Borrowed Things
The PR stories about Hollywood's “great marriages” leave something to be desired.
He's a three dollar bill and needs a live-in psychiatrist, she's an AA enrolled drinker who thinks it's her report card.
“Misunderstood” is a magazine shout-out to one woman on her 12th marriage, who urges her to get married again because “this is the real thing.”
She's 52. Her publicist says she's 46. The studio says she's 47, but she confirms she's 39. The 39 is her bust size. So is her oldest daughter.
Fortunately
Astrologers have approved this 13th marriage. The planets are aligned correctly so the marriage will take place right after the Bar Mitzvah. Saturn is in Jupiter's house, Venus is in the Louvre and 13 is her lucky number.
They would live near his school and her analyst would sell her out, far away.
His husband's community had already awarded him as the best contributor to the town over the weekend, as his hobby was keeping girls off the streets.
He and this new person meet each other. Then they date. Then they hide. Then they try not to be seen. Then there are pictures of them pretending to arrive at different places. Then they look for a house. Then they move in together. Then there's talk of dating. Then there's denial. Then her kids meet his kids. Then there's publicity photos. Then there's talk of an engagement. Then a ring. Then there's an argument.
Terrible bliss
To maintain PR in Hollywood, the second step is marriage, but if there aren't photographers or reporters covering them, why would two people stay together if they basically don't even like each other?
A comfy mattress is one thing, a messy kitchen is another, and in California marriage, a year feels like an eternity.
As they work, everyone from the hairdresser, makeup artist, assistant, director, wig fixer, scriptwriter, lunch maker, and even the earphone battery manager all say sweet things to them.
He barely manages to drop his unmanicured hand when a serf slaps a salad into it. The visitor stands behind the guard.
But back home, the wife of a no-longer-so-great star expects the same solid gold treatment.
The cliché “simple at heart girl” is used to taking a taxi to go to the toilet. Good luck. Want some coffee? Bring it yourself. Do you want a wife who will love you, care for you, cook for you and adore you? Then you are in the wrong house.
Subdivision
Act 2: 20 minutes in, the lawyers show up to decide who gets to keep the kids (send them to a military-style school) and who gets to keep the Chihuahua the size of a wisdom tooth.
The reason for the divorce? Malnutrition. Her reason? Her career stalled and Netflix is showing her last film in Romanian.
Meanwhile, their psychiatrist is living with them, he's rushing to clear out the Monopoly set because his agent is coming, and she's considering an offer to appear as an extra in Danny Bonaduce's remake, which is to be shot in Kazakh language, will play over a weekend in Madagascar, and will be introduced by Lana Turner's hairdresser.
As they say on the shores of Brighton Beach: “Hollywood husbands are what's left after their lovers have lost their nerve.”
It's just New York, kids, it's just New York.
