Good grief. Kristin wants to be my business partner. I need this aggravation like I need a second assho—what's that? Kristin who? I've never talked about her here? Why, that's an opportunity to add another character-based entry. And just when I was hankerin' to write one—convenient, that. To the backstory!
It's 1999. I receive a garden-variety junk mail from Elan. Sent to a bunch of her friends, the questionnaire instructs me to reply-all with my response. And so I answer the questions, the last of which is "Say something nice about the person who sent you this email."
"Elan, uh, types legibly," I write and then click send. It did not take long for some chick I'd never heard of, Kristin something, to flame me. "I DON'T KNOW WHO THIS JOHN GUY IS OR WHAT HIS PROBLEMS ARE, BUT IF THAT ASSHOLE CAN'T SAY SOMETHING NICE ABOUT SOMEONE AS WONDERFUL AS ELAN, HE SHOULD JUST KEEP HIS BILE OUT OF MY INBOX."
I sit in my office, blinking. "WTFF?"
I flame back. She reciprocates. We take it private and flame some more, ratcheting up the invective. I deride any detail she offers up— her name, her spelling, anything at all I can get my hands on. But this psycho chick simply will not go away. Who does she think she is?! By the fifth round, I'm livid and out for blood. I finally find her on the Internet. She was an actress in "Cool As Ice" with Vanilla Ice? Perfect! Actresses are fonts of insecurity. I mock her appearance and age, neither of which I am remotely familiar with. That hardly matters. I mock her talent and career. I mock "Cool As Ice," of course. I mock her presumptive cosmetic surgery. I completely eviscerate her.
My phone rings. It's Elan. "Honey, what have you done?"
I puff out my chest, growling, "I told that flaming bitch off, that's what I've done."
"Oh. My. God. John, she's a friend and a very sweet girl and last night I told her all about our weddings and adventures and she was just trying to playfully flip you some crap and now she's very upset and you really really have to fix this."
We hang up. Dialing down from rage to abjection is not my strong suit. I stare at a blinking cursor for a long while. Finally I type "Just to be sure we're both on the same page, this is all in fun, right? You don't really hate me, right?"
She actually buys this crap. God bless women.
And so we begin corresponding civilly. We send pictures. Christ, she's stunning.
Why...this changes everything!
Rage...abetting...
I yell to the woman in the adjacent office; she'd heard all of the profanity during the flame wars. She walks behind my desk, looks at Kristin's picture, and says, "You idiot. She's on E.R." What? "Yeah, she plays Randi." It turns out this is not her only claim to professional quasi-fame: she's made out with Scott Baio, Billy Zane, Donnie Wahlberg, and, of course, Vanilla Ice. Talk about a treacherous career path. She was also the cousin in "Home Alone" who miscounted the kids in the van. She's since had roles in NYPD Blue, Blind Justice, G vs. E, Highlander, and countless other series.
And thus did my unlikeliest friendship strike up. I instituted policy early: we would never meet. Six years later, we're still writing and calling, and we've still never met, despite nearly monthly invitations for me to come to L.A. and pine for a swift, sweet death while meeting her actor friends. "What on earth would they and I have to talk about?" I say.
"Oh, stop being such a snob. People are just people."
Well no, we're not, but I love that you think that way. Kristin's one of the most sincere and thoughtful people I know. I adore her, but everything they say about L.A. actresses is true. In mind as in body, she is not of this planet. She makes me nuts in that great way that only people with a sensibility entirely disconnected from your own can make you nuts. One of our ongoing discussions is her firmly held belief that deep down, everyone craves celebrity. No, we don't. "Yes, of course you do. You mean you don't want to be a famous writer?" I wouldn't mind if the writing became famous, but me? I'd prefer not. "Bullshit," she snorts, for she's known nothing else since childhood. Then she borrows from whatever flavor-of-the-month therapy she's into: "You need to greet and nurture this." Then there's romance. She yearns for a "regular guy" yet dates exclusively 22 year old, coke-addled underwear models she meets at Hollywood parties, then wonders—quite earnestly, without a trace of irony—why it didn't work out. "Do you know any regular single guys?" she asks. Yes I do. I'll describe one. Well, his name's James, he's a writer, more your age, super smart, hilarious, really fit, loves the outdoors...
"Oh, ish."
"Jesus, I didn't even get to 'divorced dad' yet."
"Oh, who cares about that?"
Which brings us to today, when Kristin brings me a solid business idea that would throw much needed work to some unemployed friends, set up a nice revenue stream for me, and require that I deal with actors 24/7. Yep. It's too close to call.