Top black and white photo: Me as an actress back in my working as an extra days

Second row: Jamie Gertz, Tracy Nelson (note the resemblance), and Merritt R. Butrick

Bottom row: Amy Linker and Sarah Jessica Parker the stars of Square Pegs

The first time I experienced what it felt like to be on the undesirable end of a caste system was when I signed up to do extra work. I certainly didn’t sign up to be an extra as a career choice, but it was recommended to me as the best way to get some experience on set.

So, I signed up with an extra agency a bit reluctantly because I was also given the contradictory advice of staying away from viewed as background. Some say don’t do it because you’ll be forever thought of as an extra, as atmosphere, as it was also called. They won’t take you seriously, as an actress. Word gets out, word gets around, I was told.

Of course there was always the possibility of being thrown a line, literally and figuratively, that goes along with the whole being on a set experience. I might get lucky if singled out, handpicked, chosen to be upgraded to SAG eligible status.

So I did it, I signed up for the experience and the lottery. And I was chosen for a hot minute until my dreams came crashing down, all because I happened to look too much like Ricky Nelson’s daughter.

Me in my looking like a high schooler but actually 20 years old days.

But first, my very first experience as an extra was on a film later retitled Attack on Fear, based on the book The Light on Synanon: How a Country Weekly Exposed a Corporate Cult. It would be a made-for-TV drama starring Paul Michael Glaser, about the California drug rehab program turned cult.

I got a call from the extra agency telling me I would be driving out to Santa Maria, past Santa Barbara. I was to bring my own clothes and dress like a high school student. I drove out to what felt like the middle of nowhere, where they were filming outdoor scenes on a campus of some kind.

I had a bit of a featured part, playing the daughter of a couple touring the facility. So I wasn’t exactly lost in a crowd of background actors, which felt somewhat special. The day went by pretty fast. I don’t remember a lot of waiting around, probably because I had more to do, walking alongside the actors playing my parents. I got into my part, reacting as any teenager would to being dragged around a questionable institution by her parents.

I wasn’t thrown any lines, though, so it remained extra work on the check I received at the end of the day.

As fate would have it, the experience turned into my first big mistake in Hollywood.

The extra agency called the next day. I had been requested for another day of shooting. They were doing pickup shots, and because I had been featured as the couple’s daughter, they needed me back on set. And could I please bring the same clothes?

I should have been thrilled. Another day on set. Another opportunity to be seen. Maybe even be thrown a line.

But I had a problem.

I had an important meeting that day with a producer I’d met by chance in Beverly Hills a week or so earlier. A legitimate producer. I’d looked him up. He had made some seriously impressive films. He had just returned from New York, had a busy schedule, and we had finally landed on a time to meet.

A time that would not work if I was three hours away in Santa Maria.

So I told the agency I couldn’t make it.

They were livid.

They would have to find someone who looked enough like me to pass for the same daughter. It was going to create a continuity problem and a big hassle for the production. What was I thinking? they chided me.

But I wasn’t about to miss my meeting with a real producer for another day of extra work.

So I chose the meeting.

I wish I could tell you who the producer was.

I can’t.

I don’t even remember his name anymore. Nor can I remember any of those impressive films he had made. Maybe I blocked the whole thing from memory because, in the end, absolutely nothing came of our meeting.

I had given up a guaranteed day of paid work, another day of experience on a professional set, and the possibility of being featured again or maybe even getting that elusive line, all for a meeting with a producer whose name I can’t remember.

I’m surprised the extra agency didn’t drop me altogether.

But they gave me another shot.

My second experience as an extra, was on the set of Square Pegs. The extra agency made sure to let me know it was a series. They would need me for the season. I would be driving to the abandoned Excelsior High School in Norwalk, California, about 40 minutes from my apartment in West Hollywood.

At 20, I still looked young enough to play a high schooler. It felt super awkward. I was so over being a high schooler. I reminded myself that I was an actress, though, and that this was what I needed to do. So, there I was on the set of a TV show sitting in a desk acting like I was back in school listening to teachers, listening to dialogue about cliques and nerds and who’s popular and who is not. Sarah Jessica Parker played the lead square peg, the nerdy girl with the glasses. She wasn’t exactly a nerd, but pretty much falls in that category solely on the basis of wanting to be in the popular clique, which she wasn’t.

About a photo I wanted to include here

While searching the Internet looking for a photo of Square Pegs to include in this post, I was thrilled to find a photo of me in the background behind Sarah Jessica Parker and Amy Linker.

There I am, right where Hollywood put me! But what is this? A Getty Image. A CBS photo archive that upon calling Getty Images I find out that I will have to pay $175 minimum to license for use in an editorial. So, yes, I can use it on Substack but, no, not on Instagram or Facebook in order to promote my Substack following, and only if I pay the $175 or up to $350 for a higher resolution copy. “I really have to pay $175 to use it?” I asked the Getty representative “Even if I’m in the photo?”  “Yes.” She (or they – wasn’t made clear) told me. “CBS owns the photo.”

Well, that just wasn’t in my budget for this current post, so for anyone interested, here is the link to the photo in Getty Images:

Photo of me as an extra on Square Pegs

I’m the girl sitting right behind Amy Linker, the star of the show, sitting next to the other star of the show, Sarah Jessica Parker, on the left.

No, that’s not Tracy Nelson behind them, that’s me alright.

Back to my story

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I had finally made a film. A short one, but a film nonetheless. So my breasts had more lines than I did. I had finally had an acting job and it was captured on film. I was finally a professional actress. Wait, did an AFI grad film make me a professional even if I only got the experience and a copy of the film? Or was that more like an apprenticeship? Either way, I was finally a legitimate actress. After all, I was putting up with all the consequences that came with it.

I had always had an interest in acting. My very first performance up on a stage, in front of an audience larger than my parents, siblings, or cousins, was in third grade. We lived in Strasbourg, France at the time and I was attending an all-girls Catholic French school, Notre Dame De Sion, run by nuns. We were putting on a production of Sleeping Beauty. I was one of the three good fairies. My friend Natalie was cast as the lead, as Princess Aurora. My girlfriend Rachel was Maleficent. Rachel was from England, so she had an English accent, of course. That made for a more exotic Maleficent. Rachel didn’t strike me as a threatening character at all, though. She was more on the frail side, with stringy blonde hair and pale white skin. So pale as to be almost translucent.  Rachel was the only other English speaker at the school at the time, so we became fast friends. All the other girls were French. Rachel was rather timid and meek, and very soft spoken. So, it was either her accent that struck our director as perfect to play the part of Maleficent, the evil fairy, or she was being given a bit of a challenge. Perhaps our head thespian nun was giving Rachel a little boost in the stretch-your personality-through-play-acting department. Rachel ended up digging deep enough. She was quite convincing. I think she may have had some personal trauma to work through and heal. The nuns obviously knew what they were doing.

That’s me on the right.

I was certainly happy to have been chosen as one of the fairies and not a castle guard or something, but I definitely would have rather been Princess Aurora. The part garnered more than a few squeals and giggles when it came time to be kissed by the prince. After all, it was an all girl’s school, so the Prince was one of us. There did happen to be an all-boys Jewish school across the street, but the nuns must have decided to keep the genders and religions separate. A little cross dressing was required of the girls playing boys, so I was ultimately happy to be one of the fairies because I got to wear a beautiful blue fairy dress. It was light blue and looked a lot like the dress Aurora wore in the animated Disney version that had come out in 1959. My mom had sewn me a beautiful blue gown, which honestly, looked more like the dress Cinderella wore to the ball in the Disney movie, than the old fairy duds represented in Sleeping Beauty. I felt much more elegant than the spinster, over-the-hill, menopausal fairies that Disney painted them to be. My career trajectory was set! I would become an actress for sure. I garnered a nice little laugh from a well-choreographed trip, as I made my entrance, and lo and behold my little scene stealing star was born.

I was always putting on shows for my family and friends as well. Histrionics, melodrama, and theatrical intensity were all part of my daily repertoire. I was, after all, a middle child. I could never get enough attention, so I used all tools and skills at my disposal to be seen, heard, and validated. It didn’t always work, but it landed me a little attention in Middle school, at least. By that time we were living in the Philippines. I went to the International School in Manila. In 7th grade, I was featured in the yearbook when a photo was taken of me as I performed “I Feel Pretty” from West Side Story in drama class. We weren’t doing the full blown musical. It was for a musical review. A yearbook photographer happened to be in our drama class that day and captured one of my rehearsals.

I certainly wasn’t dressed for the part. I was wearing a t-shirt with such super short shorts that you can’t even see them in the picture. I didn’t know there would be a photo session that day, I might have dressed up for the occasion. I happened to be wearing my hair down as well. I often had my hair in two ponytails tied up in fluffy yarn hair ties. Remember those? The kind that were prominently featured on Marcia, Jan, and Cindy Brady’s hair on The Brady Bunch? I wore those twisted acrylic yarn hair accessories on my long blonde pigtails often and had them in every color. My favorites were the bi-color twists. Some of them were even tricolor. I had bangs too and more freckles than I knew what to do with. I didn’t think it was a very flattering photo. I thought I looked more silly than star-like. But, someone on the yearbook committee decided it deserved to be featured on a page, so I decided to take it as a compliment and tried not to cringe too much when leafing through the yearbook! I couldn’t decide if I should be embarrassed about it or grateful to be singled out as the actress I aspired to be. It was embarrassing enough to be assigned that song by my Drama teacher. What was she thinking making a freshly minted teen-aged girl sing a song about feeling pretty!?! I really WAS acting. I was horrified! All I could do was smile, act like I could handle the embarrassing lyrics, and be secretly flattered that my acting teacher saw me as the lead in West Side Story even though I didn’t get to sing any of the other songs.

Another photo of me, this time on stage, made the yearbook. There I am, singing my heart out, arms up in the air, wearing a Bavarian style dress, in the chorus of Sound of Music, with my friend Suzy, as Maria Von Trap, in the foreground.

I’m the one concentrating on my projection and not looking at you, third from the left.

My drama teacher, Mrs. Sindico. was very encouraging of my talent. She also let me bring my cat to school once to perform in another play. My cat, Wopsy, was a sweet, shorthaired, mostly white calico cat, who would follow me around and do anything I asked of her. Apparently I was a pretty good feline acting coach as well. I played Tillie in “The Effect of Gamma Rays on Man-in-the-Moon Marigolds” by Paul Zindell. In the play Tillie’s pet was supposed to be a rabbit, but my drama teacher let me bring in my cat for the part. We built a cardboard helicopter and at one point I had to drag the chopper prop across the stage slow enough to encourage my cat to stay nicely seated in the cockpit for the duration of the ride. We were a big hit! I wish there was a photo of that in the yearbook!

The biggest drama that year came when my teacher had to make a huge decision. Who she would cast as the lead in the middle school play. She couldn’t decide between me or Toni, so she left it up to us to work it out. Toni, short for Antoinette, was one of my best friends. She was a year ahead of me. She had short red hair, big green eyes, and looked a lot like Tatum O’Neil who was starring in Paper Moon that year and would eventually win the Oscar for it. Toni would have won the Oscar too if Ryan O’Neil hadn’t had a daughter to co-star with in Paper Moon, and she had been cast in the part instead. Toni was that good. She was the best actress in middle school. I guess I was at the top of the list too, according to our Drama teacher. She just couldn’t decide between the two of us, so she left it up to us to work it out. We were best friends. Now we were rivals! Toni was an 8th grader, so she would not be in middle school the next year. We decided that since I still had another year to play a leading role, that Toni should get the part of the angel, the lead and title role in Angel in the Looking Glass. I would play the second choice, the grandmother. There I was sacrificing my preferences but stretching my acting chops by playing an old lady.  Toni was thrilled to be stretching her talent as well, by playing the angel she most certainly wasn’t. Toni was hosting slumber parties replete with seances and Ouiji boards. She was drinking and smoking and living her one wild life with abandon. I know. I was there, with Suzy and a few other friends. Toni and Suzy were both older than me but they were good pals.

That’s Toni von dem Hagen on the top. Doesn’t she look as adorable as Tatum? And that’s sweet Suzy on the bottom.

Toni’s slumber parties were epic. At least that’s the way I remember them. I was young for a 7th grader, they were in 8th so I was learning a lot. I’ll never forget the first time I ever tried smoking. It was such a miserable fail I felt like I had burned my lungs and coughed for days. The other thing I’ll never forget was being told that if I squeezed lemon all over my arms, body, and face, my freckles would fade away. That never happened. I made a few good attempts, but I also finally gave up on the suggestion that if I laid out under the sun long enough they would all blend together and render me tan. Burned my skin one too many times as well. Toni also had a lot of freckles and those remedies hadn’t really taken care of hers, but she looked good in them, so, I finally learned to accept mine.

We never did see any ghosts. I imagined that Toni had more reason than any of us to attempt contacting the dearly departed. She had lost her father at a very young age. I couldn’t even imagine her reality. I had only lost my grandmother, my father’s mother, in Norway by then, and I had only visited her a handful of times. Toni had a younger brother and sister and had to take on a lot of extra helping with them because of living with a single mom and all. So yeah, I decided that Toni probably deserved the part of the angel more than me, so she got to star in the middle school play that year. The plan kind of backfired though, because my dad ended up accepting another transfer and we moved back to the States that summer. So much for me being able to get the lead role in 8th grade.

I ended up back in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, living with my grandparents on my mom’s side and negotiating a whole new school. Then, halfway through that school year we moved to Birmingham. No, not the one in Alabama, the one in Michigan. But, that is where I truly came to shine. I ended up at Seaholm High School and joined the forensics team where I went on to win 1st in state in the category of dramatic duo playing Mrs. Kendall in the Elephant Man. I was super active in Drama class as well. I played Linus in You’re a Good Man Charlie Brown… OK, that was a stretch. I also played a middle aged alcoholic teacher in Miss Reardon Drinks a Little… big stretch! And then, singing Tits and Ass in A Chorus Line… OK maybe not so much a stretch in retrospect, but certainly challenging at the time.

I was ready for the big time, for sure. I was ready for Los Angeles.

So, Hollywood … there I went.

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I finally got another audition. It was for an AFI film. Cool!. A graduate student’s short film, OK, but the up-and-coming director was attending the American Film Institute so it was an AFI project none-the-less. It was even a lead role. Well, sort of a lead role. I would play a 15 year-old step daughter. The step father was the main character, but my part is what the film was titled, Belle. I would play the leading woman role, or rather, the leading girl part. We take what we can get, right?! One more thing to consider, though, would I be comfortable with above the waist nudity? Hmmm. Well, for an AFI film, I guess I could do that. The role required me to be dead on the bed, my blouse ripped off, breasts exposed after being murdered. Ok, well, I didn’t really have any naked breast hang ups. Heck, I grew up in France and Europe. I saw plenty of bosom and body liberation. I could do nudity for art’s sake. It was an art film, right?! The auditions were at the American Film Institute so it felt super legitimate. I only had a few lines so the actual audition didn’t last very long. My scenes would mostly be flash backs. The one I auditioned with was where I was coming home after a party and saying goodnight to my stepfather who was down in his workshop turning wood on a lathe. “I’m home” and something about going to bed were pretty much the extent of my lines. But, just walking back to my car on the grounds of the American Film Institute felt like I had actually arrived.

