Diary of a Mad Diva (9 page)

Brown & Out in Beverly Hills

or

To Drill a Mockingbird

MAY 9

Dear Diary:

Had a moment in the supermarket today. I told Melissa I’d pick up dinner tonight, so on my way home from the studio I stopped in at Ralphs to buy some food. As I’m checking out, the cashier says, “Paper or plastic? And remember, due to L.A. laws, next year there will be no more plastic bags and paper bags will be twenty-five cents apiece.” She said it’s because they’re trying to conserve trees. Bullshit. Someone’s making a profit. If you really want to conserve trees, make us all become Muslims and, instead of using toilet paper, we’ll wipe our asses with our left hands.

I went nuts. I held up the entire checkout line and demanded to speak to Ralph. “What do you mean we have to pay for the bag? If we refuse, how are we supposed to get all the food home? Eat it right here on the counter, like Mama Cass did?” A supermarket not having shopping bags is like a restaurant not having plates. What do they do, just have the chef throw the food in your mouth? It’s like the proctologist who makes you pay extra to have the hose pulled out of your ass. Some things should just be free, like shopping bags in the supermarket or VD tests after a date with John Mayer.

MAY 10

Dear Diary:

I’ve had it with Facebook. I woke up this morning and I had sixty-three “pokes.” I may not have much feeling down there anymore, but if I’m poked sixty-three times I’m pretty sure I’d notice either a tickle, a trickle or some mild chafing.

I’m tired of having my computer clogged up with messages from idiots with nothing to say. “Norma is at the Laundromat fluffing her whites.” “Jesse B. likes Denny’s blueberry waffles.” “Tim is at the Coffee Bean with Aaron and he’s having an espresso.” The only way I’d care if Tim was at the Coffee Bean would be if he was there with a locked and loaded AK-47 and was having an episode. If Tim opened fire on the bunch of pretentious assholes who were sipping their Double Venti Chai Green Teas, then, and only then, would it be worth my time to read angry Timmy’s post.

MAY 11

Dear Diary:

Got rid of Facebook today and I feel as free as the woman in the tampon commercial who can go swimming, surfing or cliff diving in spite of her heavy flow.

MAY 12

Dear Diary:

Reread my entry from the other day and I realized I made a mistake—maniacs with AK-47s don’t go into Coffee Beans, they go into schools, which is an ugly phenomenon I really don’t understand. My third grade teacher, Mrs. Gotbaum, was a malevolent cunt, but it never dawned on me to pull an Uzi out of my purse and mow down the entire cafeteria. I was perfectly happy just urinating on the apples I left on her desk every day.

If these crazies feel the need to gun down strangers, might I suggest they leave schools alone and reroute themselves to local nursing homes or assisted living facilities? I don’t mean to be callous (if Melissa had her way I’d have been in Shady Pines years ago), but all those whiny widows are waiting for the white light anyway, so why prolong their damp diapers and clicking dentures? No one likes a long good-bye. This would also be good for their families because it not only saves money, but it takes away the stress of playing “Who’s Going to Smother Grandma?”

MAY 13

Dear Diary:

Took my darling thirteen-year-old grandson Cooper for a haircut today and the stylist kept asking him if he wanted some “product” in his hair. What the fuck is “product”? If it’s gel, call it gel. Product could be anything—liverwurst, chocolate pudding, uranium . . . Beauticians need to be more specific. When I go out for dinner, I don’t order “mammal” or “aquatic vertebrate.” I order a Porterhouse steak or Flipper au Gratin. When I go shopping at Bergdorf, I don’t say, “Gimme cloth.” I say, “I’d like a couture Dior gown, black with gold trim, sewn together by an old-before-her-time Colombian peasant-woman named Carmela.”

When we left the salon I paid in “product.” I gently placed my gum in his hand. Mick Jagger’s brings in fifty bucks on eBay.

MAY 14

Dear Diary:

Took the red-eye back to New York last night as we have a co-op board meeting today. We’re hiring a new doorman. Everyone in the building had some specific thing they wanted. I wanted someone who can keep a fucking secret as to who comes in and out of my apartment. I’m lobbying hard for Marlee Matlin. The woman in #13B wanted someone very tall and imposing who would understand that being a doorman is a service job and would be required to service her twice a week whether he wants to or not, even when she keeps her braces on her legs. The gal in #12G wanted someone who speaks at least three languages, as she works for the UN in human trafficking and has taken her girls out of a horrific life and now runs a lucrative business, Maids Without Passports.

