Like Clark Gable

American Movie


The script it called for rain but it was clear that day so we faked it
The marker snapped and I yelled "quiet on the set"
And then called "action!"
And I kissed you in a style that clark gable would have admired
--The Postal Service

Sorry I left you all for so long. My iBook was in for repair, and spending time with you anywhere else but bed just wouldn't be the same, so now that we're all tip top, let's get on with it, shall we?

Frannie called me at work early last week, she had just gotten back from Vegas. She said it was like being stuck in a mall for three days straight. The news, although I had known this for some time, saddened me. Armed with Google, I have dedicated many an hour searching for some remnant of the myth that popular culture has spoon fed me ever since I formed an appreciation for such things. Black tuxes, white shirts, busty ladies, cigarettes, and amber drinks in hi-ball glasses. Where is it? Because if I ever get the chance to go, I want to find it. The only place that seemed to offer any glimmer of hope was the Flamingo Hotel. Which, of course has been built and rebuilt several times, but it still seems like Ideal architecture for dark sunglasses, an excellent hat, and a steady stream of elicit activities and substances. Frannie seemed relieved to have finally confirmed for herself that Vegas was dead. I still have hopes, and will never believe it until I am there for myself. My friend back in the old home town, Earl, went there for 9 days, longer than most people can tolerate, and was high on cocaine the entire time. Perhaps this is where the real experience lies, not in the architecture, but in its location. The desert; the middle of nowhere. Earl doesn't give a shit about the architecture, or the history of Vegas, he just wants to party. And I think this is the stuff that myth is made of. I bet the percentage of people that really get fucking nuts in vegas is low. This is a problem. Legends are not created by trying to repeat the past, or chasing dreams you see on TV and in the movies.

Which makes me wonder why I accepted an invitation to the wrap party for the production that Frannie had just finished working on, starring Lucy Liu. I have a tendency to shy away from spending time with stars in the real world ever since I saw Jason Biggs belch into the open mouth of his date and laugh outside another party I was at earlier in the year. And that's why I like old movies. The actors really don't exist. Only in legend. Only in the ethos of the cinema. You never have to worry about confronting their idiotic political and religious beliefs on the Oprah winfrey show, or accidently seeing them loaded at a party grabbing the ass of some woman, or opening the morning paper and seeing them in a police line up. Old movies are what they are, movies, which makes them frustratingly attractive, because they offer a world that doesn't exist. It's all fantasy. There is no real life/celebrity cross over with the giants of the silver screen. I am talking about Clark Gable, and Carey Grant, guys like that, their legacy is sealed, and can never be tarnished.

So I will go to the wrap party, with Frannie, and be tempted to kiss her, even though I woke up in Ananta's bed last week, after I saw her at the club our band played at, when we were horrendously drunk and sloppy on stage. We played our worst show ever, which oddly garnered us the most positive and numerous feedback yet. It's all a charade. Good, bad, real, fake. Experience is in the eye of its beholder. People will believe what they want to. I for one am susceptible to the achitecture of leisure and the flat inpentitrable plane of the matinee. Lucy Lui and Jason Biggs, I can do without, but Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn? This is my romance! And I'll cry if I want to, because reality pales in comparison to such great heights.