Then, I got a call back. That’s where things got a little awkward. The director, Peter Kiwitt, wanted to audition my breasts for the role. They would be exposed. For the part of the 15-year-old girl. I was 22, but did my breasts look 15? He just wanted a quick look at them. To make sure they suited the role, I guess. It seemed a bit odd to me, but I had heard that directors can be picky, so I went along with it. He was only a few years older than me but I couldn’t tell, he seemed a lot older. “Can you just’ He motioned with his hand. “Do you want to just unbutton… your blouse, or would you prefer to just take your top off?” He stammered. “What would make you feel more comfortable?”

I had given a thought or two about how I would display my breasts. I knew he wanted to see them. It would be part of the callback. He made that much clear. He didn’t want any surprises, I guess. No huge areolas, I suppose. Just the right size nipples, no scars, birthmarks, or moles. I wore a button down blouse. It was silky and had small pink cherry blossoms on it. I unbuttoned it. It didn’t take long for him to asses my assets, just a few glances, one for each breast, and an extra for good measure. That was it. He didn’t belabor the event. There would be plenty of time for closer scrutiny later, when I would play dead on the bed while grips adjusted lights and fixed the sheets. There would be even more time to stare at them for hours on end in the editing room.

He assured me that his girlfriend, or actually his fiancé, would be present. That was supposed to put my mind at ease, but sort of made it weirder. Whatever! I remember being in a hallway on the second floor of the cold stone building. The awkwardness of the moment was over in a flash. I unbuttoned my blouse. I had chosen that particular one for the occasion. I remember preparing for the unveiling. What would feel more comfortable? To lift a sweater up and flash him? But then my eyes might be obscured. No, I wanted to watch him look at me. If he was going to ask me to do that, he wasn’t going to get off so easy. His reaction would be under my scrutiny. I think he was more uncomfortable than I was. He had that creepy guilty vibe about him. Mine apparently fit the bill. I was 22, but my breasts looked 15 for sure.

So, they did. They got the part.

It was my first film, my first film ever!

The first day of shooting, my first scene, I was in a body bag. So were my breasts. My face would be exposed, the bag unzipped to ID the 15 year-old girl I was playing. That would be my ‘first day on set’ story for the rest of my life. It would make a good David Letterman interview, anyway. Good thing I wasn’t claustrophobic. I had to hold my breath when they unzipped the bag and came in close on my face. I was good at holding my breath.

My second day on set, the next day at the same house somewhere in the San Fernando Valley, I would be holding my breath for a very long time. When you play dead on the bed you have to be perfectly still for even longer. My breasts couldn’t move, they were fully exposed. My skirt was hiked up revealing peach-colored satin panties. The costume department had sewn some special silk panties trimmed with cotton lace. I guess they had to be just so, reflecting the light just right and all. I felt vulnerable enough with grips and set dressers mulling about. I just tried acting like I had done that kind of thing before, but I did have a bit of an issue with the whole scenario. I didn’t really understand why my panties would have to be in the shot.

I asked the director. “Why would I still have panties on if I had just been raped?”

“To keep it from being considered smut or porn” he said. I had panties on, so it wasn’t porn. He assured me of that. It was a psychological piece. A murder. A step father, who killed his step-daughter because she was pregnant with his baby. The lead actor, Kenneth Tigar, was very nice. He was very mild mannered, empathetic, and reassuring. He was also a great actor because he had no creepy rapist vibe at all in real life. The film was darker than my Pollyanna mind could even conceive of at the time. I had no experience with that shade of dark, so I chalked it up to avant guard cinema and decided it was edgy and daring instead of deeply disturbing, as I would slowly realize, later. Much later. I got to keep the satin panties after the shoot. I never wore them again, but I still have them somewhere.

The young director, so taken with his masterpiece, offered to drive me, his leading lady, to the opening of my first movie. But on the way, and so obsessed with naked breasts, exposed over and over again in the editing bay, he pulled his car over to the side of the road and all but pulled it out. He professed his infatuation, confessed lust, grabbed my hand and forced it on his throbbing crotch. I froze. Then it occurred to me there was no loaded gun forcing me to comply. I took back my hand and turned him down.

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For the first time in a long while, things felt genuinely hopeful. One day, a critically acclaimed film director from India came to the Lee Strasberg Theatre Institute to cast an unknown actress for a role in a movie he would be filming in Chicago, San Francisco, and Bombay. Bombay is now called Mumbai but I will be referring to it the way it was known at the time. Ketan Mehta’s first film, Bhavni Bhavai, a Gujarati film that had come out in 1980 and translates to The Tale of the Life, had won him international acclaim. It told the story of untouchability through folklore and Bhavai, a popular folk theatre form of western India. His latest film, Holi, a Hindi-language coming-of-age drama had a good review in the New York Times which he impressed me with in the form of a xerox copy of a press release. I was to understand that he was a director with gravitas, whose socially conscious work would later earn comparisons to Spike Lee.

Ketan Mehta and his lead actor, Mohan Gokhale, a major star in Indian Films, had already searched New York, and San Francisco for their leading lady, and after a satisfactory interview and audition at the Strasberg Institute in West Hollywood, they decided it would be me. They were very pleased to find out that I already had a passport. I was not only well traveled, but had spent my early teens growing up in the Philippines, a developing nation. I was raised on exotic foods and unconventional practices. They were a bit concerned about the average American actress going into culture shock when it came time to shoot in Bombay.

I was invited out to Alhambra to meet with the writer, Madhu Rye. The film was based on his most notable novel, Kimball Ravenswood. The story that was explained to me is that it was about a student from India who was attending college in Chicago and had fallen in love with an American girl, the part I would be playing. When he gets a summons from his family to come back to India and face a prearranged marriage, things get complicated. Madhu Rye and his family invited me to come to dinner once a week, until we were ready to shoot. They would initiate me into ways of all things Indian, such as developing a tolerance for spicy dishes. They gave me a few other pointers as well. I was to only use my right hand when dining at a table. The other hand, it was explained to me, had other purposes. I was informed that it was not a common practice to use toilet paper in India, so, they let me imagine how things were done there. The left hand would absorb those duties, so, best to keep it hidden behind one’s back, in social situations, when it comes to food. Alrighty then…

As I was processing all of this cultural grooming, I was very caught up in the trajectory I had envisioned for myself. Not only did I land a lead role in a film, but it would be an international film! India had an even bigger film industry than the US and this wasn’t even a Bollywood production. Ketan Mehta was the real deal. He was a legit filmmaker who made experimental films and documentaries that explored themes from romance to rebellion. I was finally going to be recognized as a serious actress, an international star, even! I was already mentally accepting imaginary awards in chiffon.

This is how it played out.

I mean, you all probably know the story. I’m such a household name, right?!

Sigh.

Well, I bought myself a sari, a beautiful teal number with gold trim. Yards and yards of shimmering silk fabric that I attempted to wrap around my body every which way. There were no YouTube tutorials back in the day. I was on my own. I ended up draping it on my closet door to add to the mood of the room. I loved fabric, especially satin, silk, or anything that would flow or billow in the wind like a gossamer scarf. A sari is like an extremely long silk scarf, so I was very excited about heading to India and collecting more of them. I also practiced eating really hot curry. I already had a taste for Indian food, especially mango lassis, which helped cool off the tongue. But I would definitely need to build my tolerance for spicy heat. I was steeped in curry and fantasies of what my adventures in Bombay would bring, when one day I got a knock at my door. I opened it up to a telegram. An actual telegram! The film was being postponed a few weeks.

Then came another telegram, it would be a few more months. The first two telegrams were kind of exciting and actually cool. They were telegrams. Who got telegrams anymore?! But the film being postponed another few months… not so exciting. It did strike me as kind of weird that they were sending telegrams. I thought everyone had access to phones in the early 80s, but it did start making me question just how primitive the accommodations might be in India. I was getting concerned. I had put my entire acting career on hold so I would be ready for this big break when it came. This was my first one, how was I to know that film delays were the norm. That getting them made at all is a bit of a miracle.

Two years later… that’s right, TWO YEARS, I get a call from Mohan, the lead actor. He wants to know if I can just pay my own way and fly to India myself. He explained that they had lost the funding and wanted to know if there was any way I could get there on my own. They might be making a smaller budget TV version, he informs me, but they would only be shooting in India. They were just waiting for the money to come through.

I really didn’t know what to think. It sounded like a bit of a lost cause. It was starting to sound a bit sketchy even. But what did I know, maybe that’s what low budget looked like. I had zero experience with filmmaking so far. I really didn’t have enough money for a ticket to Bombay though, and I had no idea what the accommodations would be like once I got there, especially if they were having issues with the budget. I told Mohan that I would just wait to see if they could come through with my ticket.

A few days later, he called me back, urging me to come to India. He would show me around he said. I could stay with him. He would show me a good time. Well, that just made me squirm. I said no thank you to the offer of personal accommodations. I would just wait to see what they could figure out once they got the budget they were hoping for. They seemed to still be very interested in me, I reasoned, they must want to work it out .

Then he laid it on me. If Mohan paid for my way there… would I marry him?

He was completely serious!

What?!!

That was no casting couch offer.

That was full on bridal bed bribery from Bombay!

I had put my whole LA acting career on hold preparing for this international debut.

I was crushed.

Years later, I found out that they had in fact made it as a TV show, Mr. Yogi, a popular Hindi sitcom, in the late 80s. It starred Mohan Gokhale as an MBA student from America hunting for the perfect bride. I heard that they ended up casting an actress living in India who happened to be of Caucasian and Indian heritage, to play the part I would have been cast in. I sometimes wonder what would have become of me or my acting career had I taken Mohan up on his offer. Not to marry him, of course, but to make my way to Mumbai and show up for the shoot. I had always thought of myself as adventurous. Maybe not adventurous enough. Or did I just have an added measure of self-preservation? Maybe I missed my big break. Or maybe I escaped becoming someone else’s story entirely.

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I decided I needed to get my game on and my thespian career in motion. I still had that naïve thing written all over me. I must have been a walking billboard that read Gullible Midwestern Girl Desperately Needs Management, because even dressed down in my baggy sweaters and flannel shirts, I got more come ons, advice, and propositions than I knew what to do with. When I got an offer to go to Japan and “model”, I knew I needed better representation for sure. And then it happened!

A big-time manager approached me at Spago in Beverly Hills. I thought I was having my future starlet moment when he handed me his card. I was there on a lunch break while doing window displays, down the street, at Camp Beverly Hills. I didn’t exactly have the budget to be spending my paycheck at Spago, so I just ducked in there now and then to order a coke, soak up the ambience, and get discovered. I looked at the card he handed me. Chuck Binder. It might have even been embossed with gold lettering, because what I really took note of was the address, up on Wilshire Boulevard, in Westwood. He had to have something going for him to be operating out of that zip code! He asked if I was a model or an actress. I had that look, he told me. I’d heard that line before. It wasn’t the first time that had happened, but most of the previous propositions were by people who clearly were not in the position to advance my career unless I needed extra experience between the sheets, in order to pull off the part of a prostitute. Not a direction I was pursuing at the time. This guy was different, though. According to him, anyway. This particular manager had discovered Daryl Hannah. He put Sharon Stone on the map, and had something to do with Jamie Lee Curtis’ big break, as well. The clincher was that he could spot talent. Hah! And I was bubbling over with it. I wondered how he could tell that in one short encounter, but, I was raised on fairy tales, This could definitely be happening to me. This could be my Schwab’s Drug Store story set in Beverly Hills, even cooler! Ever since Lana Turner was supposedly discovered there at 16 after slipping out of her typing class at Hollywood High for a soda, the story had become a legend. Being discovered became a thing to aspire to and hopeful thespians were always trying to figure out where they might rub shoulders with the managers and agents, heck, studio heads, directors, or producers who could give them their big break.

Chuck Binder seemed legit, so, I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and call him. I waited a day, of course. Didn’t want to come off as desperate, right? I made an appointment. He had an opening that evening. What do you know?! Kismet!

His penthouse office/living room was impressive for sure. It was high up in one of those huge buildings on Wilshire Boulevard that I had passed by often enough to wonder who actually lives there. I was definitely in someone’s living space though. This was not just an office. He had a huge desk at the far end of the room and plenty of impressive movie posters announcing his credentials. Not that his name was written on any of them, but he had the Hollywood production vibe going on for sure. I was directed towards a large leather couch and he took his place behind his desk in a big leather chair echoing the stature he was peddling. Mr. Binder was not tall. Not tall at all. Rather on the short and stocky side. He was balding too, but he had a nice smile and an air of reassurance.

After reiterating the list of stars he accredited to his management, I decided to do a little name dropping myself. I had, after all, met one of the most successful actor/director/producers of all time. I told him I had reached out to some of the directors I was interested in working with, and that I had heard back from Warren Beatty, who had already had me over to his “home office” for a “consultation”. I told him that Warren’s advice to me on the subject of my acting career was that I didn’t really need representation.

“He told you, you didn’t need a manager or an agent?”

“Pretty much” I responded. “Well that’s bullshit. I mean, yeah, at this point he sure doesn’t, but that’s a load of crap if he’s telling you you don’t need one or the other, or both. I mean, honey, there is a lot at stake here, you are up against tremendous odds, you need as many people as you can get rallying in your corner. You got the goods, babe, but uh... do you know how to work it?... That’s the question!”

Before I could even contemplate an answer, he answered for me.

“No, you don’t! But that’s good. That’s OK, the innocence thing can really work for you. I can show you how to handle all the scenarios that might come up for you. I helped put some real hot numbers on the map but this is all about strategy and how you are going to handle all the come ons and casting couches. What are you gonna do? Get over here.” He commanded. “Right now?” I ask, feeling much more comfortable with a big oak desk between us.

“I don’t bite.” He insisted, “Unless you’re into that.” Acknowledging my discomfort he added. “I’m just kidding. Get over here!”

“So, you work with an Agent?” I asked him.

“I work with talent.” He responded. “You got talent. I can spot it a mile away. Talent is only part of the picture. Talent only goes so far. You gotta be a business. You gotta know your assets from your weaknesses. Do you know your assets from  your weaknesses?”

Still squirming, all I can come up with was “I guess.”

