There’s something really important going on right now and I’ve been struggling to write about it for a few weeks. I’ve been thinking about it so much that I’ve resorted to carrying a moleskin with me to jot down any thoughts I have on the issue, like I’m a poet or a journalist or an amnesiac. I’m even keeping a dream journal for fuck’s sake—that’s how much this means to me.
First, some background….
I have this group of friends in West Hollywood. (Fine. Not friends. Fictional characters in the “hit” television series The L Word.) They’re all a few years older then me and generally shop at Fred Segal, whereas I have the maturity level of a 15-year-old boy and my favorite article of clothing is a polyester hoodie with inlaid rims, Benjamins, ice, and what looks like a lion’s head from the boy’s section at Roses, but they’re my girls all the same.
Like me, these girls spend a lot of time hanging out. In fact, it doesn’t seem like they ever work… just like me! My left coast crew tends to meet at The Planet, an airy coffee shop owned by my girl Kit Porter, whereas I do most of my maxing and relaxing in a bar where it’s always nighttime and breathing reminds me of that scene in Notting Hill where Spike exhales smoke through his nose while wearing a diving mask. But despite these differences, we’re just the same where it really counts. Meaning we’re all Longshoremen, AKA Family, AKA Satan’s Yes Men, AKA Big Fucking Gays.
And that’s not it. There’s Alice Pieszecki, for instance, my West Hollywood doppelganger. Alice is a journalist, of sorts, and I consider Twenty Twenty Hindsight a kind of po-mo journalism 2.0, minus Rupert Murdoch, natch.
Alice also had a short-lived radio show called The Chart, where she verbal diarrheaed about all the connections in the lesbian world, like a six-degrees of separation thing.
I’ll demonstrate: How to connect Alice to Melissa Rivers.
Alice fucked Lara. Lara fucked Dana. Dana fucked that horrible women with the perm who tried to get corporate sponsorship for their wedding like she was Spencer fucking Pratt. And then she left Dana for Melissa Rivers at some tennis tournament. Yes, that Melissa Rivers.
Anyway, the point is—I think about that shit ALL THE TIME. In fact, I spent the summer of 2003 sitting on my porch with my one-time friends Kind Bud and Camel Lights constructing elaborate charts just like Alice’s in an effort to decrease my chance of getting herpes.
Alice and I have even more in common. She, for instance, finds it physically impossible to keep her mouth shut. Me too! I can’t keep a secret for shit, although you shouldn’t let the keep you from telling me yours (srsly). Also, Alice and I both slept with Brian Krakow (aka “Lisa”) on an Olivia cruise.
And remember when Dana died and Alice started sleeping with Lara, the sous chef Dana left her for? I’ve also slept with a sous chef! Oh, and Alice and I both went through a pill-popping phase to remedy the unconscionable heartache imposed on us by girlfriends who just didn’t understand that where other people might demonstrate love with candles or flowers or couple’s massages, we show love by stalking and cheating. Ancient history. Really.
Lastly, Alice and I both make endearing puckering sounds when we kiss. At least I think it’s endearing.
Anyway, more to the point….
It’s all ending. I’ve spent the last six years with these girls every Sunday night. (Or, more precisely, most of my time with them has come via nine minute clips on YouTube, which all-too-often involves an annoying sound delay. I suspect this is an effort to force us to read lips as an homage to Jodi Lerner, Bette’s Season Five hearing-impaired girlfriend. But it’s worth it—who can afford Showtime these days?) And now it’s almost over. I only have 4.5 more hours with—in order of preference—Alice, Bette, Shane, Kit, Helena, Tasha, Niki, Tina, Max, Jenny, and, at the very end, Ilene Chaiken, also known as The Creator.
In honor of the end, Lessons I Have Learned From The L Word:
1.) You know how you and your friends have types ‘n shit? My homeslice Lil Skillet, for instance, tends to get all nuts-over-balls for tattooed Hispanic girls. And my government cheese palsy has a thing for dudes with Giant Parts for some unknown reason. Well, The L Word illuminated my type—a type I didn’t even know existed! Turns out I get junk-struck over museum curators in power suits who spend an awful lot of time with furrowed brows yelling into headsets like they work at the Gap or something. I might also like d.j.s and former Dallas Cowboy’s cheerleaders (see Carmen Morales).
2.) Consistency is over-rated. Seriously, the only thing consistent about these girls is the fact that they drink a lot of Dos Equis (or is it Tecate?) and Shane’s been driving that jeep for six years. Remember how Jenny was totes allergic to Sounder, the dog she adopted and then put-down in order to revenge fuck Heather Mattarazzo’s veterinarian g.f. for writing that shitty review of Jenny’s shitty book in Curve? And remember how two seasons later Jenny shows up to the movie studio with a fucking POMERANIAN??? Come on, Mama Chaiken. You think we don’t pay attention to detail?
3.) Lesbians are followers. In Season Two, Shane—who always looks pretty ridiculous, in my opinion (sorry, boo! Love you mean it!)—had this bobo haircut with one blond patch in the back. A few weeks after the premiere, I was at this fundraiser in Portland for a queer rights organization and half the girls in the room had that same stupes blond patch. Ridic, ya’ll. Don’t copy the ugly shit.
4.) The definition of the word “merkin.”
Whew. That was a lot of words. I really need to stop thinking about this, but I probably won’t. I mean, fuck, I was depressed for weeks after Dana died. This is going to be difficult, although the death of Jenny and Max’s hilarious beard should help dull the pain.
P.S. I really encourage you click the Ilene Chaiken link. OMG WORTH IT!!!