MAY 15

Dear Diary:

I can’t believe it. In only twenty-four hours we hired a doorman and nearly everyone in the building is happy. (Except for Alan Alzheimer’s in #12F who thinks he’s in Hawaii and is demanding hula girls and leis every time he comes downstairs.) We hired a six-foot-seven behemoth who can speak nine languages fluently, none of them English!

MAY 16

Dear Diary:

It was all over the news that Angelina Jolie had a double mastectomy to prevent getting cancer. What a role model Angie is. How courageous! I think Paris Hilton should take a page from Angie’s book and step up to the plate and try to prevent STDs. It would be so easy for her. All she would have to do is have her knees fused together. I would be glad to write the first check for a welder’s mask.

MAY 17

Dear Diary:

There’s a new commercial on television that’s really annoying the shit out of me. It’s a military recruiting ad and it says, “Are you strong or Army strong?” Not to diminish our soldiers, because “Army strong” is good, but it’s not the benchmark for strength. Broccoli farts are. C’mon, face it, what do you think will clear out a cave full of terrorists faster: ten well-trained soldiers or one old man with an explosive lower intestine? I rest my case. Broccoli fart strong trumps Army strong, every time.

MAY 19

Dear Diary:

Watched a Discovery Channel special on squirrels tonight. Fascinating. Who knew they were good for anything but sprucing up an old jacket with collars and cuffs? For example, the average squirrel can keep nuts in his mouth for months on end and everyone’s impressed. And yet, when poor Clay Aiken does it, everyone’s nauseous.

MAY 20

Dear Diary:

I don’t know why but I woke up this morning feeling depressed. Maybe because it was raining and dreary, or maybe it’s because I’ve gained five pounds, or maybe if I really want to look into my heart, it’s because Betty White’s career is doing so much better than mine. Whatever. None of my usual pick-me-ups worked (shopping, berating staff, giving orphans the finger), so I tried something new. I put on my finest Chanel suit, grabbed my best jewelry, stuffed my purse with cash, went down to Skid Row and rolled my eyes at the homeless. In less than an hour—actually, forty minutes (remember, I’m Jewish so, as I said before, I always take a third off)—I felt better about myself and limoed over to Tiffany’s to buy me a little “you did good, Joan” diamond bauble. I tried the same “I want a third off” shtick in Tiffany’s but they wouldn’t buy it. Anti-Semitic bastards. (I’ll bet somewhere in the basement, i.e., bunker, they have drawers of diamond-studded swastikas they only show to tall, blond, blue-eyed Aryans.)

MAY 21

Dear Diary:

I hate the spring. One day it’s cool and lovely, the next day it’s cold and blustery, and the day after that it’s a million degrees and humid. Today was muggy. It was so muggy I was sweating like R. Kelly at a Girl Scout Jamboree. I went through two pairs of pants, three Spanx and the Depends I keep in my purse for “special occasions.” I decided to stay only in air-conditioned places, so I went to the Museum of Modern Art and looked at the pictures. To amuse myself I bought a bag of M&M’s, which I spit all over the Jackson Pollocks and nobody noticed.

MAY 22

Dear Diary:

On my flight back from L.A., I wound up sitting next to a Holocaust survivor. We exchanged stories about the camps. She told me about how at Auschwitz she had no food and no hot water and she never knew if she was going to live or die. I told her about how at Camp Kinnekineck in Connecticut I had no makeup and no jewelry and I never knew if I was going to have a boyfriend or not. We commiserated with each other and then decided that even if our lives sucked, at least we weren’t desperate losers like those needy whores on
The Bachelor
.

MAY 23

Dear Diary:

I’m back in L.A. for a “minor cosmetic procedure.” I’m having a brow lift, tummy tuck, chin job and lip implant—or as my plastic surgeon likes to call it, “the usual.” Should be all healed in forty-eight hours. If not I’ll just tell people I spent a romantic weekend with Chris Brown.