“You guess?” He admonished. “You can’t guess. You gotta know! That’s where I come in. You’re hot, you’re tall, you’ve got innocent and  vulnerable written all over you. Do you know what to do with those long legs of yours? You want guys like me panting at your feet. You want us to want to fuck you. You’re selling fuck babe. I don’t mean to sound so crass, but that’s the game doll. That’s what Hollywood is buying. Sex. What everyone is after. You need a coach. This is the big time. I put people on the map.”

I was ready to bolt. I really didn’t know what to say so all I could come up with was “OK, well this is a lot to think about.”

“Not think.” He scolded “Act. You see these posters? You see that name right there? You see that?”

“Is that your company?” I ask him.

“Not my company, no, but that’s who I deal with... day in day out.”

“Oh.”

“That says I know what I’m talking about.”

“I see.” I said, stalling, looking for a way out.

“Get over here! Let’s talk about how hot you are.”

Grasping for words, an excuse, anything, he grabbed my hand and directed me towards what I imagined was his bedroom.

“Ssh! Just show me!” He insisted.

You probably saw that coming. I was sweaty, sticky, and sick to my stomach. I had to peel him off me, and push him away just to get out the door. I was out of there so fast I don’t even remember getting to my car.

I could hear my sister’s voice “what were you thinking going over there in the first place?! What did you expect?!! Seriously are you really that naiive?! Of course he wanted to sleep with you!”

I felt betrayed. I was hoping that the benefit of the doubt would have a rewarding outcome. I mean if he was a legitimate manager. If he really represented everyone he claimed to have put on the silver screen, did they go through the same thing?! Was it a test?! Was he just seeing how I would handle his advances? I was so mind fucked I wanted someone to talk to.

I just wanted to be able to talk to someone about what just happened. I wanted to find out how anybody else would have handled the situation.  To feel that I wasn’t alone.

The rest of the night was so surreal. I ended up calling Warren. Thought he might offer a little comfort or reassurance. He said “Sure, come on over. I have a few friends here. Have you seen Ocotopussy? I got an early release.” I didn’t know where else to go, so I showed up, feeling completely lost. What was I thinking? I couldn’t talk to anyone there. I ducked into the restroom realizing my underarms smelled of post sexual assault super stressed out sweat disorder.

It was a guest bathroom. Stark and modern. I needed warm and cozy. I felt out of place and disoriented. I needed a shoulder to lean on not a marble counter to collapse over. There was a soap dispenser. I think it was a soap dispenser. Whatever was in it, I used it. I needed more. There was Eau De Toilet. I grew up in France. I knew French. That translates to “toilet water”. I always wondered about Toilet Water but was too embarrassed to ask. Was it for freshening up the toilet? For using in the actual toilet, or for using on oneself while one was on the toilet, in the toilet room, or the bathroom, as we Americans refer to it. I used it. I added it to the restoration process of my arm pits. I think I made it worse. I really needed a shower. Should I just pull a “Frances” and help myself to the accommodations of one of the adjacent bedrooms, I wondered? Should I just plop myself in a bathtub while the party proceeded without my ungainly presence? I knew how Frances must have felt. If you haven’t seen Jessica Lange’s performance in Frances you might not even know what I’m talking about. Watch it. She gave an Oscar nominated performance playing the actress Frances Farmer who suffered from mental illness and was subjected to electroconvulsive shock therapy. In the movie she shows up at a Hollywood party and immediately goes upstairs and helps herself to their bathtub, preferring a good soak to soggy company. Some realities just don’t jive and we need to cocoon our spirit in a layer of protection called solitude, however we can achieve it. I felt like a bag lady, ravaged and unkempt, but my baggage was all mental and I didn’t know where to put it all.

I finally gathered enough confidence to assimilate into the soiree. I smelled my armpits again. Too much product, but, whatever. I would hide in the screening room unnoticed. It would be dark and I could wait out my emotions while James Bond distracted everyone in attendance.

I had never been down to his private screening room before. I followed the noise. The house matched the bathroom. Big stark modern marble number. Everything was white. The only art was a degas on the piano. There were a few stragglers posing along the hallway. This was a very subtle film industry scene. La creme de la A list. This was the home of a very successful producer/director/actor whose reputation pretty much started the industry of inquiring minds whose inquiries were never really sated more than what sensational tabloids could offer.

Why was I here anyway? So he had mentored me in ways that ingenues are often mentored by the directors that they admire. This was me wanting to find out if that manager I just blew off, and not in the pun way, was legitimately who he was representing himself to be. Warren would know. Warren Beatty was like Wikipedia before it ever existed. Seriously this man’s brain retained every name, conversation, historical event, political agenda, piece of trivia, and bits of gynecological information that ever so much as whispered past his intellect. And on top of that he was a gentleman. His reputation was well earned. He would protect me from the sleaze-bags of the industry, or so my Midwestern naiveté convinced me. He was my friend. Sort of. Well, this wasn’t a booty call, anyway. He had invited me into his circle. I descended the staircase into his home movie theater. There were more heads than I cared to count. As I scanned for an empty seat in the projector lit room, I slunk into the nearest one I could find. The film was probably more than halfway through, but that’s when I heard it. The voice. A very recognizable voice. There is absolutely no mistaking Jack Nicholson for anybody. Nobody else in the world looks, acts, or sounds like Jack Nicholson. That was definitely Jack behind me. Now I could really smell my over spritzed armpits. I slunk further into my seat. I wasn’t ready to meet Jack or any other A-lister at this party. I just wanted to go home.

I never intended to write erotica, but some situations in life are hard to explain without the benefit of getting into compromising details. When conundrums and juxtapositions revolve around sex, what is one to do, beat around the bush?!

So, I had passed on modeling in Paris. Kind of crazy, huh?! But... I was done with Dick too. My boyfriend, not the appendage, to be clear. I moved to a studio apartment in Santa Monica, near the corner of 4th and California. I still saw Warren now and then. He’d call once in a while.

“What are you wearing? Are you hot right now? Wanna come up?”

That kind of thing.

It was definitely exciting in a spontaneous sex kind of way. I was hoping it could be more than that though. I did think we had something special. I thought he genuinely cared about me. He made me feel special, anyway, when he was with me. He had an incredible memory, and was always asking about things I had told him. He remembered details about people, like my family, and would ask about them as if he was truly invested in my personal life. I certainly didn’t know what to call the kind of relationship we had, but I felt pretty protective of it, whatever it was. I never did get a screen test or a proper audition. Was sleeping with him my audition? He never gave me an actual part, either, but I was a damn good actress, acting like I was OK with that.

I was certainly hoping that sleeping with Warren would give my acting career the boost it needed. I had no career yet. The fact that he could lift his pinky and I would potentially be starring in a Paramount production, did not escape me. Lifting his prick might have come with more benefits, were it not for the fact that he was on a very long hiatus from filming. I had no idea that the only role he was considering me for, at the time, was that of being rolled over, and the only acting required of me was pretending like enjoyed taking it up the ass. I did not, in fact, enjoy it. But, I thought I gave a stellar performance! Oscar worthy, really. And that wasn’t my last tango at Warren’s either.

What I’m so resentful for, at this point, is not so much that I didn’t even have a shot at an Academy Award, but that I was not even considered for the part of an extra in any of the films he eventually ended up making. I have had a few years to steep in a little of that resentment.  He had me “audition” repeatedly, but, alas, I never even made it onto the cutting room floor. I pretty much sucked it up at the time and moved on. Sniveling sucker you might be inclined to be thinking at this point. But the resentment is not exactly unWARRENted! Misspelling and pun completely intentional, as well as a byproduct of recently unpacked and released shame based rage.

The thing is, I did not audition for booty call! I had sent him a picture and resume and a very carefully crafted letter. I expected just as much professionalism in a response as I had put into making the list of my favorite directors, researching their contact information, which was not a small task at the time, and then sending the packets out as Fed Ex special deliveries. The response I was hoping for did not have sex in the scenario. I was hoping for an audition. The sex was mutually satisfying, of course,  But I was interested in so much more. I would have appreciated a role in a film. Heck, if he wanted me to play a nympho maniac in an epic psychological thriller, or a call girl in a satirical comedy, I was down for that too. What he seemed to have wanted from me was just unabashed debauchery! He wanted me to try everything.

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My boyfriend wasn’t even bothered by my ‘association’ with Warren Beatty. His advice to me was pretty much... “work it!”

What?!

You can imagine how confusing and conflicting that kind of encouragement can be coming from someone I thought had my best interest at heart. I certainly wasn’t about to pass on the opportunity to be mentored by one of the most accomplished filmmakers in Hollywood, so, I responded to his call. A number of times. I was more than flattered that Warren had taken a special interest in me and the advancement of my career. Maybe he was more focused on my fledgling sex life, either way, we tried a little of this and a little of the other kinds of things that directors do when they don’t happen to be making a movie at the time. I was definitely getting an education in extracurricular activities. I still had interests in acting to pursue, so I wasn’t particularly shy about asking him if he could make any introductions, or help me out career-wise.

“Have you ever thought of modeling?” He inquired.

I told him I fancied myself as more of an actress than a poser, which got a bit of a laugh out of him. I went on to explain that I had been told by some very legitimate theatrical agents that I was more of a commercial type.

“ But, I did take some modeling classes once.” I told him. “John Robert Powers classes.” I explained. “My boyfriend says I’m not tall enough, though. That I don’t have high cheekbones or an exotic look or anything.”

“What does he know.” Warren assured me.

I told him that Dick was really into models and did some photography on the side. “He’s into Janice Dickinson.” I told him. “She’s got those huge lips and everything.”

“Yes, she does. Doesn’t she?!” Warren concurred.

“He’s obsessed with her.” I told him.

“Well, I’m really into you.” He confirmed, as he stretched me out, with extra assurance, on his cool, smooth, white sheets. “What would he say about that?!”

Warren knew a woman who had a modeling agency in Paris, The Delphine Agency. He put me in touch with Marilyn Gauthier, who set me up to see a photographer in Los Angeles, because, well, she was in Paris. In a matter of days I was standing in front of this French photographer, being scrutinized from all angles. Large bolts of thick paper were leaning against the walls. Another was suspended high above on stands that looked rather challenged to actually support the weight of the demand. This backdrop had texture, painted to look like a cubist’s interpretation of clouds on a sandy beach. A smattering of this, a swath of that. There were, what looked to be, a couple blocks, in front of the backdrop, covered with a thick canvas drop cloth painted in a similar manner.

He asked me to sit on a stool in the middle of his large studio loft downtown.

I had clothes on. I was wearing a wool Icelandic sweater, a cream colored fleece Norma Kamali cheerleader skirt with textured grey tights and ballet slippers. I wore an acrylic Ivory bangle and a strand of pearls wrapped twice around my neck. My thick wavy hair was tied up in a ponytail accented by a plaid ribbon. I was clearly making a fashion statement. More than hinting at my willingness and enthusiasm to grace the cover of Vogue. They wouldn’t even need a stylist. As far as I was concerned I was the multi hyphenate they never knew they were looking for. I fancied myself more of a creative director than a model anyway. My little fantasy bubble burst when he asked me how tall I was.

“I’m 5’8”.” I answered, adding… “Well, 5’7” and three quarters, actually.” I knew they wanted models tall, but he marveled at my very long legs and assure me that they more than made up for what I might lack in height. He echoed the consensus that I had a very commercial look, a very American, fresh face. He liked my freckles.

“But, you are going to have to lose… 10, maybe 15 pounds.” He added very matter-of-factly. “You know that, right?”

“Oh, OK.” I responded.

He could tell I was a little thrown by the news.

“Because the camera puts on extra weight.” He explained. “But you look young and pretty. Let’s see what the camera has to say about it.”

He took a few shots of me sitting on the stool and then instructed me to go over and lounge on the blocks, where he took more. He had me change outfits and directed me into the same position on the blocks, and took more. That would do. He told me he would send the photos on to Marilyn. Finis!

I got the offer. She liked my look, I guess, provided that I lose the weight, of course.  I felt fine with my body at the time. I mean, I was definitely not on the super skinny side. I was just fine. I wasn’t overweight. I look back at the photos now and I was just right… for normal life, but apparently not for modeling.

I did have long legs that went on forever when I wore heels, but at 5 feet 8 inches, I was just under low-end model specs. Sure, I had secret desires of being portfolio perfect, and deep down inside I had a swank super model ready to bolt unto the runway of life. But, not exactly the determination of someone who would parlay that passion into cover girl promise. So, when presented with the opportunity to go to Paris and model... well... it really hinged on ten pounds.

I told my boyfriend about the offer to go to Paris and model, as I picked up my plush wooly lamb, the size of a standard bed pillow, and hugged it in my arms. I kept it on the couch as a sort of comfort pillow. It also served as a Pop Art reminder that I was still closer to my childhood years than anything I was becoming. Art Nouveau posters of women in turn-of-the-century soap advertisements looked down on me as I fiddled with my lamb’s velour ear. Dick sat across from me on an oversized blue velvet chair accented with cream colored piping. Ours was an eclectic mix of a living room, all carefully curated pieces that screamed artsy young entrepreneurs with diverse tastes but a desperate desire to make it all work.

 “I just have to lose some weight.” I told him. “But that’s fine. I can do that.”

“You don’t want to be a model, Lisa. You want to be an actress! You don’t want to go to Paris and model. You’re no Janice Dickinson. You’re pretty, but you don’t have high cheekbones or an exotic look or anything. You’ve got that blonde hair, blue-eyed, all American, girl-next-door sort of thing going on, but you don’t exactly have that high fashion look.”

“Well, THEY liked my look.” I reminded him.

“Yeah, because you look fourteen! You know, all those models who go to Europe end up looking too old in a few years anyway. Then they come back to the States and want to get into acting. You might as well stay here and be ahead of the game. Come on. You want to be an actress, right?!”

He had a point, I had to admit. “Well, yeah.”

“Exactly. So, you’ve got to stay here and get your career going. Gotta do what you gotta do!”

“What does that mean?”

“You know, you’re meeting some cool people. I mean, come on, Warren Beatty, you can’t get more A list than that! Work it baby.”

“You sound so Hollywood.” I said with a sneer.

“We are Hollywood! We’re in West Hollywood, even better. Closer to Beverly Hills. This is it! Come on, you met Warren Beatty! He’s into you. Do your thing.”

“I don’t have a thing, Dick. You do.” I felt obliged to remind him.

“Come on, Honey Bunny, this is your big opportunity. Carpe Deum Baby, seize the day!

“Don’t you even care?” At this point I wasn’t even thinking about Paris. I just felt like he was throwing me to the wolves either way.

“Of course I care Cuddle Bug. Of course I care. You’re Oscar material Baby Cakes. “

“No, I mean about me.” I felt like I had to spell it out.

“Yeah, you Baby. Of course I do. You’re gonna be an A lister too.”

