hate this lock down more. When we returned to Hamilton today the GO station doors were locked. They decided to close it because —- why? More buses are running, but the station is closed because of COVID-19? Stop the insanity!!! This was Susan Powter’s 1990s diet catchphrase and nothing could be more appropriate — other than perhaps: “I’m mad as hell and I’m not taking it anymore!” (i.e. Network). I’m tired of being schizophrenic, a split personality — sexually frustrated and drowning in friends in Toronto -- having sex every night, but no friends at all, in Montreal. (Oh whine whine you say.) The newspapers are filled with articles about how difficult it will be for people who haven’t left the house for a year to hug other people again. Oh — ‘boo hoo!' What about all of us who have been attempting to have a life for over a year, calling people every other day, begging them to spend time with us, walking when we don’t want to walk, trying to find things to talk about with people who we see every day -- because there is no one else to see, getting tired of people who we love — or used to love — but now we question everything —including ourselves — because there is no variety change surprise excitement suspense, there is nothing but a vast wasteland of endless sameness. And to be confronted with what might be our own self? And to be bored to death with it? But this is not me! I have sex, go to the theatre and hug my friends (sometimes simultaneously!). Jesus H. Christ (as my Dad used to say)! Better Davis is all bug-eyed in In This Our Life — I have no idea why this movie has that title, nor can I -- or anyone else -- explain why it is about two sisters with male names: ‘Stanley’ (Davis) and ‘Roy’ (Olivia de Havilland). This movie is also quite schizophrenic — halfway through I figured out it was an ‘anti-racism’ movie (all very admirable — the novel it was based on won a Pulitzer Prize), before that I thought it was just a melodrama about a selfish slutty woman — who Davis plays to a tee. But unfortunately, Davis is a bit bug-eyed — always a sign she doesn’t like her part. Olivia de Havilland is forced to play Melanie from Gone With the Wind -- yet again— she’s so nice you just want to smack her. There are echoes of Gone With the Wind throughout — Davis’ character is very ‘Scarlett,’ George Brent looks like Clark Gable —and even Mammy’s here! (Hattie McDaniel!). The ‘Good Witch' from The Wizard of Oz (Billie Burke) is also present, and so is Lee Patrick. I’ve mixed them up for years, the reason being (IMDB tells me) -- not only do they look alike, but they both played Leo G. Carroll’s wife in Topper (the movie and TV show, respectively). I am Bette Davis in this movie. All I care about is myself (that should be obvious by now). I am very impatient and not easily satisfied. I just want to dance all the time, smoke, wear pretty dresses, pick up a different man every night, and drive fast cars. I have no sympathy, empathy or actual human warmth; I am such a narcissist I make Donald Trump look like your kindly grammy. Yes you will find me, like Davis, all alone in a bar full of men, smoking and shaking my can, while they try and ignore me -- until I leave. Then Walter Huston the bartender (John Huston — his father and the director — gave him a bit part) says “I hope she breaks her neck.’ Indeed eventually she kinda does. I have no doubt I will end up dead in an alley somewhere, not sure why I haven’t, I learned about life from these American movies, I was shaped by what I would call the ‘aesthetic’ of AIDS -- which was shaped by the ‘aesthetic’ of old Hollywood movies i.e. if you live fast and look hot you are sure to die young. I’ve never actually been ‘hot’ but I’ve acted as if I was, which is essentially the same thing. I kinda got picked up last night on a patio in Montreal (we didn’t have sex, so maybe we’ll be friends). Yes, L'l ol' me. He was a retired schoolteacher, and I noticed that he was handsome, elegant, and reminded me of one of my best friends who doesn’t really like me anymore. What could be a better recipe for friendship? I told him I was an alcoholic slut, in an open relationship, with a popper problem — which I think is an extremely accurate assessment of myself at the present time. He seemed somewhat entranced; we’ll see. I think he might be sexually attracted to me, and I’m sexually attracted enough to him to have sex with him, but if we don’t have sex that’s perfectly fine too. Actually I was simply flattered because he laughed at my jokes. That’s how pathetic I am! I’m trying desperately to make you laugh here — am I trying to hard? Is my mascara running, the sweat pouring from my brow, due to my backbreaking effort at being eternally captivating? On my last night in Montreal I watched the strippers -- wistfully-- before sailing out the door to the bathhouse. It's really not so much about their beautiful penises (there, I said that word, but in a very chaste sentence!). It’s about the fact that they are compelled to show them to us, and really do enjoy doing it -- no matter how much they claim it's only for the money. There was a boy at the ‘Bearwear’ store (ashamed to admit I shopped there) with the most luscious skin. I almost told him that. Thank God I did not. I bought a sequinned tank top. It’s in my closet in Hamilton now; how appropriate. Trust me; I really am very entertaining, I am also selfish, I love to dance, and I’m very good at ruining people’s lives; driving them to suicide, that sort of thing. I’m sure I would be the life of any party. Will you please invite me to one? If not, I’m liable to accidentally kill somebody, then engage the police in a car chase, and then drive myself off a cliff. I see Bette Davis’ face as she looks at herself in the rear-view mirror. It’s a valiant death — all of the best people go that way, they do not expire peacefully, in their sleep. At least it will be sudden. And I will be as self-obsessed in death as I was In This Our Life.