MAY 24

Dear Diary:

My agent, Self-righteous Steve Levine, called and asked me if I wanted to do a PSA for child abuse. I asked him how much, and then said, “Great, no problem. Will I be for it or against it?”

MAY 25

Dear Diary:

It’s the day before Memorial Day weekend starts and wow, my bandages are off! Although my face is totally lopsided and puffy and I look haggard and hungover from the anesthetic, several fans kept asking for my autograph. I signed, “Much love, Sharon Stone.” Off to the store for a few last-minute purchases. I don’t know which colors will go with my bruises and scars, but he may have pulled a bit too much this time; I find I am talking through my part and shitting through my ears.

MAY 27

Dear Diary:

I normally don’t write in the morning but the day started with such a jolt I feel compelled. Today is Memorial Day. I love this holiday mainly because it’s the easiest holiday to dress correctly for. I don’t have to do anything. I simply emphasize my pasty white old lady legs by wearing short shorts, and then add a touch of red with my red spider veins and a smidgen of blue with my big varicose numbers. It’s great! I can just fall out of bed and be ready to march with the Old Veteran Geezers. If I sit on a float and kick my legs fast enough they’ll think it’s a flag.

Just had my coffee and Restylane and I opened the paper and what do I see? There, on the front page, is a picture of the Pope . . . in his
red
outfit. And on Memorial Day! And you wonder why people are leaving the Church. Pedophilia’s one thing, but there’s no excuse for bad fashion. The man spends half the year wearing white out of season and then, on the
first day
he’s allowed to wear white,
should
wear white, he’s in a scarlet gown with matching tam and slippers. I’d say, “There is no God,” but I believe there is. I just believe he either doesn’t have any fashion sense or he has his priorities fucked up, and he’s mistakenly more interested in saving children than in dressing for the season.

I love the new Pope, Francis. I was there when they were naming him. I was worried because the man is not an American and I was scared some jokester cardinal would opt for the name Sandusky. I should cut the Pope a little slack; he’s new at Poping, and with the old Pope hanging around the Vatican looking over his shoulder, counting the jewelry, maybe he’s too nervous to pay attention to detail. A lot of people don’t realize how hard it is to be a Pope. It’s not all just good times and wearing fabulous rings and waving to no one in particular. So I made a list of potential papal troubles:

1. Those snappy hats cause baldness.
   
2. There are no pockets in the vestments. Where does he keep his Altoids? No one needs a pontiff with altar boy on his breath.
   
3. He always makes the sign of the cross with his right arm, which means the left one has no muscle tone and it just lies there doing nothing, like Katie Holmes’s vagina on her wedding night.
   
4. He’s constantly saying “bless you” to people. What does he say when somebody sneezes? “Bless you, bless you”? He can’t say, “Jesus Christ, you got snot on my scepter!”
   

MAY 28

Dear Diary:

Just got back from doing a benefit for U.S. war veterans and I’m exhausted. Once a year I try to entertain our wounded warriors, but frankly I feel the government is inflating the numbers a bit. I know all about Photoshopping. It’s like Princess Diana walking through the land mines. Yeah, right. I knew her. The only time that bitch left Kensington Palace was to bang her Arab boyfriends in the back of their cars. If she was really walking through mines, how come she never got blown up? It’s not like she was so careful; she wore heels. Diana was never in peril and died as an oversexed, drug-addled princess should—decently, in a tunnel in Paris.

I spent forty-five minutes at the Old Soldiers’ Home trying to explain
RuPaul’s Drag Race
to a bunch of shaky old men who suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder. All of them spent the entire show hiding under their wheelchairs because my voice reminded them of the Vietcong Tabernacle Choir.

Seriously, I truly believe Memorial Day is important. It reminds me of how great America is, and that it’s well worth putting other people’s lives on the line to protect and defend it. If it weren’t for America, Mexicans would have to tunnel to Japan to find day labor picking fruit or trimming hedges or saying “You finish?” to customers in restaurants who appear to be in no way done with their meals. (How often I want to say to these guys, “Back up, Jose, I’m not even chewing yet.”)

MAY 29

Dear Diary: