Saturday was busy, honey. Honey is the, old but new again, catch all term of endearment around town except that it is pronounced extremely southern, hon’eyh. Anyway hon’eyh, after a long day gettin’ da crinimals outta jail, I raced home to do a quick change and go to a commitment ceremony. The couple are old friends celebrating the day they met and fell in love twenty years ago. And hon’eyh, it was a big to-do. To-do’s are big around here. It’s never just a to-do it’s always a big to-do.
Mainly peoplelated by North Hill residents. I live on the other hill, East Hill. So, I was flattered to have been invited, since there are railroad tracks involved in the division of both hills, if you get my drift. Both Hills are desirable but the North Hillers seem to think better of their hill over the other. Then there is Gulf Breeze, a part of the city on the other side of the bay and in another county surrounded by water and closer to the beach. Breezer’s are superior to Hillers. It’s complicated.
“Happy is the bride the sun shines upon…” It rained and rained and rained. “Rain is good for the farmers, so I hear, hon’eyh.” The dress code for this event was not publicized and it is after all post Labor Day, so I opted for a blue suit with a white unbuttoned dress shirt, no tie, especially since I had all of three minutes to change. Most of the guests were men wearing what I call the Panhandle Bahamas Look, gauzey pastel un-tucked shirts with gauzey pants and sandals. I’m so glad I didn’t wear this look, BECAUSE IT WAS RAINING!
Both sets of parents were in attendance, which everyone found charming. This town is very GAY and GAY FRIENDLY. (Yes I’m typing in caps because I’m yelling at you.) All the straight neighbors were there and they love us, also we increase property values. But hon’eyh, it was like Grindr up in there. The pairs were flying out the door. “Did you see Vance hook up with Kevin?” “Eww.” It was like playing a big ole gay match game.
Things I overheard myself saying;
“I said Morlocks not Daleks.”
“If she says hon’eyh one more time.”
“Actually no, I don’t know what you mean. Because you say, ‘know what I mean?’ every other breath...know what I mean?”
“And please, stop trying to vary your incoherent ramblings by interchanging, ‘you feel me?’ with, ‘know what I mean.’ Please!”
“No. I’m not interested in a hook-up as you say.”
“Please go away.”
In addition hon’eyh, there was a very handsome Jason Statham knock-off in attendance. I thought I would include a knock-off picture of him for the end of this post.
It was 1983 and I moved to New York to became a high fashion runway model. I had done my research; I completed a six day course at Hilda Holverstein’s Modeling School, leafed through a Vogue magazine, took some Instamatic head shots, threw-up, watched a fashion documentary on HBO and whipped out of Memphis on a jet plane.
I arrived in Manhattan and was immediately raped by the head of a famous modeling agency. The next day I was on the cover of Cosmo and then twenty-two runway shows for Valentino, Klein, Lauren, Sprouse, Blass, Westwood, Oldham, Halston, Dior, Givenchy, Armani, Versace, YSL, Chanel, Gaultier, Yamamoto, Kawakubo, Miyake, Rykiel, von Furstenberg, Karan, and Johnson, all in that order.
That night I shot smack in the bathroom of Danceteria with Gia Carangi who introduced me to and later slept with Mick Jagger. Lauren Hutton and Barbara Carrera dragged me out of the hotel room the next day and we flew to Kenya for an exotic photo shoot with Peter Beard where I posed with lions devouring gazelles while wearing a white Benetton unitard.
Maud Frizon booked me that night for a photo-spread in Paris Vogue where I was snapped dangling from the Eiffel Tower, climbing the Arc de Triomphe and racing at high speeds in a Bugatti. Grace Jones and I snorted an eight ball and danced on tabletops at a disco/bathhouse.
In the morning, I was late for a haute couture gig with the House of Lanvin where I modeled dresses for CZ Guest and Brooke Astor. After the show I lunched with Claude Montana and we flew his private helicopter to the Alps where Iman and I posed nude in the snow to launch his line of shearling coats for a Mademoiselle spread.
In the morning, I met up with Gerry Hall and Margaux Hemmingway in St. Tropez where we went topless to the beach wearing little crochet jeweled thongs and drank mineral water. We went to the Cannes Film Festival where Margaux introduced me to and later slept with Jack Nicholson. Bursting from the closet, Anjelica Houston flew into an objet d'rage and the ceramic shards were bouncing off the walls. I hopped out a window and into a jet and the next day Paulina Porizkova arrived in New York and was immediately raped and I was replaced. And that was the end of my brief modeling career.
I sometimes wander over to the game section of my local junk stores. There I find memories of games I've never played.
Like, Cross Up.?
With Lucy as your host?
Strangely, I don't recall this one. IT"S LUCY in vivid color and a pound of make-up and lashes. I think I would have remembered that one.
I liked her so much I bought her and then turned her into a vampire.