“About us, Dick. Don’t you care about us?” I was not getting the affirmation I was looking for.

“Yes, US, my little Love Unit, us all the way!”

“Well, why doesn’t it feel like it then?

“What are you talking about? I’m here for you.” He insisted.

“I’m talking about love, Dick. I’m talking about being in love. Wanting to be together.”

“We ARE together, Pumkin.” He pressed.

“And stop calling me Pumkin, and Honey Baby, and Sugar Cube, and all that bullshit, pseudo endearment crap. My name is Lisa.”

“Baby, baby, shhh, come on Baby.”

“And stop calling me Baby. I’m not your baby!”

“Ok, ok, Lisa, come on Lisa. What are you freaking out about?”

“I’m not freaking out!”

“You are, you are... shhhh.”

“And DONT SHUSH ME!”

“Baby. I mean Lisa. Come on Lisa, snap out of it.”

“And don’t tell me to snap out of it.”

“You are completely overreacting.”

“Am I? Because I’m pretty sure that the person who is supposed to be my boyfriend, my true love, The person who I thought was the love of my life...”

“Shhh. Calm down.” He interrupted.

“I am calm! It just sure feels like the person who supposedly cares about me is suggesting that I serve myself on a silver platter for my career.” At that point I was almost in tears.

“Now THAT is an Oscar performance Honey! Just save it for the camera. Don’t be chewing me out. You’re just a little overwhelmed by all these big decisions. Listen, just stay in LA, Honey. Forget Paris. You’ve been there already, anyway. Come on, you don’t want to be a model. Be an actress. Get to know Warren a little better. He’ll put you in his movies. You’ll be a star. I know you will.”

I didn’t think that Dick had my professional interests at heart, and he certainly didn’t want me going off and having all these amazing adventures without him. I could feel a tinge of sabotage and envy in his advice, but I ultimately chose his angle of staying in LA to pursue my acting career as justification for my final decision to turn down the offer. Kind of crazy because years later and only 2 IMDB credits to my name, I have to wonder what the hell I was thinking.

Not going to Paris to model has always stood out as a rather questionable decision in my life. I mostly blame my boyfriend’s influence when recounting that particular squelched opportunity, but, the truth is probably closer to my not wanting to lose those ten pounds. Ten pounds stood between me, and my life as a supermodel. Ok, well maybe that was part of it right there. I never really honestly felt like I could pull that one off.... supermodel? Not quite. As much as I secretly fantasized about possible glamor gigs, I don’t think I ever saw myself walking that walk, putting on that much make up every day, or being very super at doing any model-y kinds of things... like losing ten pounds.

I wasn’t really model material anyway. I wasn’t about to have body and food issues imposed on me. I was not the anorexic/bulimic type. I wasn’t about to sacrifice my napoleons and eclairs for the aesthetic judgment of the modeling world. I was comfortable enough in my body and felt just fine about it. I danced, I stretched, I did yoga, I ate bean sprouts, kale, vanilla bean ice cream, and pizza. So I had a little extra chocolate on my hips and some brie that settled nicely on my belly. So what?! Warren didn’t seem to be bothered by any of it.

But, let the whole truth come out. The whole ten pounds! The ten pounds of protection, the ten pounds of security, the ten pounds that would guarantee my safety and innocence, the ten pounds that perhaps kept me out of the lion’s den. I did have some apprehension as to the nature of the modeling opportunity I was presented with. Instinct, educated guess, or ruminating on a rumor, may have prevented my being indoctrinated into the world of model turned high-class call girl. I had heard stories. My imagination was a flutter with questions and colorful scenarios. My own personal Mr. Big was also Mr. Mysterious and Mr. Reputation. But I was so busy being Miss Naïve, Miss Denial, and perhaps even Miss Magical Thinking that I couldn’t really make sense of it at the time.

Oh what we feed ourselves to hold on to those pounds of protection. Well, I didn’t have to go find out. I didn’t want to be disillusioned, disappointed, let down, taken advantage of, compromised, or, disrespected. I didn’t want to do anything I might regret. Either way I was fucked. How to walk that fine line of having fun, running wild, enjoying life, going crazy, staying sane, living life to the fullest, maintaining a balance so as not to fall off the edge, or face not even having tried.

What is worse really, having ten-pound regrets, or regret not having them?

I really needed a mentor in the film industry. I was hoping to learn filmmaking, as an actress first. Then I would go on to write, direct, and produce. That was the idea. I wanted to do it all and I especially thought it prudent to learn from the best. I guess I might have needed a little guidance in matters of lovemaking as well, because that’s where we started. I was genuinely naive and open to insightful and discerning direction. So, there I was, trusting and obligingly sitting on his bed because that is where he had first instructed me to sit and take the interview. Who was I to question his extremely packed and impeccably coordinated schedule?! When in Rome or in a ridiculously famous filmmaker’s inner sanctuary, roll with it! Take two, or three, or twelve orgasms where you can get them. It was all part of the Method, right? I mean, I was built for love scenes. I knew that! I wasn’t going to skimp on love, or sex, or even seduction for that matter. I was eager to learn all the ropes.

So, when he looked into my innocent and equally lustful eyes, I gave it to him. I gave him my all. I gave him what he asked for. He was the director, I was the actress, and I would take as much direction as he would demand of me. He seemed especially pleased that I already knew how to have an orgasm. I did. I had figured that out quite young. I didn’t need anyone’s old cock for that. It was kind of like Lauren Bacall’s line as Slim, in To Have and Have Not. But it wasn’t lips, it was legs, and it wasn’t a blow but a squeeze. That did it every time. I actually had an easier time nailing an orgasm than whistling. I still can’t whistle well enough to call a cat. I can squeak a little air out of my mouth, but… I can come on cue.

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As I drove back down Benedict Canyon, back to my life on Flores Street in West Hollywood, I replayed the events of the evening like a Super 8 film rewound in slow motion, hand cranked to recapture the moment. The explicit detail. I had just met Warren Beatty. The Warren Beatty. The charming, enticing, libido enhancing Lothario of many people’s fantasies. I had looked into those dreamy eyes and pretty much answered any question he had. He had a lot of them. Half of them were not even spoken, and ended up being answered in soft moans, as he very skillfully made his way from my mouth to his targeted area of interest. He was quite captivated by my responses. My multiple responses to his one pressing question. He had indeed gone down on me and clearly opened the flood gates, but that’s as far as it went that night. Warren Beatty was between movies at the time I met him. I was between versions of myself. He had invited me back for more, and had even offered me time to reflect on what had just happened. I was still in a bit of a quandary.

Let me set the scene for you. Warren had this outdoor jacuzzi, that looked like you were swimming in a pond, built into the landscape. I felt like a mermaid, soaking in my element, assessing the situation. Of course I was naked. I didn’t bring a swimsuit. I didn’t know he was going to have an inviting lagoon!  He needed to get dressed for his event and instead of ushering me out the door, after demonstrating how much I had missed out on in terms of oral gratification, he suggested I might want to test the waters, perhaps cool off a little in the hot tub. I did.

So, I’m soaking it up in this famous movie star’s 5 star jacuzzi, thinking about the situation I’d gotten myself in, and the kinds of decisions I was going to have to make. Thinking that… if I have to sleep with someone in the business to get ahead... it might as well be Warren Beatty, right?! The whole point was to be in a Warren Beatty movie. Not in B movies or C movies or any of the X rated smut type movies I had been trying to avoid. I’m thinking, I don’t really want to have to sleep with any of the real creeps that had been coming on to me. That was my thought process, at the time, anyway. Just as I had acquiesced when Warren found out that I had never experienced cunnilingus and asked me if I would like him to oblige and do me the favor, I knew that any further inquiry wasn’t going to be met with much hesitation on my end.

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I didn’t know it at the time, but this was the audition.

Warren Beatty was between movies when I met him. He was between movies most of the time, it turned out. He only made movies every 3 to 5 years, so there was plenty of time to be meeting actresses he might want to work with down the line. In my mind, I fit the bill perfectly. I was new in town and taking my acting career seriously enough to go to the proper academy. I was also savvy enough to have figured out which directors I wanted to work with, and which, in turn, might be interested in the talent I had to offer. I certainly guessed right on Warren as he seemed very keen on meeting me. He had originally suggested I come by Paramount Studios, where I had sent the letter of introduction. That sounded more than exciting to me. But, then he changed the offer to meeting at his place, explaining that he usually worked from home. Who was I to question his creative process, or his intentions, for that matter? He wanted to meet me. I was beyond thrilled. I was to be meeting a director whose work I very much admired. I was flattered he wanted to meet me privately. It felt like a sign I was being taken seriously.

Warren Beatty had just won an Oscar for Best Director. His most recent film, Reds, had won 3 out of 12 Academy Award nominations. Reds had been nominated for Best Film, Best Actor, and Best Original Screenplay. This was a filmmaker at the top of his game. The movie star who parleyed his producer credits on Bonnie and Clyde into what was considered a turning point for American cinema. Becoming one of the highest-grossing films of 1967, Bonnie and Clyde was nominated for 10 Academy Awards and is considered one of the first films of the New Hollywood era and a landmark picture. I had been more than enthralled by Heaven Can Wait and Shampoo, as well. I would be meeting one of the most successful filmmakers ever.

My head was still swirling with everything that my acting teacher had suggested, as I drove up Benedict Canyon. I couldn’t tell if it was regret speaking when she told me that Warren was known for falling in love with his leading ladies, which she emphasized also meant making leading ladies of those he fell in love with. She had been very enthusiastic about it being an opportunity I would want to take advantage of as she insisted “think of it this way… you’ve done it for less!“ Well, I hadn’t really, but to Mr. Director’s house I did drive. It was an adventure filled with a myriad of emotions, most of them aligned with a healthy sense of curiosity and excitement. I found myself in front of a big white modern gate, looking like a life-size replica of what Lego might snap in place for extra security. It opened wide as I announced myself on the call box. I drove up a long winding driveway, way longer than most mansions in Los Angeles, at the very top of Mulholland Drive.

After a minute of contemplating my nerves and gathering my suddenly dispersing confidence, he finally opened the door, and there he was. Yep, definitely the actual real life Warren Beatty.

“You must be Lisa.”

“In the flesh.” I might have said, or something like that.

There was a slightly awkward moment where he just stood there taking me in.

“Your photo certainly doesn’t do you justice.” He finally offered as he motioned for me to come in.

“Well, it seems to have done the job.” I quipped in my defense.

That got a laugh out of him.

“Yes, I suppose it has. Who took it?” He wanted to know.

“My boyfriend.” I explained. “He’s a part time photographer. He loves fashion photography. We used to be fashion designers, actually.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, we sold to Macy’s in New York and even places out here. But we met at summer theater school back in Michigan.” I realized my introduction was not only ebullient, but all over the place.

“You’re a little more cheerful in person. The photo you sent me was pretty intense.”

“Yeah, well, he goes for the more dramatic looks. He always wants me to pout in photos.” I told him. “Were you expecting intense?”

“No, no, no. You look great. Come in.”

I followed Warren as he walked me through the living room.

It was sparse. Elegant. There were no knickknacks or antiques anywhere to be seen. Just a Degas ballerina atop the grand piano. Warren walked past the piano and towards a hallway. “Hang on a minute I’m just getting ready for an event tonight. I’ll be right back.”

I stood there taking in the living room. Everything was white. White walls, white couches, and big picture windows looking out in all directions. Stark modern windows to the world. Everything was designed for viewing. Warren lived on a mountain overlooking all the other crests. With a panoramic view of the San Fernando Valley as well as the Westside, impressive did not even begin to cover it.

He called to me from down the hall.

“Why don’t you just join me.” He said. “We may as well talk in here.”

I followed his voice down the hall to an open door. There he was, in what appeared to be his bedroom. I just walked right in. I wasn’t sure what else to do, so, I just acted like it was a normal everyday occurrence to be walking into Warren Beatty’s bedroom. I was used to figuring things out as I went, adjusting my behavior to match whatever the situation seemed to require. I had been raised on that “When in Rome” etiquette. I looked around for where to sit down and ended up on his bed. I certainly established that I took direction well. What was I supposed to do, hesitate? Act coy? I don’t know, maybe I did a little. He probably liked that all the more. All I know is that we ended up in his bedroom pretty darn fast. Perhaps the view was better there, or maybe it was a segue from showing me his very cool Jacuzzi, designed to blend in to nature, resembling more of a pond than anything man-made. I soon found out that 40-year-old men have a way of roping you into a conversation that inevitably ends up being played out in their bedroom, especially when they are Warren Beatty.

I ended up sitting at the edge of his bed while he rifled through his closet choosing just the right custom-made shirt for the particular occasion he was attending later that evening. He invited me to peruse through his closet as well. I was into clothes. They were mostly from the Western Costume Company, but he had plenty of Giorgio Armani in there as well. Because we had been clothing designers at 17, the subject of my boyfriend came up again. I did want to remind him that I wasn’t single, right? I told him we moved out together from Michigan. I told him that Dick was a big fan of his work as well. Somehow one thing led to another and I was telling him all about our sex life. I had to tell someone.

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I had heard from Warren Beatty. He had actually called me. I spoke to Warren Beatty for over half an hour. Just-turned-twenty-year-old me talking to forty-six-year-old him on the telephone. THE Warren Beatty. The actor, movie star, heart throb, who directed and produced his own movies and even wrote some of them. A quadruple threat. Talented for sure. THAT Warren Beatty. The one who Carly Simon wrote You’re So Vain about. The one who starred with Natalie Wood in Splendor in the Grass, Faye Dunaway in Bonnie and Clyde, and then romanced Diane Keaton in Reds. I had heard about all the other women in his life, Julie Christie, Goldie Hawn, Joan Collins, and Cher to name a few. I knew he was considered one of Hollywood’s most eligible bachelors, so I was thrilled that he was interested in meeting me. But, the fact that he had that kind of reputation was certainly a little disconcerting. What did he really want with me? I wasn’t even in his league.

So the following day, after class, I decided to approach my acting teacher, Hedy Sontag, at the Lee Strasberg Theater Institute, to ask for her take on the matter. I told her about Warren contacting me after sending photos and resumes to my top ten directors. He being one of the favorites on my list. I had just seen Reds. I was pretty smitten, in a barely out of high school girl crush kind of way. Hedy had mentioned his name in class once, when talking about another actor. She had known a few people, back in the day, who knew him. From the way she talked you got that she had been quite the aspiring starlet, but she seemed to me to be more of a character actor at this point. Rather petite, with light brown hair that had seen way more than its share of teasing, perms, and hairspray. She also wore big octagon glasses framing her heart-shaped but square-jawed face. She wore oversized shirts rolled up at the sleeves that matched the determination on her face, emphasized by hard-earned emphatic lines between her brows.

Hedy made an impression on me the first day I had been in her class. She was talking about having come out to Los Angeles from New York and couldn’t believe how fast time had flown by. She had just turned forty, which to an eighteen-year-old like me, at the time, seemed well into retirement age. She had been an actress, after all, and that was pretty much the prevailing message at the time. I remember thinking how odd that someone would feel so surprised to be a certain age. I mean come on, they had all that time to get used to the idea. She was acting like it happened overnight.  I looked up to Hedy for being that much older and wiser so it made sense, to me, to go to her for advice.

Hedy was stacking black folding chairs as I made sure we were alone after class. The rooms were all painted black. Black walls, black floors, black doors, black ceiling. All set up as a black box theater, but these were rooms on the second floor of the building, where classes were held, windows all blacked out as well.     

“He called you?” she responded with not as much surprise as excitement in her voice.

“Well, I had sent him a letter... along with my picture and resume.”

“Fantastic! My job is done.” She exclaimed with a smile.

“He wants to meet me.” I followed up in earnest.

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Even though we came to the City Of Angels as clothing designers, both Dick and I had aspirations in the film Industry. So choosing between Los Angeles and New York was that much easier. Besides, New York was just way too expensive. We would do New York once we had amassed our fortune in Hollywood making movies. We had won the state championship in dramatic duo back in high school, so when the fashion design thing didn’t pan out we were in the right place to follow any number of our dreams. Acting was at the top of the list. The boyfriend was a natural director, as well, directing me most of the time. What to wear, what music to listen to, which movies to go see. I went along with it all because I was still trying to figure out who I was. Part of me was very impressionable, super curious, and insecure enough to let myself be talked into any number of things. When someone presented themselves as having all the answers, I was inclined to give them enough benefit of the doubt to go ahead and prove it.

It was Dick’s big idea to write to all the directors I wanted to work with, which I did. I wrote a letter describing myself as a cross between Diane Keaton, Sissy Spacek, and Julie Christie and explaining that I was only nineteen and new to Hollywood. My headshot didn’t look a day over fourteen. I got some bites. I was pretty picky about the directors I would even consider working with. I chose 10 who were all super A-listers at the time. Why not start at the top? I don’t know why I expected Woody Allen to be the first to respond, I wasn’t even in New York. What a waste of postage that was. I just figured he would want to see what a cross between Diane, Sissy, and Julie would act like. Figured that would get him on the first flight out of LaGuardia just to check me out. Hah! Maybe I wasn’t young enough. We didn’t know that back then.

Why Keaton, Spacek, and Christie you might be wondering? Well, I felt like I came across as more of an Annie Hall type, personality wise, but with that raw and freckled Sissy Spacek look. But deep down inside I was all about Julie Christie. So, the combination would have nailed the acting echelon I would have cast myself in if I were to direct a feature film, which, in retrospect, is what I should have done. I should have gone to film school. But, I played the part of an especially innocent ingenue all too well, at auditions, and on my days off.

At the top of my list were Woody Allen, Frances Ford Coppola, Robert Redford, Brian DePalma, Martin Scorcese, Micheal Cimino, Robert Altman, Roman Polanski, Milos Forman, and Warren Beatty. Those were my top 10. I heard back from 3 out of 10. Not bad! The first to respond was Robert Redford, who had his secretary write me back to say that he wasn’t casting at the moment, but he thanked me for my letter. Wow. Well, that sure was nice of him! He certainly scored more points as a favorite director. We even shared a birthday, something I left out of the letter. I wonder if he would have cared about that? A bit of trivia I found out at my 9th grade Zodiac themed school dance, where we got note cards with a list of famous people who shared our birthday. I think there was even a computer that had matched us up, astrologically, with other school mates. Yikes. I don’t remember which of my classmates made the list, but I did have the same birthday as Shelley Winters, and Roman Polanski as well. Which brings me back to my list.

No, I never heard back from Polanski either. Probably too old for him as well. I did eventually get a call from Milos Forman, but that was still to come, a story for later. When I got a call one evening from someone claiming to be Warren Beatty, I thought, yeah, right! I gave him a hard time at first. I mean really, Warren Beatty calling me back himself? I don’t think so. Wouldn’t he have his secretary call or write me first, like Robert Redford? Then it dawned on me that it could be some assistant at Paramount pranking me, teasing me about having tried to write to Warren in the first place.

The caller took on somewhat of a rejected tone as he asked me earnestly,

“Well, didn’t you write this letter I have here?”

I suddenly felt flushed with embarrassment. What if it really was him? What do I say to that?

 “Well, yeah” I admitted hesitantly, “I just didn’t think you’d actually call.”

He laughed a little. “That was a very interesting letter.” He assured me.

“Thank you.” I replied, trying to recover from my embarrassment of initially blowing him off.

“Very interesting.... Julie Christie, huh?!”

“Sort of a cross between all three.” I explained.

“Really?!”

“Well, yeah, my boyfriend thought that was a pretty good description.” I maintained.

“Oh, so you have a boyfriend?”

“I do. I moved out here with him.”

“I see... and ... you’re 19?”

“Almost 20”

“Huh.. and… how old is he?”

“He’s actually younger than me, well, just a half year younger, but he was a whole grade younger in school.”

“You have pretty eyes.”

“Thank you”

“There’s something very natural about the photograph.”

“Well, yeah. I’m pretty much the natural type.”

“Do you have a great body?”

“What a question”

“I mean do you… are you aware of it?

“Oh yeah.” I said, very matter-of-factly.

“Do you keep in shape and all that stuff?”

“I try. I could do more I suppose, but yeah, I stay in shape.”

“That’s good. So, Lisa Marie… Verlo, is that Italian?”

“No, it’s Norwegian. It was originally spelled W, and the O had a line through it. But it’s pronounced Verlo, so my dad changed it to a phonetic spelling when he came over on the boat. He’s from Norway.”

“And your mom… is from where?”

“She’s from South Dakota”

“Is that where you moved here from”

“No, I came here from Michigan.”

“Where in Michigan?”

“Birmingham, it’s a suburb of Detroit. I was born in Flint. I’m not really from there, though. I never know where to say I’m from. I grew up all over the world.”

“Really?!”

“Yeah, I grew up in France, and the Philippines. We traveled a lot.”

He asked a lot of personal questions. I don’t know what I expected, I just didn’t believe... of all the directors I sent letters to, that he would be the one to call me. We talked for over 30 minutes. I had a Dictaphone back then, one of those really expensive answering machines that could record calls. Ten minutes into the call, I thought to turn it on. I wanted to capture his voice. Play it back and make sure it was really him. I mean, what if it was some assistant or someone at Paramount messing with me? So, I recorded our conversation.

After playing part of it back a couple times, I was pretty darn sure I had been talking to the real, actual, Warren Beatty. I didn’t play the whole thing back. It did make me cringe a little. But mostly at myself. The kind of cringe that some people get hearing their own voice on a recording, or seeing themselves on video. I sounded a bit nervous, a little flighty, insecure, I guess. He was asking such personal questions. I was answering them as best I could, trying to keep my cool, be mature, act experienced. I called my sister in Michigan to tell her the exciting news. I told her about recording him too. She wanted to hear it, of course, so I put the receiver up to the speaker on my Dictaphone answering machine and played it for my sister.

“Yeah, that’s gross!” She exclaims.

“That is Warren Beatty, right?”

“Sure sounds like him.”

“Can you believe he actually called me?!”

“Yeah, he’s kinda creepy.”

“Are you kidding?! He’s like Hollywood royalty!” I insisted.

“He’s just trying to pick you up. You know that, don’t you? He’s just being gross.”

“He’s amazing! He’s  an A-list director! A-plus, actually!”

“More like an A-hole!”

“He is a revolutionary producer... in a league of his own!”

“Yeah, his own harem!”

She was not a fan. She had been. She had a gigantic poster, the angelic version of him from Heaven Can Wait, taped up behind her bedroom door. Listening to the recording changed her mind about him. I didn’t hear the implications, the suggestions, the insinuations. I thought she was overreacting, and just a little envious, maybe. I mean, he was cool! He was hot! He was super smart. And he was interested in meeting me! Very interested. He asked me to call him in a couple days to set up a meeting. I felt awkward about calling him, so I suggested he call me when he was ready. Besides, didn’t assistants or secretaries do that kind of thing? Make the arrangements? Truth be told I felt kind of special when he insisted I call him and then gave me his personal number. I had Warren Beatty’s personal number. How cool is that?!

I called him that Wednesday, as instructed. He was on the other line when he took my call. We chatted for a little while. He took another call or two while I was on the line with him, asking me if I wouldn’t mind holding on for a minute. He didn’t put me on hold. I could hear his side of the other conversations. I guess he was on two different lines… or more. He was reminding someone to bring their tennis racket on one call, and then talking about trying a new kind of protein powder on another. He finally came back to our conversation suggesting I come by his office at Paramount Studio. But then, he changed it to... why don’t I just come up to his place, his house, up on Mullholand.

Wow, OK, so I was a little conflicted about the nature of the meeting since he wasn’t exactly making a movie or anything at that particular time. I had found out that much in our prior conversation. Meeting at Paramount would have been pretty exciting and impressive. But here he was, inviting me up to his house, his private residence. It was all so very overwhelming. Thrilling, yes, but there was a smidgen of hesitation, a few bees mixed in with those butterflies. I mean, sure, I’d heard about his reputation. Who hadn’t?! Curiosity was definitely in the driver’s seat, but I decided I could use some expert advice. I would ask my acting teacher about my predicament, get her take on the matter. They did not have a course at the Lee Strasberg Theater Institute that covered any of my questions. I’d have to ask her after class. In private.

My early days in Hollywood were full of optimism. I was good at joyful and excelled at exuberant. Enthusiasm was one of my most reliable assets. Paired with an equally robust curiosity, it helped me keep my chin up and reframe some very sketchy situations. Naiveté wasn’t just a flaw. It became a survival strategy. I often didn’t understand what was really being asked of me in auditions that presented themselves as legitimate. So I played along long enough to assess the likely outcomes, smiling while deciding whether it was time to leave.

I was certainly studying at a formidable institution, the Lee Strasberg Theater Institute. They weren’t handing out degrees or anything, which worried my Mom a bit, and Dad was definitely less than impressed. But some substantial actors had methodically made the grade there, the likes of Marilyn Monroe, Marlon Brando, Anne Bancroft, Dustin Hoffman, Jane Fonda, Al Pacino, Sally Field, Robert De Niro, and Julie Harris, just to name a few. I had seen Julie Harris perform The Belle Of Amherst as Emily Dickinson back in Detroit when she took it on tour after winning a Tony on Broadway. Possibly the most profound of influences guiding my thespian dream.

So, there I was, studying acting with Marc Marno and Hedy Sontag at the prestigious theater school on Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood. I was looking forward to learning a thing or two from Mr. Strasberg himself, who was teaching at his school in New York when I first started in Los Angeles, but it wasn’t to be. Lee was due to come out West that Spring but succumbed to a heart attack in February 1982. Marc Marno was very well respected and although his temperament took on a stern and serious note, he was a great mentor to many, myself included, so I was grateful to be in his class as much as it could be intimidating at times.

Hedy Sontag was another mentor and teacher of mine. She had worked closely with Amy Madigan and Rebecca De Mornay and suggested the three of us should meet or better yet, start a band together. Both of their stars shot up pretty fast at that time, so we never met. Hedy cast me as Marilyn Monroe and Shirley Temple who come to life and sing as posters on the wall in the production of Sam Shepard’s Angel City she was directing at the Institute. Singing as Marilyn and Shirley all in one show certainly took some acting chops so I was grateful for the experience, but I would have never thought to cast myself as Marilyn Monroe. Hedy saw something in me that I didn’t, but I took on the challenge with true ingenue enthusiasm. Marilyn wasn’t even on my radar of favorite actresses, my idol was Katharine Hepburn. But, I watched as many of Marilyn’s films as I could get my hands on, and read whatever books and biographies I could find, and by the end, I was a big fan, singing Diamonds Are A Girl’s Best Friend in my most impressive Marilyn Monroe “Method” impersonation. I was a pretty reluctant sex symbol though, I was doing some serious acting. I felt more comfortable singing On the Good Ship Lollipop and impersonating a five year old Shirley Temple. That’s where my head was at. Hedy was grooming me for Hollywood I guess, with extreme ends of the spectrum

I took some dance classes and voice lessons as well, studying with Elizabeth Sabine who made a name for herself teaching her special vocal techniques to heavy metal singers. One of her tricks of the trade was to tighten the diaphragm and cry like a baby to reach high notes, to yell and scream with ease, without ruining vocal cords. Axl Rose, of Guns N’ Roses, was one of her private pupils, so he wasn’t in my class, but I sure got a kick out of imagining him crying like a baby for his craft. Another thing I’ll never forget about Ms. Sabine, was some secret advice she gave us one day, when we happened to be all women in the class. She shared some tips of her beauty regimen which included taking a rinse, at the end of a warm or hot shower, in really cold water. She claimed it kept her breasts perky and firm. She looked pretty gorgeous for her six decades, so I took the tip to heart. It might have worked for a while or at least balanced out my penchant for soaking in the nearest jacuzzi. My breasts did get a lot of attention as they were, even under big old sweaters or sweatshirts. I really didn’t need them any perkier. Just foreshadowing a little exposure here. My breasts upstaged me on a number of occasions. I had to learn to share the limelight and keep smiling.

As much as the Strasberg Institute had to offer in terms of acting technique, there were zero classes available focused on the business end of the acting experience. No Representation 101 courses on finding an agent or a manager. No info given on how to distinguish a legitimate audition from those hoping to snag a few good actors looking to make an extra buck performing phone sex. Absolutely no guidance given at all on how to handle oneself on a casting call, in a casting office, or on the infamous and often cleverly disguised casting couch. We were on our own.

I always thought of myself as pretty tough, but I did cry often enough to feel in touch with my emotions. I wasn’t going to be easily deterred from an acting career, so I certainly needed to cultivate a good poker face, but also had to be ready with tears when the occasion called for it. I was generally happy, upbeat, and to some, even over-the-top optimistic and ebullient. I didn’t really realize, until much later in life, that I was probably masking a good deal of depression. I wasn’t aware enough to admit it to myself at the time. I felt brave and adventurous, competent and confident. I thought I could handle anything. I coped as best I could. But, thinking back, I do remember spending hours in bed when I didn’t have a class to attend, an audition to go on, or friends to hang out with. I spent hours watching reruns of Bewitched and I Dream of Jeannie wishing magic really was a thing. I see it as masked depression, now. I really didn’t know what to do with myself. I had a part time job as a window dresser and interior display coordinator at the super hip clothing boutique Camp Beverly Hills. I made enough money to get by on, only working a few days a week. The rest of the time I spent pursuing my acting career, or, sulking, as it turns out. I think I spent a fair amount of time cocooning from the harshness of the entertainment industry environment.

I had some exciting interviews, some potential casting opportunities, a few legitimate auditions, for sure, but there were quite a number of questionable situations I did not have a handbook for. There were probably more sleazy set-ups than proper tryouts. It became exhausting and downright demoralizing, showing up at some of the addresses listed on Drama-Logue’s casting call, or calling numbers I came across in Daily Variety or the Hollywood Reporter. I can’t even believe a lot of the “auditions” I went on. I wouldn’t even dare knock on some of the doors I approached. Just turned around and left. I wasn’t stupid. Well, compromised enough to show up alone, but not dumb enough to walk through those suspicious doors all by myself. Sometimes they were tough calls, though, as I didn’t always want to assume the worst. Some of the auditions may have been legitimate, or operating on a shoestring budget. Some of the extremely low budget films might have held auditions in someone’s garage, a guest house, a back office, or a living room. It was hard to know. Most of the time, I had to go on gut instinct. I may have missed out on some epic productions. Who could tell? Other times it would be made clear that they wanted to see skin. Would I take my top off? How much nudity would I be comfortable with? When I would question whether it was outright pornography they were making, it wasn’t always made clear, or flatly denied. “We want actresses who can really act”, they would say, “we want it to be believable.” Sometimes there would be a sign on a front door, directing traffic to the side gate around the back yard. I would wait around for someone else to show up, another actress or two, looking for safety in numbers. If there was nobody else around, I became conflicted and felt upset at having wasted my time driving there. Back then you pretty much had to show up to get a good look at the building, and find out if it was, in fact, a casting office, or rather someone’s private “studio’ down an alley and up a flight of stairs. There was no Google Earth with which to scan the street and check out the location first. All we had back then were Thomas Guides, thick spiral-bound atlases featuring detailed street maps of various large metropolitan areas in the U.S. Los Angeles was so sprawling, there were actually five different Thomas Guides that covered the whole Los Angeles area. There were also lots of areas in L.A. designated as multiple use with both business and residential zoning, so offices, studios, and bedrooms could be anywhere.

When I had my first audition on one of the major studio lots, I felt I had finally arrived. I had an audition at MGM Studios, but, I didn’t get there alone. I had also finally figured out how to find an agent. I had asked around for recommendations, and soon found out that it was a good idea to start with a smaller agency, than to take a shot at William Morris, which would be nearly impossible to land without any credits to my name. Attending the Lee Strasberg Institute wasn’t enough. I learned faster than anything that it was all about contacts and introductions, who you know who might know someone who mattered

First I needed headshots, of course. That was easy. Dick loved playing photographer so he pretty much art directed the whole photo shoot, even instructing me not to smile. They came out pretty intense, but they ended up getting me into some pretty impressive doors, so he obviously knew what he was doing. Then I had to put a little creativity into my resume, build it up a little. I had won first place in state, in Dramatic Duo, back in Michigan. That must count for something, another kudo that came out of the partnership I had with Dick. After all, we had met at a summer theater camp. We both had thespian inclinations and when he transferred to my high school, my senior year, his junior, we both got involved in the forensics team. We chose to compete in Dramatic Duo, doing a selection from The Elephant Man. I played Mrs. Kendall. Dick was, you guessed it, Joseph Merrick, the Elephant Man. We competed our way to state champions, so THAT definitely went on my resume. I listed all the other major roles I had in drama class and summer school, plus some after school performances of a musical I was involved in at the community center. It was sort of a PSA, an original production aimed at encouraging the local youth to stay off drugs and not drink too much. I was a creative square, so it was kind of up my alley. Besides, I got to sing and dance and act up a little storm, all for a good cause. The rest of my resume was all skills. I came up with quite a few, ending up with “standing on my head for a very long time”. That garnered me a few extra looks and questions, so, I guess it worked.

Once I assembled a list of decent agencies, I stopped by the one on the top of my list, Writers & Artists in Beverly Hills, looked at the big old plaque next to the door, and walked right in. My timing ended up being pretty good because as I dropped off my picture and resume, including a cover letter, one of the head agents was there and had me come into his office for a brief interview. He decided to test me out and sent me on my first audition for a legitimate film. It was a Columbia Pictures production and I was up for the lead role in a movie called Sylvester. No big break yet, but I got a call back. I found out later that Melissa Gilbert, of Little House on the Prairie fame, got the part. How could I compete with a name like that? Besides, she had tons more acting experience than me, and honestly, it was a movie about a girl and her horse so I’m sure her riding experience was far greater than mine, as well. I was actually a little relieved not to have to prove myself on a horse. I had ridden before, but it was my sister who was the equestrian in the family. I just rode western a couple of times. Apparently word got back about a good audition, so the agency ended up sending me on a few more. I was also up for the roll of Nancy in the film Sid & Nancy and read for the casting director Victoria Thomas. I think I looked a little young for that one. I would be turning 20 soon but didn’t look a day over 16. I could still play a high school student convincingly. That would come to haunt me, but hey, most people don’t complain about looking too young, unless they’re trying to get into clubs and snag alcoholic beverages.

I was still scouring the trades for auditions. My agents weren’t sending me out every day or anything. When I came across an audition at AFI, the American Film Institute, I was super excited. They were looking for someone to play a high school student, the lead, in a film called Belle. Little did I know what was in store for me there, but I’ll need a whole chapter for that, and will get to it eventually, but first, the more exciting adventures. It ends up, when it comes to the entertainment industry, the horror shows can be operating in plain view, and nobody says anything about it. It’s as if it were part of the audition. If you can put up with all the exploitation, if you can act like harassment and manipulation don’t bother you, then you really ARE an actress! You’ve got to want it really bad to put up with all that egregious behavior. These were the hoops one would need to jump through. I never asked how high, I just bit my bottom lip to keep the tears in check, until I could slip into a comfy cloak of denial. Then, I’d smile. I wasn’t doing it for others. I had read about the act of smiling as a way to positively affect our attitude and mental health. I was smiling for sanity too, and yeah, to keep those catcallers in check with their jeering and hooting. Somewhere along the way, I started to believe the performance. I believed I was happy.

And then one day, I met the actor, director, producer of my dreams. Warren Beatty.

The smile got a little brighter.

Since the boyfriend and I were finally having sex as an occasional activity in our relationship, we decided to move the action from the Midwestern mecca of Michigan out to Los Angeles, California. Made sense at the time. I left home on the 4th of July, 1981. A statement of independence that felt fitting. We packed Dick’s blue racing stripe emblazoned white Ford Mustang, with all of our belongings, which isn’t so hard to do at eighteen, and took off for the West Coast. We would drive across the country to California.

We hadn’t counted on the holidays throwing a wrench in finding lodging the first night out. We had done a fair amount of traveling, but mostly to hotels we had reserved ahead of time. We had gone on quite a few business trips, as 17 year old fashion designers do, to big cities like NY, San Francisco, and Los Angeles. We had not counted on obscure little Midwestern towns being at motel capacity for the 4th of July. We were winging it. We passed No Vacancy signs for miles and miles before we finally found a motel to finally crash in, hours past our intended destination, that night. The honeymoon suite was all that was available. We took it as a meaningful reward. I think we were too tired to anoint the bed with sex, though. I remember the highlight of the late night early morning arrival when Dick announced the laying of the largest log of his lifetime.  He felt the need to call me into the bathroom to bear witness to the accomplishment. It was that kind of relationship. We were clearly still kids. Adults don’t do that sort of thing without good reason or serious health concerns.

The first place Dick and I lived when we moved to LA were the Oakwood Garden apartments, off Barham boulevard just South of Warner Brothers Studios. Industry people from out of town were put up there when they came to Los Angeles to film. The cast of Annie was there at the time so we felt pretty much in the middle of movie making from the get go. I wouldn’t have known who Aileen Quinn was though, and at 18 I certainly wouldn’t have been hanging out with 10 year olds. I didn’t run across Carol Burnett or Bernadette Peters either, but I’m sure they must have been put up in a swankier place, unless they happened to live in LA at the time.

The apartments were fully furnished. Not to our taste though. It was more like staying in a Howard Johnson or a Holiday Inn Motel. The kind of hotels we had been staying at, courtesy of Dick’s Dad, were places like the St. Francis in San Francisco, the Westwood Marquis in Los Angeles, and the Waldorf Astoria in New York. We had been making the rounds as young fashion designers, so we had already scoped out LA from the perspective of hip, up and coming street-wear entrepreneurs. We had been selling our garments on Melrose Ave and Abbot Kinney. That was back when Abbot Kinney was just a strip of warehouses, artist lofts, and studios with an eye on creating a scene and being that much edgier than main street.

We ended up finding an Art Deco apartment building, built in the 20s and situated in the heart of West Hollywood, on Flores street between Santa Monica Boulevard and Fountain Avenue. Part of our decision to move to Los Angeles instead of New York, besides more agreeable weather, was that there were a couple clothing companies possibly interested in taking us on. We had grown too big for our bespoke britches and couldn’t keep up with orders from the Gap or Macy’s. We were poised to make a pop couture splash. But, we were sinking! We didn’t really know what we were doing, and did it anyway.

This is the way it had gone down. We shopped at a very cool store back in Birmingham, Michigan called Mark Keller’s. Mark brought hip, edgy, and inventive attire to the ultra-preppy suburb of Detroit. We wanted clothing to match our interest in New Wave, Glam Rock, and early alternative music. We were listening to Bowie, the B52s, Devo, and Adam Ant. So, when we decided to get artsy together and print up some unique t-shirts and sweatshirts, we were a hit as local fashion forward types, selling at Mark’s cool boutique. When we ran low on suppliers of 100% cotton T-shirts and sweatshirts, we decided to design our own clothes. That turned into buying fabric from a mill in North Carolina, contracting with a pattern maker in Kalamazoo Michigan, having the garments sewn in California, and then shipping them back to Michigan to sort and distribute to the boutiques we had made connections with on our various trips to New York, San Francisco, and Los Angeles. All on Dick’s dad’s dime, until we started seeing some real revenue. Are you doing the math in your head? Good, because we didn’t. It all came out red. We even rented office space in a tall modern office building in another posh suburb of Detroit. We were doing it right at someone else’s expense, but Dick’s dad was a gambler and very supportive of his son’s talents and abilities. We probably could have benefited from a class in business 101, but Dick had been running a skateboard business his whole teenage-hood so that stood for something. We went from a few orders of 20 to 40 pieces in small boutiques, to over a thousand or more as a sample order from the Gap. We would have needed a million dollars in backing to keep going. Dick’s dad wasn’t willing to risk that. We had to find a larger company to take us on. Because of our ties to production in California, we had some interest out there. So that’s how we ended up in Hollywood.

Dick had a bunch of his dad’s old furniture sent out by moving van once we found our Art Deco apartment in West Hollywood. By old furniture, I’m taking collectible antiques like Herman Miller side tables and stackable glass-fronted Globe Wernicke tiger oak bookshelves. He gave us an old Stickley desk and a couple of Mucha and Chéret Art Nouveau Belle Époque posters for the walls. I had hoped he would throw in a Gallé vase or an extra Tiffany lamp he might happen to have lying around, but we were pretty well set up by the time we moved into that one-bedroom fourth-story apartment with a prime view of adjacent La La Land .

I didn’t even know what entitlement meant back then. All I knew, at the time, was being fully supported in terms of living accommodations and sustenance. We were dining at Mr. Chow’s in Beverly Hills, having breakfast at Duke’s coffee shop down the street, or stopping for a bagel at Canter’s Deli whenever we needed a snack. I ended up getting a job at Camp Beverly Hills, one of the stores we had sold to, because ultimately we were turned down by the potential parent companies. They were just not willing to take on the risk that Dick’s Dad had in backing us. I didn’t mind so much. I liked designing clothes and all, but I did not care for the business end of things, besides, I had other aspirations.

I wanted to be an actress. A serious actress. A method actress! So, I enrolled at the Lee Strasberg Theatre Institute to study acting. We did a lot of chair exercises. That’s where you sit in a chair, and connect with your feelings. Under supervision, of course. You pay a lot of money for that kind of experience. You don’t want to try that at home. But, back to my sex life, speaking of chair exercises. Turns out my boyfriend wanted to be tied up. But not entirely. He wanted his “package” tied up. Yep, tied up, pulled back, out of the way. Forcibly moved into another position, less protruding. So, I obliged. That’s what he was into. My experience started and ended with him. I was a rather inexperienced fifteen year old when we met, just turning sixteen and quite impressionable. He wasn’t all that experienced himself, so it felt safe, sort of. Safe, but a little daunting.

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Spending 15 minutes in Andy Warhol’s aluminum-foil-lined Factory, explaining to Andy himself why my seventeen-year-old fashion-designer partner and I couldn’t stay in New York another week to be featured in Interview Magazine, has become an epic bookmark in the timeline of pivotal choices I have made in my life. Regret doesn’t even come close. Life altering? Absolutely. Insane? Diagnostically plausible.

But when life showers fame on the unprepared, we asked for a rain check. We did. We weren’t crazy, just not mature enough to realize this was a once-in-a-lifetime moment. That it might be wise to say yes to the Wednesday photo shoot, check into a cheap hotel, and then spend the next five days preparing for a career making spread in Interview Magazine.

What were we thinking? Honestly, we weren’t.

I have spent a few cocktail parties recounting my short visit with Andy Warhol. It falls into the category of name dropping not only as a hopeful career strategy, but as a tactic of making it through social gatherings in which I was unable to locate any of my tribe, so, I would at least have THAT to talk about. Not that those details ever garnered me any exclusive invitations. I mean, hey, I had turned down Andy Warhol, clearly I didn’t care about ultra cool culture club inclusion.

Telling the story now only serves as a reminder, not only about the serendipity of being at the right place at the right time, but knowing how to navigate such stellar alignments. Just as the rule in improvisation dictates to always go with the “Yes, and…” attitude, it turns out that’s also a determining factor of serendipitous fate well played. We pretty much royally wiped out on Warhol. Botched up that pop art encounter! A feature in Interview magazine was the ultimate pre-Internet exposure anyone could possibly hope for back then. We shoulda, woulda, and coulda ridden that wave into fabulous fashion success.

How did two high school students from the suburbs of Detroit Michigan even end up in New York City’s fashion scene in the first place? Tada! Enter MODWEAR! The hippest teen brand never to have strutted the catwalks of Milan. Because of Dick’s background designing t-shirts for skateboard teams, we started to get creative printing Letraset graphics on cotton jersey. I had stitched together a button down shirt, collar and all, out of wrapping paper one Christmas, and had even sewn myself a prom dress. Already having made a few fashion statements of my own, Dick and I came up with some cool t-shirt and sweatshirt designs that turned into a line of clothing we called MODWEAR as a nod to Quadrophenia. We were definitely Mods over Rockers. As fate would have it, I would have more than a fleeting connection to The Who in my future. But, back then, I was a big Roger Daltrey fan, so when Dick came up with the idea of using Pete Townshend’s band and creation as inspiration for our brand, I was all for it.

