Yesterday, Bryn and I went hiking at Tar Creek in Fillmore. At the foot of the trail, we parked next to an open SUV that had hiking packs stuffed full of gear sitting at the rear of the vehicle.  I saw a member of the sheriff’s department running down the trail, and a few minutes later he was followed by a group of men in a miniature 4-wheeler.  I thought maybe they were naturalists restoring the hillside, and the sheriff was supporting them, or they were a group of deputies doing survival training.

We hiked in, and on the last leg of the trail we passed a small group of hikers who were on their way up.  They asked us if we had seen Jesse.

That’s when Bryn and I realized that the men I thought were naturalists were actually search-and-rescue.  They were searching for this young man named Jesse Villareal.  The hikers told us that Jesse was a 23-year-old man with special-needs, who had disappeared the night before while hiking with his family. Bryn and I talked to the group for a few minutes, throwing around ideas of what might have happened to Jesse.

We even hypothesized that Jesse might not have been lost at all.

Maybe (just maybe) Jesse was abandoned by his family because he had become a burden.  The family, wanting so badly to take that vacation to Hawaii, brought a tennis ball and threw it into the woods.  And Jesse, foot loose and not Kevin Bacon, frolicked into the brush in pursuit.  When he returned to the clearing, ball in hand, mom, dad, sis, and the man from the Boys & Girls club were gone.

Though what probably happened was that Jesse wandered off by himself, became a little disoriented, and couldn’t find his way back to his family who were in a bad way.

Bryn and I said goodbye to the hiking group and continued down to the creek where we watched the sunset and listened to the frogs wake up.  Then started back to the car.

As we walked in silence under the black sky and sparkly stars, I stopped Bryn a couple times because I thought I heard something.  At one stop, we were standing on the edge of a curved path, looking out at a darkened valley of trees and brush, and Bryn asked, “What’s his name again?”

“Jesse.” I said.

Bryn called out, in his deepest voice, “Jesse!”

I choked up a little bit and called out, “Jesse!”

Nothing.

Each time we stopped, we slowed our breathing and listened for a few seconds in a vacuum of silence. On our final stop, we did hear something: a bird chirping. The night was a crushing reality of what that kid was going through.  I’m a full-capacity adult, with the brain of a 33 year old, and I would be terrified out in the woods by myself at night, lost and unsure if I would ever be found.

And here was this 23-year-old guy who–we were told–had the mental ability of a 13 year old.  How scared was this kid?  There was no one with him, he was surrounded by darkness and unfamiliar sounds, probably hungry and thirsty, and most definitely missing his mom and dad.

When we were at the car, I asked Bryn, “What would you do if Jesse just walked out right now?”

Bryn replied, “I’d say, hey buddy, where you been? Do you know how many people’ve been looking for you?”

“Would you give him a ride?”

“Of course I’d give him a ride!”

“What if he was feral, and he tried to attack us? ”

Bryn didn’t say anything, but he tilted his head at my ridiculousness, and I know he was thinking:  I don’t think a 23-year-old guy with a handicap can take me.

Today, driving home to Ventura, I started thinking about Jesse again and wondering if he was okay.

When I was home, I got on the computer and Googled Jesse, Fillmore, and missing hiker. There was already an article in the Ventura county star.   Read it for yourself:

http://www.vcstar.com/news/2012/apr/08/deputies-search-for-missing-hiker-north-of/?preventMobileRedirect=1

“Life is just an absurdist comedy and every once in a while it’s interrupted suddenly with thunderbolts of tragedy to give the story balance, to make the slapstick funnier by comparison.” ~~Dean Koontz

When I spot a celeb by surprise, I have a mini, internal-shock session. I get a high pitched voice, I say “dude”–

 

No. Wait. I say, “DUDE!” many times, and in the squeal of a pig headed for slaughter.

 

However, when I *expect* to see a celeb, there is no star-Struckedness

 

For example, on the set of the indie flick Peace & Riot, I was assistant to the director and run-of-the-mill Set Bitch.

 

I got to work with Jake Busey and Ben Saváge. I don’t work for the biznast, I was just an average asshole who got roped into something really cool.

 

I made Anna Pheil, the actress who played Crystal Greene, laugh about the raggedy shape of the couch cover we created.

 

She grabbed Jake and said, “Mari just told me this thing is all flappy like grandma’s vagina!”

 

Jake looked partly amused and partly disturbed. In his deep, guttural voice he said, “Jesus.”

 

I would sit and shoot the poo with Jake–even admitting that my mom warned me to stay away from him–not because he’s Jake Busey, but because he’s an actor… And all actors are a threat to my wholesome fabric. Let me add? I love the shit out of my mom… She rocks my world.

 

To her request, Jake replied:

 

“I think Mrs. Kossman should be more worried that her daughter has the mouth of a trucker.”

 

Now, let me give you a New York Deli Shmear of how my SURPRISE star sightings usually go down:

 

I saw Leonardo Decaprio at the no-longer-there Virgin Megastore in Hollywood and had to be physically turned because I was nearly hyperventilating. I met Bob Boilen, host of all songs considered, and could barely speak–

 

“You made it!” Bob said, recognizing me from Facebook.

 

“I made it! Yeah! Yeah! I made it!”

 

(god damn.)

 

I ran into Orlando Bloom at Runyon Canyon last week when his dog tried to eat my Boyfriend’s roommate’s dog and was so excited. I thought I did a good job of hiding this, but I think Orlando mistook it for alarm and had to ask twice if the puppy (Bryn’s roommate’s) was okay.  Then, at the airport this morning, while filming random strangers on my iPhone and making fake conversation between them, I almost made Gladys Knight say, “I’m the honey badger, and the honey badger don’t give a shit.”

 

You’ll see her riding the moving walkway sideways (hilarious. Who rides sideways? Gladys ta’ mutha’ fuckin” Knight, that’s who. Why? Cuz the bitch is a fuckin’ honey badger).

 

It is only when she turns her head and you clearly see her profile, that you will recognize her as the brilliant Gladdy bags herself.

 

In the video I exclaim in my high pitched dog-whistle of a voice, “Dude! It’s Aretha Franklin!”

 

Name fart.

Then I realized that the guy chatting with her was Elvis Costello.

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot. It was like two for your pleasure.

So I get a little star struck when they sneak up on me like so, and sometimes all it takes is punch to the face to calm me down.

It’s 2 am and I cannot sleep.

I was thinking about the evening and my dinner with Kristy. I wanted to get her something for Christmas that she would enjoy, that would not clutter her life, and that was from me to her.

I chose to buy her dinner. Any place. Her choice.

She chose Beni Hanas.

Did I spell that right?

I’d never been.

We had two large bottles of Asahi, then sat down for our dinner. It’s unfortunate that Beni Hana’s was probably fairly unique in its day until all of these copy cat restaurants came along. Now it’s just one of those hibachi restaurants where the waiters yell funny things, make volcano’s out of onions and throw shrimp in your mouth.

Unfortunately, when Kristy requested the shrimp be thrown to her, the waiter-a Chinese man named Rich said, “No. You might sue us.”

Apparently, people now sue because the shrimp could land in the crevice of an eye (or in Kristy’s case, the crevice of a titty crack–) and create burns. Or, customers could choke on projectile Crustacea.

There was a guy next to me that asked me how to use chopsticks because he didn’t know.

“Look, I know you’re not Chinese,” he said, “but I noticed you are Asian and thought you could help.”

I taught him because he was in severe need of an assist. I thank the Heavens for the time I spent in Japan, and that I am now so adept at the use of sticks besides for stabbing people.

Half way through the meal Kristy started telling me something and her speech was slightly slurred. I knew the Asahi was doing the trick.

After dinner I thought I might stay at her house, but I decided to just go home.

I never said it was an interesting story.

