Friday, May 7, 2010

Don't listen to Maria Shriver or Rob Lowe

"I have silver bullets in here."

Lately, I find myself growing increasingly weary of Los Angeles. Any day now, I'm sure that I'll wind up running around naked in some Mexican's backyard in Fresno waiting for the aliens to come and take me home. I’m just sick to death of these fratty, trust-fund kids-turned-executives with their endless, meandering “notes.” They’re all dating teenagers who can barely walk in heels, let alone speak coherently on the subject of healthcare reform. Enough is enough!

All my snack breaks are spent perusing Manhattan real estate over my Danon Light&Fit yogurts. Then I remember that one of the glories of California living is that I can always hop in my car with my ipod blaring and, an hour later in either direction, I can have a daytrip in some of the most beautiful landscapes in the country. Just ask Dee Wallace (formerly Stone)!

Dee was equally burnt out in the early eighties. As a single mother, she had to work at least three jobs to keep her gay son in leg-warmers and jelly bracelets. Her E.T. check had yet to clear so she was working as a TV journalist, going undercover for the LAPD. One night, after a particularly arduous stakeout in a pornography shoppe, she reached her breaking point. Nothing is ever enough!  Dee needed to get away so, upon the bequest of her therapist, she drove a couple hours north to a day spa in the redwoods. Good for her. My therapist just tells me that everything’s my mother’s fault – she never offers me a weekend away, all expenses paid!

When Dee starts hearing The Howling (1981), she realizes that in California things are never what they seem. All these hippies offering facials and redwood yoga are flesh-hungry WEREWOLVES! And you wonder why I refuse to go to Coachella or that hippy, BurningWickerMan thing in the desert!

What The Howling lacks in nuance and tone and effects (it never comes close to the brilliance of An American Werewolf in London) it makes up for it in damsel-in-distress/Dee Wallace realness.  Just like a transplanted New Yorker trying to make sense of Los Angeles, Dee is emotionally raw and it's fascinatingly out of place. With that said, I think I'm gonna drive my Mazda rx7 up the coast this weekend.  I could use a day of redwood yoga!

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