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CHAPTER XXV: MY NIGHT AT THE OSCARS:
Our movie, “Polkapocalypse”, had been nominated, two months before, in ten categories, including Actor, Director, Screenplay, Editing, Catering, Clapping & Loading, Manicuring, and Best Use of an Inflatable Sheep. “The Testicles”, which had garnered an equal number of nominations, had been released the same day, two days before Bastille Day. It had received a little bit of initial publicity; the New York Times carried pictures of people lines up in the cold to get in (strangely, all the men in line wore filthy rain coats).
Warner (not Warner Brothers, but Warner Great Aunts (or “WGA”, a rival company) had been far too cautious in its release of “The Testicles”. By the time they opened “The Testicles” nationally it had already been released on video and turned into a short-lived TV series staring Willie Aimes. “Polkapocalypse”, on the other hand, had staying power. It had legs. Big, long, powerful legs. Legs like a majestic, graceful bull dyke. It was like a big, bloodsucking leech attached to the public’s collective blood steam, sucking their blood but at the same time injecting them with pure entertainment. It had hung in, week after week, and not just because we sent threatening letters to people warning them that it would be a darn shame if anything happened to their children if they were to, say, NOT see “Polkapocalypse”. Not only was “Polkapocalypse” racking up some very impressive figures, but people had started to notice that it was an excellent movie. Usually only the guys cleaning the theater as the credits rolled, but it was a start.
We’d made damn sure Dick Rockford of WGA came to an early screening. He had initially turned down “Polkapocalypse”. As they were walking out, I collared Rockford, and asked him how he liked the picture.
“I’m going home to slash my wrists,” he said.
“Good,” I thought. “Supercilious Motherfucker.” When he actually went home and slit his wrists I felt a little bad, but it turned out his wife was sleeping with the pool guy, so it wasn’t my because of my movie. So I stand by my earlier statement that the man was a Supercilious Motherfucker. (Note to self: look up “Supercilious”.)
Anyway, it would be them or us at the Awards.
Raoul, my producing partner, had spent two weeks sweating over whether Polkapocalypse would win Best Picture or not. He had practiced speeches, how he would stand up, his walk to the stage, would he or wouldn’t he moon the audience. I then pointed out that it wasn’t nominated for Best Picture, which seemed to calm his nerves a bit, but I knew he was still hoping for a last minute miracle.
March 32, 1972
I translated all my anxiety into finding a dress. New York Jets linebacker Grant Sampras was my fashion consultant. We agreed I was a New York girl, most comfortable in bright pink, and since so many Californians dressed in black, I would probably stand out. I was tempted to just wrap myself in pink insulation material, but Grant pointed out that that was very dangerous. We traipsed from store to store and I would try something on and I would say “Now, If I win…” and then see if the dress was comfortable to walk in, and he would pull a strap and say “Now, when you win…” I would turn around and slap him every time he did that, and eventually the combination of traipsing and slapping tired us out and we settled on the next dress we saw, a hot pink spaghetti-strap number with an exposed back, a long strand of pearls, and a double feather boa made up of guinea hen and guinea pig. I debated the giant foam rubber cowboy hat, but Grant warned that it would take away from the sock puppets I planned to wear as gloves. I slapped him again, but then had to agree.
It was six months after my husband Petey and I welcomed our son Gunthar into the world (actually, it’s Raoul and my son, but don’t tell Petey), and I was still a little wide in the hip. Grant was adamant that I should wear beautiful black sandal-heels, but I couldn’t find any tall enough. I needed height. I ended up buying a pair of giant platform shoes from Bargain Clown. They added three feet to my height and had goldfish swimming in the clear plastic heel. Despite their obvious advantages, I was worried that I might fall off of them on global TV. A toss-up, looks or safety. The hips won out. I slapped Grant for good measure, then it’s off to have my bottom six ribs surgically removed.
April 1, 1972
I wake with a shudder at six thirty, lying in a pool of something. I roll over and vomit immediately, as per morning ritual. Without pausing a moment I automatically pop a diet pill. Then I doze off again, wake up, and vomit again. I then have to take another diet pill because I just vomited up the last one. This cycle repeats itself for a couple more hours until I finally roll out of bed around 10:30. By now the diet pill has infiltrated my system and I’m dancing around our classy living room. After banging my shin quite badly against the coffee table I run out side, take a dip in the freezing-cold Pacific, then run back inside after stepping on a jellyfish. Then I race back inside for a brief hot shower.
When I hit the bathroom I find that I have to vomit again, and race to the toilet and do so. After I’m done purging, Petey, who was sitting on the toilet the whole time, hands me a piece of toilet paper. He stands, wipes himself off, and throws his pants in the incinerator chute. “I gotta pick up my tuxedo,” Michael says.
“Great!” I mumble. I have been distracted by a half a Valium that has fallen behind the toilet. Upstairs I hear Gunthar’s first baby musings for the day. Anita, the maid, takes a break from scrubbing off my bed to go start the baby’s formula in the kitchen. I can smell it. I don’t know how Gunthar can stand that shit. I tried drinking it for a few days with a Vodka chaser, but found that didn’t improve it any. Gunthar seemed to like the vodka, though.
“Did you hear me? I’m going to pick up my tuxedo!” Petey yells into my ear. Blowing two dicks up a gazebo? Is that what he said? It finally sinks in: He’s going to pick up his tuxedo.
“Great, honey, that will give me time to be nervous all by myself!” I chuckle good-naturedly to him, but he’s gone. I had passed out on the bathroom floor for several minutes and am in a puddle of my own saliva. Is saliva supposed to have chunks in it? I finally make my way into the shower. Anita wakes me a half an hour later. I have fallen asleep again. I have hit my head against the soap dish. While Anita towels me off I throw up in her hair.
I go to my room and lay out some coke on a small mirror. Secret stash. Mine. Petey doesn’t know about it. Actually, Petey doesn’t know about any of my drugs. When we got married, I promised I’d quit the stuff. As far as he knows, I have. The closest I got was cutting my intake down a third while I was pregnant with Gunthar. After he came out with both eyes on the left side of his head I wondered why I even bothered doing that.
I chop the coke lightly with a razor. It falls apart like butter- this is good coke. I do a hit, then another. Realizing that this isn’t enough, I take the full-length mirror down off the closet door and dump the rest of the coke on that. Then I snort it, roll a joint and smoke the joint on the deck, where I find a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. I contemplate finishing it and getting the deposit back, but instead I finish it and spend the next ten minutes trying to hit sea gulls with the empty bottle. After tossing it furtively in the air it finally lands on Anita’s head, as she is outside hanging her vomit stained maid’s outfit out to dry. I apologize, but it comes out in pig Latin. I go back inside and do another coke hit. Then I go to the baby’s room and reach under his cradle, looking for the bottle of lemon flavored gin I hid there. After downing that, I go down to the kitchen and reach under the sink for the bottle of toilet cleanser I hide there behind the other bottles of toilet cleaner- the perfect hiding space! I drink some of that and contemplate doing another coke hit, but decide I should go light today. After all, tonight is a big night.
Anita comes in the front door with the mail. I momentarily mistake her for Grant and slap her. She hands me the mail. Bills, bills, bills, a thank you note from the entire country of Columbia, more bills, 73 kilos of cocaine, bills, the latest issue of High Times. That delightful Tommy Chong is on the cover. Again. A perfumed letter catches my noise. The handwriting of Mr. and Mrs. Edith Manson is familiar. The couple had been a friend of the family’s for years, ever since Edith took a bullet for my father (Luckily, the bullet was just lying on the side walk when Edith took it- if it was fired from a gun it could have done some real damage). I tore open the envelope.
Finally, I staggered to the curb, where the rest of my gang waited. Petey looked a little embarrassed, but he tucked the bone back into the skin and patted the leg back together. With his help, and the help of several ushers, including one with a bucket that came in handy, I made it into the auditorium. We found our way to the front row, only to find that we did not have seats in the front row, so we made our way to the back of the auditorium, and went up a flight of stairs to the balcony, where we finally sat down, exhausted. Then ushers came by and said that we were supposed to be on the next level of balcony. We pointed at our invitations, but he explained that they needed the seats for a busload prostitutes that Jack Nicolson and Warren Beatty met at a party this weekend. We made our way up yet another flight of stairs. The feeling was almost electric as we waited for this, the night of nights. While Petey was looking the other way, I quickly snorted some coke, rolled and smoked a joint, took three half Valiums, and drank some Jolt Cola. The show was mere minutes away.
Making my way to the bathroom, I think about how I haven’t seen this many people in one place since the last concert I went to, The Rolling Stones at Altamont. What a night that was! I’d spent the night yelling insulting remarks at the Hell’s angels and throwing beer bottles out of them, trying to get a rise out of them. It was a wild night, baby, and Mick taught me the meaking of "getting your greif on" later in his hotel room in the non-stop, all night double-thon between him and "wild man" drumist Carlie Watts.
Then the unexpected happens- a lighting rig, loosened by Liza’s auditorium shaking baritone, suddenly breaks it’s tether and crashes into the first twelve rows, instantly killing all the producers nominated for the best picture award! A stunned Kate Jackson says, that, by default, the award goes to the sixth runners up! Raoul and Petey scream and get to their feet. I point out that we are not the sixth runners up, but the seventh. Burt Reynolds, producer of his own vanity project, “Goat-zooks!”, jumps atop the rubble and makes his way to the stage, with a towel wrapped around his waist and legs. Suddenly, the towel slips, and Burt’s gigantic penis is on display for all the world to see! Suddenly, the towel and his penis get tangled in his legs! He’s tripping! He falls, hitting his neck on some lighting shrapnel His spine snaps and he dies instantly! WE WIN!