When I was a little girl of 12 or so, I wanted to go to Russia, meet a corn-fed Russian man–a spy–and I wanted to flee from the bullets of KGB agents. I watched Gorky Park, I watched the end of the Cold War on KNBC, and I watched Rocky IV. I saw the milky white of their flesh, and I saw the size of their thighs, and I saw how much passion they invested in anything that mattered to them. I was in love with the men, but in admiration of the entire country.

(Probably explains why I date who I date. Have you met my boyfriend?)

During this time, I gorged on books–particularly anything by Dean Koontz–and I began to see writing as a doorway to adventure. You can’t inject yourself into a movie, but you can easily inject yourself into a written story and create your own adventure. At 13, I began writing a story called Ledges on 5 x 7 notepaper, and I gave this story to Deanna Kursar, my best friend, 3 pages at a time. You see, Deanna, I found this old book in the attic and it was very hard to read, and the pages were all scattered and torn, and I’m rewriting the text to make it legible… do you like it?

Too shy to own up to my shit.

Deanna bought my BS attic story. After reading, she asked, “Where’s the rest?”

I replied, “It’s very hard to read so it’s gonna take a while.”

Every night I would write a little more. It was about this Asian chick that is adopted at birth, and when she comes of age she travels to Russia to find her long lost family.

Turns out her family doesn’t want to be found! Quite suddenly, this hot, blonde Russian guy with muscular thighs (gained from trudging through snow for firewood to heat his log cabin), basically defends her life as she realizes the growing importance of finding her family.

Between car chases and explosions, they find time to shop for cupcakes, ice skate, and find love in a hopeless place; all of this while running from hired assassins. How awesome it felt to create these characters with lives more exciting than anything I could ever live.

I thought I had fooled Deanna Kursar, and then Sheliah Ponce, into believing this was some undiscovered treasure I had found in my attic.

Until one day, I came upon Deanna and Sheliah, and I heard Sheliah say, “Is she still writing that thing? Doesn’t she know that we know she doesn’t have an attic?”

I stopped writing Ledges. Took 4 years to begin writing again; this time, there were no lies about who had written the story. I took the credit for #1 Pencil, The Island, and The Clump. I wrote the stories about my best friends, Sonnie, Kristy, Andy, and Rociel. The girls were either being pursued by pencil killers, birthing the babies of Rock Stars (Morrissey, Billie Joe Armstrong, Robert Smith, Mike Dirnt, or Tre Cool, or Conan O’Brien) landing on deserted islands, or traveling centuries to thwart the destruction of their bloodline… by evil vampires.

Eventually, I joined the Navy and the story writing stopped.

I had no real desire to create fiction again until last year, I met a boy named Mike The Pie Guy, Pie Guy showed my blogs to his mom. She must have liked them, because over a very delicious steak dinner she asked if she could commission me to write a story for her. I was nervous and excited, and I agreed. Next week, we’re generating a contract and I will, at long last, write story again (well, creative non-fiction). New lives to imagine, from beginning to end; new imaginary friends to make, and conversations to have that were never really had. Maybe I’ll throw a KGB spy in the mix for shits and giggles, only to edit his ass out in the final draft.

I hope it don’t suck.

The year was 2003.

I was screwing around at the local vinyl shop. There was no one else in the joint except for this springy haired, ginger behind the counter, and me.

Overhead, through the store speakers, a new CD started.  It was a fast-talking comedian who sounded like he missed his daily ritalin dosage. It was impossible to not listen.

“What happened to Mary?” He asked himself.

I listened as I shopped, and I laughed out loud a few times.

When I went to the counter to pay for my goods, I asked the clerk, ”Who is this?”

“Dane Cook,” he said, and then showed me the CD/DVD combo.

Never heard of the guy. I told the sales clerk to throw it in with my purchases.

At home, I listened to the disk and watched the DVD.

When Dane tore his pants off it was like he tore off a piece of my soul, and suddenly I had this Texas sized portion of hot lust that I wanted to serve him.

