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Excerpts from "Broken Whole" ...
A Prelude to Insanity
Hollywood Boulevard, Hollywood, California, August 11th, 2006
I steeled myself: "Calm down, there's no rush." A second later, I looked at the time, and started to run. The clash of priorities began to feel like a pile driver in my head; then a constant thunder. I ripped my expensive watch - a sexy, masculine watch with a wide leather strap that Ben had given me - off my wrist, and threw it, along with my cell-phone, into a parking lot, hoping that if I could no longer tell the time, the raging confusion would cease. But it only got worse.
continue readingBook III: Chaos - Two Weeks in August
The Endless Night – Kicked Out of a Second Hotel, August 18th
I upped the ante, pretending to have a heart attack on the sidewalk outside of the hotel. I really threw my heart into it, so to speak, ending the performance by lying motionless for over a minute. For the first time in my life, I gave a completely authentic acting performance, something I'd never achieved in any of my acting classes. They didn't buy it. Ironic, I thought, that in this town famous for acting, I should give my best ever performance to a disinterested party of three.
continue readingBook III: Chaos - Two Weeks in August
The Endless Night - LAPD Lockup, August 18th
I wanted desperately to reach Ben, to let him know I was nearby, and that I knew he was near me. I struck up a conversation with a Hispanic cop, and, despite my intense fatigue, my mind was now working again at a furious pitch, and my eyes must have burned. I exerted every ounce of my ingenuity and strength, mustering a fierce, almost daemonic trance, which I exerted on this poor, not overly bright cop. He didn't stand a chance. By constant intellectual argument, and manic intensity, coupled with perfect body language, I had him convinced that I was capable of seeing his soul. I made him believe that he, alone of all the cops in the facility, had a shred of a soul left, and that he could rescue that soul from destruction. There was not an argument that he could muster that I couldn't instantly contradict with a telling blow.
continue readingBook IV: On Being Crazy
Male Model, late September
I thought this would be the appropriate time and place to start writing this blog entry, as I sit in the waiting room for a small cattle-call in one of the top modelling agencies in the world, at the age of forty-one, waiting to see if I'm about to be "discovered."
I'm six-foot-six, a lean and muscular two-hundred-and-fifteen pounds, wearing G-star jeans, a J. Lindberg belt, and a very tight-fitting Miu-Miu black shirt, with my sleeves rolled up to the biceps. My light brown hair is spiked, and highlighted in blond. I'm carrying an expensive brown-leather bag lined on one side with fur. My face is a study in the years I've lived.
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