO GET TO KNOW HERSELF; FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, SHE NEVER HAD A CHANCE!!!!!!!!!”
3. There’d be philosophical musings on the barbarity of man.
4. My love affair (in my head) with Peter Steele; I’d ramble on and on about the biorhythmic currents that kept us apart.
5. I’d discuss the biorhythmic current (I have no idea what this means) responsible for bringing me almost to the point of success then repelling success away.
6. The previous subject would lead into me discussing my past lives and of course in one of those lives I was an African warrior princess who rode on the backs of cheetahs.

Guys, let us pray this never happens.