I introduced Dane to my girlfriends and they loved him, and loved having him around.  We listened to the CD more than once each day, and spoke to each other in Dane quotes.

When I left Virginia Beach to return to California, one of those girls wrote this Dane Montage in my “goodbye journal” :

 

I moved back to California in 2004, and I plotted my move to Santa Monica.  I never told anyone this, but I chose Santa Monica because I hoped I would meet Dane.  And he wouldn’t know what hit him.  And I would make his little half-asian Dane babies, with his help of course, and we would be happily ever after, yada yada, the whole 9.

I ended up in San Diego instead.  From SD I still paid attention, and I knew when his CDs were released or when he was in a movie, but the days turned into years and by 2009, everything I knew about him came from my pop-celebrity-culture obsessed friends. He became that old friend you once spoke to every day, but the connection was eroded by time, and the gap was only bridged through the word-of-mouth of other friends.

Then, in June, 2010, I met this cute guy I’ll call Big Bear. And one night, over sausages and beer at Wurstkuche in LA, I quoted Dane Cook.

He was squirting spicy mustard onto his wurst, when he said, “That’s weird. Did I tell you he was my client or something?”

I wasn’t sure if I heard him correctly. “Say again, friend?”

“He’s one of my clients.”

Woah, woah, WOAH.  Slap the side of that truck so it slows down a bit, would you?  This was MY Dane we were talking about, right?

During the next week I discovered that Big Bear had performed a few programming tasks for Dane, but it didn’t really matter too much because I got over my crush a long time ago. Then one afternoon, BB was listening to his messages on speaker and there was a voice message from the big man himself.

I was awestruck. Star Struck. Dane Struck. Again, 6 years later.

A few months into the courtship, Big Bear was finishing some work at Dane’s and I was in Los Angeles. I suggested we meet at Dane’s, and go to dinner from there. You know, to save time, etc.

Big Bear agreed.

I felt the flames of rapture blazing behind me as I threw my head back and laughed.  My eyes burned red and glowed in my sockets. I sounded like Linda Blair talking to father Karras when I said, “I’m coming for you, Dane… ”

Here was the plan: I would arrive early, and I would swear I had to pee. Then I would screwball my way into the house. Even if he wasn’t there, I’d go to his restroom, sit on the toilet, and with the force of lucifer, grunt out a turd. I didn’t care if it was nothing but a nugget, I just wanted the satisfaction of flushing, watching the nugget swirl around in the same space as Dane’s turds–hell, maybe I’d be lucky and one of his turds would still be there, swimming around in it’s own turd cloud, and they would dance around before chasing each other down the drain.  Then I’d say, “Thanks for shitting in me. I enjoyed your shit.” (it’s a Dane thing)

But somewhere between Ventura and Hollywood, I bypassed BB’s directions because I thought I knew a short cut. Who knew that Dane lived on such a twisty effing road?  I never knew there even existed dirt roads in this part of Hollywood. It took entirely too long to get there, and when I arrived, Big Bear was already waiting near his car to leave.

“Where have you been?”

“I got lost,” I said. “I have to go Pee.”

“Too late, no one’s home. We gotta go.”

I frowned at the house. This wasn’t the good ol’ days when girls like Lucy Ricardo could climb over a fence, steal an orange, and make Richard Whitmark sign it. No, this guy’s house looked like a God Damn stainless-steel fortress, and any limbs that attempted to so much as come near the exterior were probably lasered off by little phantasmic drones that appeared and disappeared all phantom-like.

You come in peace, you go in pieces.

A few weeks later, Big Bear said, “Dane just invited me to one of his shows. Just gotta say when. Wanna go?”

“Sure. Whatever,” I told BB.  And then, trying to sound like it didn’t matter to me either way: “Whenever he can squeeze us in.”

However, my inner Linda Blair was a little more honest and said, I’ll let him know where he can squeeze IT in...

Soon enough, Big Bear had two tickets to The Laugh Factory and said we were on a “list”.

We’re on a list!

