He must have wanted an invitation, but was he hot enough?
All I could think of was Japan or July, while he sat on
top of a solar panel carrying on like Cassandra of the
Oil Reserves. I’m okay but I’m freezing.
Must. Find. Work. Instead, Barbie finds an
Etch-a-Sketch in Malibu, invites all her friends
over for charades. I’m the team with all the
foreign cinema loves to rain on the parade.
Not. Really. Once ditched, Ken siphons
all the gas out of the convertible. No harm
done, though. Prices have leveled off and
Malibu is heaven. Meet me at the bistro on
the 28th floor? Then I allow myself to
ease on back into Japan. In the boudoir at
midnight on Earthquake Day. And I feel it,
too, all the way up to 32. So I don my reflective
orange gear and direct everyone toward the duct
tape. Millions of people are homeless and they
all pick San Francisco. Maybe I’ll invite you
anyway. After all, zombies are way sexier
than vampires. And besides, today I’m a woman for
the very first time. I’ve an orange wig and an iPhone with
directions to Hell to prove it. Find me there. I’m the one in
the hoopskirt uplifting the downfallen with the very best
Giulietta Masina since the goddess herself. And who’s
got my number? Well, at these randy depths I’ll take
four and a quarter. And let’s have it quick as the
circus what sunk, Marcello, before these molten
boobs are soughing in the Styx, reacquainting them-
selves with the smorgasbord of whence and wherever.
Oh I sold my girdle to Barbara Eden. It was all but
fireproof. I do wish it weren’t so dark down
here. But Hell is exotic and I feel native.
Freedom is but an oily whisper*. Om.
*it can also be a ‘whisker’ or a ‘whimper’
