THE LAND OF MAYBE:
Advice and Stories of Love and Loss
Part II

UPDATE (3 YEARS LATER):

Amara called out of the blue towards the end of last year. She was flying out to LA to be in some CD-ROM strip thing. I asked her about the IRS thing, and she told me she pulled one over on them by reporting only $48,000.

She flew me down to LA and we hung out. Amara ended up not doing the CD-ROM thing because she refuses to do full-frontal nudity. Showing her hooters to horny businessmen for cash is one thing, but that’s as far as she’ll go. She even refuses to get breast implants even though it would mean a substantial increase of income.

Hanging out with her and her stripper friends was weird. We went to the Viper Room where River Phoenix removed himself from the gene pool -- and you thought heroin was a bad thing. I didn’t even think about going anyplace, and all I had with me was the shorts I was wearing when I flew down and an obnoxious blue with gold trim Hawaiian shirt. I had to borrow one of those pairs of giant raver pants from Brian. I hate those things as much as I hate chain wallets and piercings.

We got bumped to the front of the line, and it was $15 (!) to get in. The wife paid for me because it would take the Ramones playing with the Rezillos to get me to pay 15 bucks to get into a club. There was no way I was gonna pay to hang out with tourists and the idle rich hoping to spot a celebrity.

That place was creepy. Amara and her friends were eating ecstasy, but I turned it down. I like booze and pills fine, but I ain’t no hippy. I got stuck driving so I couldn’t even get drunk. I don’t know why, but I just don’t like to drive drunk in an unfamiliar city.

While we were there, we saw John Wayne Bobbitt with Ron Jeremy. He was in town filming “Uncut” and they were hanging out with a couple of porn actresses. One of the actresses was wearing a dress so short, that even when she was standing up, you could tell how well she wiped her ass. Gee thanks for the peep show lady, do I owe you a quarter? One of the Guess models was there, but they all look alike to me. Amara pointed her out after we talked to her. Surprisingly enough, she was pretty funny. Just a fellow okie -- only she was from Florida and had a pretty face. Otherwise, she could be me! For the record we were making fun of Mr. Bobbitt and his dates together. Yeah, me and the model. What a couple. Her date kept repeating, “I’m in production for Baywatch.” I was Society for a spell.

Later Amara handed me a twenty and asked me to buy her two small bottles of Evian water (she said ecstasy makes you thirsty) and told me to get a beer for myself. The water and a Rolling Rock cost her $14. If I’d of been drinking, I woulda shot milk out of my nose, I laughed so hard. Fourteen bucks for two waters and a lousy beer -- and Johnny Depp was whining about losing money on that place. Sheesh. I congratulated the bartender for milking the saps, and she claimed she was struggling to get by. I bet she makes more in a weekend in tips alone, than I make in a month.

Most of the night I sat around feeling out of my element, wishing I wasn’t wearing those goddamn giant pants. I made fun of some drunk rich boy who looked like Skippy from Family Ties. I’d call him Skippy, and he’d laugh and say, “You have balls. I like you. If I was gay, I’d want to sleep with you.” Just over and over and over we had the same convesation. He invited me to the table he had reserved, bragging that it cost him $250 to reserve a table for the night. He was unimpressed when I told him that was nearly two months rent for me. He finally left to the upstairs dance area.

The only people there I liked were two snobby tourist girls who had snuck in a camera. They were obviously there to gawk at the celebrities, and this was the high point of their trip. Wherever they are (Tennessee? Hello, I'm talking to you) they’re probably still talking about the trip and making up lies about who they saw there, “Yes I’m telling you the truth, Doreen. We saw Johnny Depp and Christian Slater there. They bought us drinks. It was simply divine.” They asked if I’d take their picture with their camera, which I did, and security came running over telling us they’d kick us all out if it happened again.

Finally I went upstairs and ran into Skippy. I sat at his table, and drank his girlfriend’s beer. When the place closed and they were kicking people out, I was going to “souvenir” his bomber jacket when he came up. Another five seconds and I would’ve been explaining how I was looking for him to give him back his jacket. He was just too cheery for me, and I hoped losing his jacket would put a stop to it. I didn’t know what I’d do with the jacket, and he would’ve bought himself another dozen to replace it anyway.

We went outside and I watched the bitchiest girl in the place throw up all over the parking lot. She was crying between puking bouts saying, “I’ll never mix coke with acid again.”

The rest of the weekend sucked just as bad, but wasn’t as entertaining. We went to a Rave, which is another thing I thought I’d never do. I liked to see the local gangsters making money by preying on white kids with too much money, but other than that, it sucked.

Finally we went to a lesbian bar where some lesbian was going to kick my ass because I sat on her stool while she was off playing pool. So I had to leave that place. Heaven forbid she get cooties because I sat in her seat.

Those were the high-lights. There was an obnoxious friend of Amara’s who flew out with her, but I don’t remember his name. I think it was Herbie. Mostly he acted like he was wired and screamed, “I’m from Chicago!” a lot. Herbie was almost arrested on the trip out for making bomb jokes in the airport, and he was almost arrested a few times in the hotel for being an asshole. The hotel was in West Hollywood, which has a large gay community. He’d yell shit like, “Fuckin’ faggots!” a lot, which is sexual harassment there, and it brought out John Law. He also talked a lot of shit to the cops, getting away with it because they weren’t up to filling out the paperwork. They did hint that if they received another complaint from the manager, they’d drag him out of the hotel and he’d be hurt resisting arrest. I was really hoping to see that, but no luck.

Like I said, Amara ended up not doing the CD-ROM thing. The other stripper that flew out there, stage name Briana, did do the CD. I saw the contract, and if she ever sees a dime from it, I’d be surprised. It read something like, “You’ll be the last one paid, and then only after a profit has been made, and everyone else even slightly connected with the production gets paid. We own the rights to these pictures, and can do whatever we want with them, exhibit them in any manner we feel like, and you’ll not see a penny because you sold us the rights. So there. Sucker.”

Amara told me Briana was saving for breast implants, so she’d get paid more once she became a professional porn actress.

That’s it. And to answer the question that’s burning in your voyeuristic little mind -- No, Amara and I never consummated the marriage. Sheesh, we hardly know each other.

Jerk intro bit