The night of the show, I held tight to Big Bear’s arm and we walked around the line of people that were waiting for entry to The Laugh Factory.  We went to the girl at the podium and my BF gave her his name.  She looked at her clipboard, then looked back at both of us and said with a smile, “Friends of Dane?”

Friends of Dane! 

“Yes,” Big Bear said.

She led the way and I leaned onto my BF’s arm to bring him down a few inches so that my lips were at his ear.  I whispered, “Oh my Gosh! We’re friends of Dane!”

The girl with the clipboard led us to a bench at the back wall. We were so far back that I couldn’t see the stage or the comedian already performing. I felt a sudden and sad weight on my heart. Maybe she told everyone they were friends of Dane to get them excited, and this was all just some mean joke of Dane’s.  Somewhere, he had a camera that he controlled and closed up on people’s faces when they realized they’d been had, and right now he was nearly shitting himself with laughter in a back room.

Fuck you, Dane.

As though sensing my thoughts, the girl with the clipboard said, “This is the first show and you’re here for the second show. Since you’re friends of Dane–”

We’re friends of Dane!

“–I’ll seat you where Dane sits.”

Holy shit! Where Dane sits?

When she walked away, I leaned into my BF again and motorboated his ear lobe with endless questions: Does this mean that Dane will be sitting with us? If he does, will you sit next to him? Do I have to sit next to him? Will he make fun of me? Is he nice?

“Are you serious right now? You were all about meeting the guy…”

“I’m all talk,” I said.

It was true.

In our minds, our crazy thoughts are so grandios, and we all have that inner Linda Blair that tries to talk us into letting the bats from their cages, and in my case the bats wanted me to rape Dane Cook. But in the end it’s a true measure of our sanity and our decency when we don’t actually follow through on these wild thoughts. In my mind, I was Lucy before meeting William Holden. I wanted to make a big, fake nose just in case I made an ass of myself.

The first show ended, and the pretty girl with the pony tail returned to fetch us. She led us to where we sat for the remainder of the night: a plush leather booth in the center of the audience–the best seats in the house. While we were waiting, two separate, very select looking gentlemen questioned our clearance.  Big Bear was professional and friendly, and presented his ID card when asked.

For a short time it was just he and I on that booth seat, and the occasional stray average Joe who was quickly escorted to the “normal” seats when unable to produce proper identification.  At one point, I sensed someone sit beside me, yet also sensed that he wasn’t ejected by security.  When I turned, I was looking at Shawn Wayans of the Wayans’ brothers. I felt my eyes bulge like Total Recall, when Schwarzenegger is struggling to breath on the surface of Mars.  I nudged Big Bear, and whispered, “It’s a Wayans…”

Big Bear looked, and said, “Huh. Cool.”

I was sitting where Dane sits, and Shawn Wayans was less than 3 feet away. WTF?

The show started and the comedians came out, one by one. Three or four acts went before Dane. Then the announcer called for Dane.

He came running from the back room, did a Dane leap to the stage, and said, “You guys ready to board the Dane Train?”

When Big Bear laughed, I laughed. The jokes were flying, but nothing was penetrating my ears because of the chatter in my own brain. This was The Laugh Factory, that was Shawn Wayans, and I was a Friend of Danes.

I was just so happy to be there.

I had definite masturbation smile.

And then, so quickly, he was leaving the stage.

“I don’t want to meet him,” I told the Big Bear while we were still applauding. I could feel my nerves, and I was afraid that if I was face to face with Dane, my knees would give, or my eyelid would twitch uncontrollably, or I’d just regurgitate what was spinning through my mind that whole night: I’d tell him that we sat where he sits and we are his friends, and that I got to sit near Shawn Wayans.

Big Bear thought me silly, but respected my wishes.

Now, over a year from that day, Big Bear told me he had a few new jobs at Dane’s house.

I thought a lot about that day at the laugh factory, after the fact, and how I think I’m ready to meet Dane now, so I said, “Can you bring your *wink wink* assistant with you?”

“I’ll think about it,” he said.