Our original line had big bold graphics. A huge yellow triangle, with a hole in it and dashes on top, printed on a royal blue sweatshirt. Matching sweatpants zippered open to a complimentary colored triangle at the bottom cuff. Graduating ellipses cascaded down sleeves. We even had a nod to Motown with horizontal rectangular dashes cruising down the arms and a line art drawn Buick driving across the chest. When we ran out of dry goods to print on, we started designing all kinds of ideas to make out of fleece. We had cheerleader style dresses, trucker jackets, Charley Brown shirts, all made out of sweatshirt fabric. Cool, cozy, creative! We were on to something. We exploded on the scene the same season as Norma Kamali came out with her line of fleece wear. I had a couple of her bathing suits in my drawer, but the idea of sweatshirt clothing must have been in the ether.

We ended up flying all over the country, meeting with department stores, buyers, boutique owners, and dry goods suppliers, just being your typical teenage jet setting designers. We took business trips to San Francisco and Los Angeles, staying at the Saint Francis and the Westwood Marquis. We sold to boutiques on Melrose and dined at places like Mr. Chow in Beverly Hills. Who does that?! Sure, we sold some clothes here and there, but we spent most of our money on business trips, meeting with buyers, and living the life of legit seventeen-year-old fashion-designers. That, of course, meant going to all the cool clubs, concerts, and ultra-hip restaurants.

So, that’s how we ended up in the Big Apple. We were also there to meet with Bob Colacello about putting an ad in Interview Magazine, as one does when trying to get a fledgling design house to fly. As we waited in the front office, a little early for our scheduled appointment, we stood next to a wall of Interview Magazines in awe of actually being in the famed building on 34th and Madison Ave. When Bob came out to greet us, Dick did most of the talking. Bob was blown away with us being so young and on the cutting edge of couture. He told us to hold on a minute, he just knew Andy would want to meet us. Bob came back to fetch us and lead us through a door.

There he was, Andy Warhol, in his famous studio he called the Factory. The ceiling and various columns were covered with tin foil, the walls were painted silver to match. Andy was working on paintings of Halston shoes the size of elevator doors. He approached us and extended his arm, his frigid, limp, and clammy hand shaking mine as Bob Colacello introduced us. Dick did most of the talking again. He was good at that. Andy thought it was super impressive that we had made it as far as we had being self-made teenaged fashionistas. He told Bob he wanted to do a page or two on us and asked what day would work to schedule us in for a photoshoot. Bob suggested the following Wednesday. Andy turned to me.

“What do you think of these?” He asked.

“Do you know what this is?” He pressed, not waiting for an answer and picking up a container of what looked like sparkling sand. “Diamond dust,” he says. “This is diamond dust.”

“Wow are those real ground up diamonds?” I asked rather wide-eyed?

“Well, it certainly looks like it, doesn’t it.” He exclaimed and then added “Isn’t that beautiful” as another statement, not a question. Diamond dust shimmered like iridescent cement on the canvas.

“It’s fantastic.” I replied. “I just love anything opalescent, metallic, or sparkly.”

“Do you like diamonds?” He queried.

“Well, I don’t really have any, but sure. I certainly wouldn’t turn them down.” I confessed.

“That a girl. Your dress is great, by the way. Is that one of your creations? What do you call it, Modern Wear?”

“Modwear.” Dick corrected him.

“Right! MODwear, even better.” Exclaimed Andy.

“We call that one our cheerleader dress.” Dick explained.

“That’s great! Well, let’s get you in here next Wednesday for the shoot and we’ll take it from there.”

That’s when everything went south. Dick explained that we were due to leave the following day. It was a Friday and we had tickets on a flight out the next morning.

“Call us before your next trip out to New York then, we’ll fit you in.” Andy invited.

“That’s right.” Bob assured us. “We’ll work something out.”

We made our way back to the Sherry Netherland Hotel reeling in the exchange we had just experienced and wondering what to do with ourselves on our last evening in New York City.

We had already painted a good swath of the town. We had seen Blondie at CBGBs and the Talking Heads at the Mud Club. We had even made it into Studio 54 the night before we met Andy. We had shown up in a limo. They let us right in. It helped that we were dressed way too cool for school. That was the fun part for me, designing clothes and dressing up. The business part, I wanted nothing to do with. That was more Dick’s domain. He’s the one who opened doors for us. I just walked right through them. I don’t think they did much carding at Studio 54 back then. I mean, I was seventeen going on twelve! Seriously, I had a real baby face, but nobody asked for my ID. I used to get teased about looking so young back in middle school. In Middle school you want to look older and cool. But, I didn’t. I was told I looked a lot like Linda Blair… in the Exorcist! I didn’t get it. My head did NOT spin around, except maybe at Studio 54. But things told to you in Middle school stick. So, I had a baby face. I looked naive, and gullible, and invited a lot of speculation about my age, which doesn’t particularly bother me now, but back then, I had to prove myself.

Not this time. We were definitely in. There was a pulse you could hear from outside that grew louder as we made our way through the throng. Dick acted like he had been there before, or at least knew where he was going. He always acted like that. They call it confidence. He had confidence in spades. I followed him. He had never been there before but he was pretty good at navigating crowds. He pulled me towards a stairway and up we went. I walked slower than him. I had heels and clothing to manage. I had polyurethane pants on, more like leggings, (before leggings were a thing) that I swore I would never wear again. Too sweaty. Too tight. Way too uncomfortable to move around in. Dick had picked them out. Then there was the bra strap that didn’t want to stay tucked away, so I had to wrangle that back under the off-the-shoulder spandex top I was tolerating.

We made it past some booths and towards a balcony that overlooked the dance floor. I didn’t know which way to look. Lots of activity going on. I’d heard it could get a little risqué, so I didn’t look into any dark corners as much as curiosity implored. I had a proper upbringing, so I only “acted” like I fit in, glancing around long enough to appear like I was comfortable in this kind of scene. We finally reached the rail and could now peer down at the dance floor, an undulating sea of bodies, streetwear, and costumes. Plenty of skin, for sure, lots of lycra, tulle, and the occasional flashing of sequins. Columns of lights rose up from the parquet dance floor and were a bit blinding. A neon King Kong beat his chest under a neon American flag, next to a neon Cowboy calling shots high above the disco crowd.

I would like to give you more detail, but the truth is, I had recently been given a prescription for eyeglasses. Rather annoyed at having to wear eye obstructing yet vision improving aids, I decided I would at least go with a pair that made their own fashion statement. I chose electric blue glitter glasses. A pair Elton John might have had in his collection. But, because they didn’t really go with my getup as carefully curated accouterment that evening, I wasn’t wearing them. Therefore, I may have been newly diagnosed but I was still my normal near-sighted self. Everything was more of an impressionistic version of what I might have otherwise experienced. I could tell you that there were male and female bodies that looked a lot like acrobats or strippers, depending on the angle, and then there were those straight off the Village People stage. It was a titillating circus for sure. I just didn’t really recognize anyone famous due to the combination of disco lighting, my challenged vision, and being more than a smidge self-conscious. I know they were all there though. They had to be. The place was in full swing of its heyday and I was just a teenaged babe in the woods of debauchery.

But back to my Warhol lament. Because we were staying at the Sherry Netherland hotel and putting ridiculous amounts of money, by late 70s standards anyway, on Dick’s dad’s credit card. It just didn’t occur to us to ease up on the spending a little, in order to stay in New York, and be featured in the Who’s Who of all magazines at the time. I would love to be able to look back and read up on who somebody else thought I was back then. Besides misplacing my good judgement on a sparkling opportunity offered up to me, I also managed to lose my virginity that week as well.

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I lost my virginity on the second floor of the Sherry Netherland hotel in New York. I had finally deciding to give it up anyway. So, Dick went and lost it for me and that was that! Wasn’t all it was cracked up to be at the time, so I don’t think he cared if he ever saw my stunned and somewhat frazzled pussy ever again. Wasn’t his to worry about anyway. He just played with it now and then. I was the one with all the responsibilities; woke it up, got it dressed, kept it clean, made sure it didn’t get into any trouble. Took it to church on Sundays, because that was the only thing experienced adults ever told you to do with it. I was taking all these precautions, trying to have a little fun during low risk off-season. But that wasn’t enough! I had to take it to the doctor and put it on a bunch of pills before I could really cut loose. Had to lie on my back, legs up in frickin’ stirrups, thighs to the wind, with someone’s Grandpa breathing down my privates. I had to relax to the smell of latex gloves, a cold metal contraption pushing past labia, and the sound of heavy medical breathing passing itself off as deep bush etiquette.

So, there I was, just happened to be in New York City one month after my office visit, the very day the pill would go into effect. There we were, losing it in a rather fancy overstuffed hotel, doing the inevitable in a responsibly carefree kind of way. Having spit in the face of spontaneity months before, opting for security and reassurance, but no real guarantee, and definitely no hope of ever getting it back again once I lost it. Dick forfeited his virginity too, but for some reason, it’s always thought of as a win when guys lose it!

“Are you ok?” He wanted to know.

I may have been wincing a bit. It didn’t exactly not hurt.

“Yeah.” I bluffed. “Are you ok?” I countered.

“We could probably use a little more practice” He said matter-of-factly, in no way suggesting another round.

“Yeah, probably.” I agreed.

“I mean, not now, but in general.” He reassured me.

“I’m sorry. I guess I was a little uncomfortable.” Adding quickly “I mean, being in a strange hotel and everything.” I clarified.

“I wouldn’t call it strange, it’s a five star hotel.” He reminds me.

“Well, yeah, it’s nice.” I demurred. “Definitely memorable.” I assured him.

“I can’t believe we actually met Andy Warhol.” He exclaimed as he fell back into a big baroque bronze and cobalt jacquard couch, flanked by gold embossed floral brocade pillows.

“His hand was so cold.” I added as I inspected a silk tassel swinging from an adjacent cushion.

“It was, wasn’t it?! Cold and clammy!”

“I can’t believe he wants to put us in the magazine.” I continued.

“That’s pretty much free advertising.” Dick added with a satisfied smile.

“I thought we were there to buy an ad though.” I inquire while habitually braiding the strands of tassel.

“We were, but I guess that’s why Bob wanted Andy to meet us. They thought it was so wild that we’re only seventeen.”

“Andy’s the one who brought up featuring us in the magazine, right?” I clarify.

“Well, yeah, it’s his magazine! He can do want he wants. Bob’s just the editor.”

“So, do we still buy an ad?” I wonder.

“I don’t know. I guess we should.” He admits.

“Shouldn’t we stay and do the spread though? Why did you tell them we have to leave tomorrow?” I ask as I snuggle back into an oversized sweatshirt.

“We can’t afford to stay here until Wednesday. My dad is paying for the hotel, but it’s $350 a night. Five more days would be $1,750! We can’t do that to him. That’s pretty much what the ad is going to cost.”

“Let’s just check into a cheap motel then.” I insist.

“This is New York, Lisa. I’m not staying in a sleazy cheap motel.”

“I can’t believe you want to reschedule. What if we never come back?!”

“We’ll be back. We got a big order from the Gap. We’re coming back to meet with Barney’s. Don’t worry. Trust me. I got us into studio 54 didn’t I?” He reminds me.

“Yeah, that was wild. We weren’t on a list or anything? They let us in just because we showed up in a limo?”

“Because you’re gorgeous, and we know how to dress. The limo helped.”

“Who paid for the limo?” It finally occurred to me.

“I put it on my dad’s card.” He admits.

“And he’s ok with that?” I almost hesitate to ask.

“Hey, it’s part of doing business. Look, all we have to think about is where we want to move after high school. What do you think? Do you like it here in Manhattan, or should we move to LA?”

“I always wanted to live in California.” I confess. “I like visiting New York, it’s just so crowded... and noisy”

“Yeah, pretty expensive too! How about we make our fortune in LA and then we come back here when we can afford to be bicoastal? New York has more theatre, LA is where movies are made, but we can be in the fashion business anywhere. I mean, come on, if we can do it in Detroit, we can do it anywhere!”

“I’d rather make movies anyway. I like designing clothing and all, but I really want to go to theatre school.” I admit with a sigh.

“Hey, let’s go see a movie.” He exclaims, taking me by surprise.

“Right now?”

“Yeah, come on, let’s go. The Man Who Fell to Earth is playing over at the Plaza.”

“What did you decide about going to film school?” I ask, reminded of another conversation we left hanging.

“I don’t know. What are they going to teach me at film school, anyway? I’ve probably seen more movies than most of the professors.”

“But don’t you need to go to film school to be a director?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“We don’t need film school to make movies. We just need money. Modwear is gonna make us money, honey. With a spread in Interview, the orders will start pouring in!”

“That’s why I think we should stay until Wednesday.” I insist.

“We can’t afford it. And I’m not staying in some sleazebag motel. We’ll come back. Don’t worry. Let’s go see the movie. Come on, Honey Bunny, don’t you wanna see David Bowie? It’s playing at the Plaza, right across the street.”

Well, that’s how you dash a dream.

Back in Detroit, when the order from the Gap came in, well, that was our day of reckoning. The question wasn’t whether we could fill it or not, we couldn’t. We weren’t prepared for those numbers. The question was, could we find more backing? Dick‘s dad was not ready for that kind of investment. We needed a million dollars in seed money to produced that kind of harvest. That’s how we ended up in Hollywood. We made the move to LA to meet with some big clothing companies who ended up turning us down because we were so young. I was eight months older than my partner in entrepreneurial endeavors and my interest in theater and acting had a greater pull than my intellect had on my internal compass, so I dropped fashion design for theatre school without a second thought.

Hollywood had just landed another hopeful!

Dick was my first boyfriend. My first formal boyfriend anyway. The kind you decide to be exclusive with. My first “love”. We wrote love notes to each other anyway. He called me his Love Unit, so, I called him my Love Unit. We were a team. Partners. We were fashion designers and movie buffs. We made plans. We had goals. We were dreamers. He was my Romeo, I was his Juliet. Of course we didn’t know anything about heartbreak, or betrayal, or what being and then staying in love actually requires. We were just two kids trying on the idea of romance like an oversized costume. Our parents certainly didn’t have anything to say about it. They didn’t even know each other. We were babes in the woods. He lived in Huntington Woods, I lived 6 miles north in Birmingham, Michigan. When we met at summer theater school in Bloomfield Hills, we happened to be sitting next to each other on a grassy hill during the Introductory exercises and ended up having to interact. Dick showed me his scabs, big long crusty cluster of scabs on his forearm. A motorcycle accident he told me. This was supposed to impress me. It didn’t. But his knowledge of film and interest in making movies caught my attention. He had plans of being a director. I realized I had fallen for him, his stories, and his acting when he finally admitted weeks later that his now healed wound was really due to a skateboarding wipeout. He thought the motorcycle story sounded cooler, as though I would be more impressed with someone who crashed a bike. It was his sheepish confession that really got me. I fell for his need to come clean more than his bravado.

