My life has been tinged by B-list character actors. My folks knew a few (they always lived in rustic areas). Harry Lauter was the ranking military officer in 'The Day The Eath Stood Still' (when they shot Klaatu), and the sheriff in werewolf movies. Ralph Dumpke was a kindly, befuddled little man with a whiskbroom moustache, that carved duck decoys in overalls, when not being murdered.
When I visit L.A., I only see these types (as they're practically anonymous); I saw the father from 'That 70's Show', everyman John C. Reilly, and dorky Illianna Douglas. They're always in Tai restraunts or the Farmer's Market.
I delivered groceries to them for Jurgenson's market. They tipped better than the A-listers, and treated me like an equal. Christopher Lloyd carried in his own groceries and behaved like the pool man.
The big stars made me enter by a side door, ignored me, or pressed their tits in my back My boss would advise I ask "Is there anything else I can do for you?", but I was too shy. A hideous crone in a nightgown (that smoked Tiparillos and left carpet cat waste unattended) wanted me for a houseboy (I didn't even know what that was). Another biddie with rampant dog waste and a peg leg, decried brown bags (as she could step in them). She kept the heat at 80, never dressed, and had scores of empty wine bottles on the floor.
Once I saw Lee Remick in an elevator; She was in a tailored pink suit and made up for a shoot. She was tiny, and looked straight ahead with unearthly glowing blue eyes (like a mannequin come to life). She was too perfect, and the trace of a grin confirmed this in her own mind. Jennifer O'neill looked at me like I was simultaneously a vulnerable 10 year old and Brad Pitt. Elizabeth Montgomery and Madonna also gave me a wholesome yet lascivious glance.
I was living with a Jewish Princess at the time. A stranger roommate, referred by a mutual friend. She had a boyfriend that looked like 'Wierd Al', yet she slept with me off and on. She kept a scrapbook of her hundred ex-boyfriends. When she thought I'd impregnated her (she hated condoms), I had dinner with her parents. Her intense, prying and doting father would get personal when I answered the phone. I confronted 'Al' and she left for Europe in a huff (with my Yogananda organ casettes). I left a message on the mutual friend's machine saying I'd "kill" him (the same thing happened to him).
My friends came to move my things, the day a postcard arrived begging me to stay (probably for the rent), but the car was loaded and they intervened. This is the story behind 'Palm of my Hand', a tender ballad on my new Anti CD, 'Shades of Dorian Gray'