He was no hobbyist skateboarder though. He had his own company. He ordered parts,  set up boards, designed T-shirts, sponsored teams. He had a whole business going since the age of 13. Now that impressed me! I was older than him by a whole half year, and a full grade in school, but he had it going on. He was cool. The first time he invited me over to his house, I was in awe. His dad collected art. Their house was pretty humble on the outside, but inside, a freaking treasure-trove. The feel was more cozy antique store vibe than stark museum presentation. Creatively casual. Lived in. Extra-large Art Nouveau posters by Mucha and Jules Chéret conquered the walls. Windows covered with glass scaffolding lined with Cameo vases by Emile Gallé  and René Lalique glistened among other objet d’art.  Tiffany lamps lit up an impressive collection of Donegal rugs. The place felt like stepping into a universe of art, where color spread like music and stories clung to every little drawer pull.

Dick’s dad had super classy taste in decor but he dressed like a California beach bum. when Dick was little they used to live on a houseboat in Sausalito next to Julie Christie. His dad had made a million dollars trading stocks or commodities or options or whatever, I could never keep it straight. Those things weren’t covered in my home economics class. We just learned how to make bundt cakes and sew bias cut blouses from a McCall’s pattern. The only financial things I ever balanced were grocery lists, a desperately small savings account, and the occasional pencil on my finger while trying to absorb algebra through the process of divination. Dick’s dad had also lost a lot of money. He was into gambling on football. I didn’t really pay much attention to football or gambling, and we certainly weren’t anywhere near Las Vegas, so, I’m pretty sure it was all illegal. There was a word that came up when I tried to explain Dick’s dad’s profession and lifestyle to my parents,  racketeering. They didn’t seem to approve. I didn’t bother to look the word up. It just sounded a lot like something that had to do with tennis, a sport my elbow and other adjoining parts of my body wanted nothing to do with. Parents can be so critical, especially fathers from Norway.

I’d gotten used to faking comprehension. Not that I was literacy challenged. Hardly. I spoke two languages fluently, French being my second. Spanish had attempted to nestle right up there as a close third. I was a language wrangler since my first day of first grade, which happened to coincide with moving to France and attending an all-girls Catholic school in Strasbourg. My very first day I had to take a German class in French. Talk about immersion. Two languages at once! The other choice was English, but I had pretty much aced that in nursery school, back in the States. Mom told me I was fluent in French after two months. I learned a few languages alright. I just took to guessing at vocabulary. It was a thing I did to be able to pretend I was keeping up when I didn’t happen to have a dictionary handy. Most of the time, I was pretty much in the ballpark. But words like racketeering really challenged my homegrown self-taught syllabus of etymology.

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We’ll be getting to Hollywood shortly but let’s get a little more background on the situation first. Let’s talk about dads and their influence on daughters. Because it’s really about the baggage we bring to the places we go, isn’t it?! My dad bought me a suitcase as a high school graduation present. I guess he was happy to see me go.

Dad and I were never close. I was definitely not Daddy’s girl. I pretty much gave up on seeking his approval when I realized there was not much attention to be had and it was also absolutely pointless trying to compete with my brother. He was the oldest and he was a boy, so that is all that really mattered to a Norwegian father. That would have been end of story were it not for my deep-seated sense of fairness and my big anti patriarchy mouth.

I always felt the hierarchy of importance in my father’s life. Patriarchy might have been playing out worldwide, but it was especially strong in our household of three females and two males. The boys may have been outnumbered but dominant nonetheless. Dad was from the old country and straight off the boat. He had a few years of rattling around the Midwest before he met my mom on a pheasant hunting trip in the Dakotas. But even then it was all about the women preparing what the men shot up. They weren’t out in the fields, but back in the kitchen serving up stew or stewing, depending on how many women were truly happy with their lot in life. Mom was already steeped in male chauvinism due to being doused in Catholicism ever since her baptism. She was the oldest of four girls and they even had a younger brother. But the amount of estrogen combined with their mother’s keen business sense was still not enough to tip the scales in favor of women’s equality under my grandfather’s roof. Religion dominated and imbued all males with the power of self importance. The Bible told them so. All this to say that in as much as my father was from a country that in some ways was more progressive, male dominance still reigned, and my mother was completely brainwashed to go along with that program. I must have been too. Nothing else can explain what I put up with or have tolerated ever since.

I know I rebelled at times. I know I gave the Catholic nuns a hard time anyway. Questioning them on the word of the Lord and their complicity in the subjugation of women. The only answers I ever got were “we don’t question the word of the Lord” and “it is all God’s plan.” The master of all houses. It was an oppressive upbringing for sure. I know my mother felt a bit stifled and suppressed by the cloak of Catholicism she was required to bear. I ended up with all kinds of mixed messaging!

It recently became crystal clear how much my father preferred his one son over his two daughters. After his death, at the age of 96, I found out just how much more he liked my sister as well. There is no denying it now. I suppose I could have seen it coming. My siblings tried to warn me, but he was always playing favorites, and mind games, and lording his power and control through monetary rewards and punishments. It didn’t come as a complete shock. That kind of behavior is common, right?! Pretty much culturally mandated and accepted, throughout most cultures, and all of time. Back in Norway everything always went to the oldest son. What have I got to complain about? It’s been going on for generations. Get used to it! Love your father. No matter what. Especially now that he’s dead, right? Now I’m expected to respect his memory. To abide by his wishes. To forgive him and be grateful for everything he has done for me.

I tried. There are some things I can love about him. He was a provider. He brought home the bacon and shared it. That was nice of him. He took us on adventures. I’m grateful for that. But even on those adventures it seemed like he was doing it all for his son and we were just along for the ride. It was always about showing Eric how to sail, teaching Eric how to scuba dive, or taking Eric to all the war museums, all the bunkers and castles, all the dungeons and artillery museums. It’s as if everything was for the benefit of Eric’s education. We just happened to be with them, as a family and all. We didn’t go to quilting exhibitions, or dog shows, or botanical gardens, but, we definitely went to art museums, I’ll give him that much. He loved art. But that’s because it was mostly the art of white men. So he related to it. My dad was all about playing chess with my brother and talking to him endlessly about World War I and World War II and torture devices, and guns, and knives. I hate my dad for that. For instilling in me the feeling that I was just a second class citizen. I was not the important one.

My dad did not express love. He rarely if ever said I love you. I called him on it and he explained it as a cultural difference. He thought Americans threw around the word LOVE too much. He said that devalued it. In Norway, he told us, they don’t use it so much. So, when they do, they really mean it. Here, he said, they throw it around about everything. I love that vase, I love playing Clue, I love baloney sandwiches. “How can you love chocolate and your mother in the same way?” He wanted to know. He didn’t say I love you because it had lost its meaning for him. So, he took love away from me too. I hate him for that.

Hate is a strong word, I know. How can I hate my father after all he has done for me? Well, I really hate my father for cheating on my mother most of all. He took his love away from her first. She found this out while visiting her parents and siblings. When she inserted a video tape while they were all assembled ready to watch what they thought would be home movies of us kids and what we were up to. Instead, they were all shocked to see my dad getting it on with three naked Filipino women. Oops, wrong VHS! She did not even leave him over that incident. She did not divorce him because of what her Catholic parents would think. There is a question as to whether my father knew how to love at all. Personally, I think it was just lust. My mother was beautiful. She looked a lot like Elizabeth Taylor. I think he thought he hit the jackpot. But he did not love her very well. He admired her. He was proud of her, as a possession most of all, for what she could do for him. So that is how I felt he mostly looked at us, his daughters. What could we do for him? How can we make him proud, or in my case, save him from embarrassment?

I hate my father’s concern about what other people would think. Of him, of us. I felt scrutinized through this lens constantly. What would the neighbors think? What would the relatives think? What would his work associates think? I don’t know where he got this deep, deep insecurity but I hated it. It had to do with our attire, our education, our social skills, our manners. I felt continually judged, critiqued, and assessed by him. I would have liked to have taken it as evidence that he really cared about me. But it wasn’t even about me. It was about how I made him look. He took everything very personally. I couldn’t just be my own person. everything I did or said would be a reflection on him. That’s what it felt like anyway. The color of my hair, how I wore my hair, the clothes I wore. Criticism was his weapon, and he used it.

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At theatre school. That’s where I met my first boyfriend, Richard. Let’s just call him Dick for anonymity sake. So, I met Dick the summer I turned sixteen, at Cranbrook Theatre School, where ACTING (hold this thought for a few beats in order to create sufficient dramatic pause)... is our... (end with intensity) LIFE!!!” We did some plays together. We played around a little. Got all hot and bothered. Talked for hours and hours on the phone. Went to clubs and concerts. We hung out... mostly at his place. Spent all night talking about fashion and art, skateboards and movies, anarchy and religion. There were plenty of embraces, lots of grinding, some heavy petting, not so much kissing, more panting. I think we may have spent too much time talking though, because, one evening, when we were hanging out in his teen cave basement groove pad, his dad called down to him to come up for a minute. I ingested half a bagel, two Dr. Peppers, four Vogues, and a dizzying waft of my freshly permed hair before he came back down to rescue me, over an hour later.

“What took you so long?” I asked exasperated.

“Oh, you know… my dad” was his excuse.

“Was he drunk?” I queried.

“No, not really. Well, maybe a little. It wasn’t that though.” He responded, not so sure how much more he wanted to share.

“Is everything ok?” I countered, not one to have my curiosity brushed aside.

“Yeah, yeah, fine. Just my dad being weird.” He said dismissingly.

Well, that wasn’t going to satisfy, as an answer. “What do you mean?” I plied.

“I don’t know. I really shouldn’t tell you. I wouldn’t want you to take it the wrong way.”

OK, now he’s just asking for it!

“I won’t.” I insisted. “Tell me what? Come on. You’re such a tease!”

“Well, that’s what he was saying about you.” Could he be more cryptic?

“About me?” I asked, confused.

“He was just worried for me. Wanting to make sure you weren’t a tease.” He went on “You know, he just wanted to make sure I wasn’t getting blue balls.”

“What?!” I exclaimed, incredulous.

“I know, he’s weird” was his dismissal.

I wasn’t about to let this conversation go unspoken. “Well, what did you tell him? Did you tell him that you’re fine with waiting?”

“I didn’t tell him anything.” Was Dick’s reply, as if that was going to get him off the hook his dad had hung up for him.

“You should have told him! You should have told him that we wanted to wait… until I’m 18, until I’m on the pill and everything.” I reminded him.

“I didn’t want to get into it. He was doing all the talking. He just wanted me to know that there were other options.” He slipped.

Well that comment certainly didn’t do anything to end the conversation.

“Options? What other options?” I insisted.

“Don’t worry, I’m not into it.” Dick deflected.

Now my curiosity was completely peaked!

“Into what? What’s he talking about?” I demanded.

“He was trying to tell me that… If I wasn’t getting any.. if you weren’t putting out..”

At this point Dick had run out of feet to wedge in his mouth.

“Putting out?!” I uttered in disbelief.

“...that he’d get me a call girl or something.” He finished.

I did not see that coming.

“Seriously?!” I responded, stunned.

“I know, I told you, he’s weird about stuff like that.” He intoned with as much apology as possible.

All I could say was “Eeew!”

“I know. I told you. He’s like that. I mean, he has porn all over the house.” Dick explained.

Cringing but curious, I inquired. “He does?”

“Yeah. Serious shit too. Girls with donkeys and crap.” He went on, matter-of-factly.

“Oh, my god. He lets you watch that stuff?” I asked, incredulous.

“No! He just... doesn’t bother to hide it.’ He explained.

“That’s really creepy.” I couldn’t help but respond.

Dick assured me “I didn’t want to see any of that. Really messes with your head.”

Still hung up on the imagery now planted in my head “Donkeys?”

“I shouldn’t have told you.” Dick resigned.

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So naturally, I wrote a song about it.

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I was not ready for Hollywood! I had done more babysitting than dating as a teen. That did give me access to a few Playboy magazines stashed out of toddlers reach but somehow accessible to the stealth of a teenager in heat. I managed to learn quite a bit while being paid for childcare. After tucking the charges in and putting away their copies of Hop On Pop and Where The Wild Things Are, I headed down to the living room to do a little voracious reading of my own.

My initiation into the world of boys was limited though, so I was really flattered to be asked out by a high school senior soccer player. He was quite the cutie and I felt especially special climbing into his Ford GT and being whisked off of school grounds.

When my world stopped spinning and we finally came to a stop, he pulled a bottle of wine from the floor of the back seat and announced: “Look what I have here!”

“Aren’t we going to the party?” I asked.

“Of course.... but I thought we’d have our own little pre-party first.” He replied with a smile.

He did have the most charming smile, so it took a bit of restraint to come up with

“No thanks.”

“Come on, this will put you in the party mood” he insisted.

“I don’t really like wine.” I told him.

“OK, I’m sorry, I didn’t bring any beer.” He said as he slipped his arm around me.

“That’s OK, I’m not too crazy about beer either.” I responded, not really knowing what to do next.

He tried a different tactic. “You sure look pretty.”

“Thanks.” I said, as cool as I could muster.

“Pretty kissable.” He insisted. By this time he was all over me.

“Hey!” I managed, trying to unwrap myself from his tangle.

“What?” he challenged, not letting up.

This was not the way I saw our date going down.

“Can we just go now?” I pleaded.

“What? Oh, come on, we’re just having a little fun.” He insisted.

“I thought we were going to a party...”

He cut me off. “We are, we are.”

“...then you bring me here...” I said, clearly annoyed.

He responds with “How about that, it’s Lovers Lane. Isn’t that romantic?

“It’s tacky,” I told him. “I want to go home.”

When he finally realized I was serious, he completely abandoned any charm he once had and made one final jab.

“Fine, fine, I’ll take you to the party, I didn’t know you were such a prude.”

“I’m not a prude.” I countered.

“Well you’re not trying very hard to do anything about that” he informed me.

“I hardly know you.” I reminded him.

“You could really use some wine... loosen you up a little.”

Well, I just had to let him know…

“Yeah, well, now I know why they call you Octopus!”

“They do?” He retorted, amused.

“Yeah!”

“Cool!” he replied, undaunted, as he grabbed the stick shift and rumbled out of there.

I wasn’t a prude. I was a good girl. I wasn’t a slut.

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