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Here I sit in the pink colored den of the New Jersey home I grew up in. Classic books like Little Women fill the shelf to my left only parted by baby pictures, china vases, teacups, and dainty antique hats. A paperboy doll I sewed at 11 sits on the fireplace and the muted BET before me looks like a huge contrast against this landscape of wholesomeness. I know my Daddy-o is napping in the living room and the quiet sound of New Order is probably upsetting him as he mutters to himself, “These darned kids.” He’s gonna miss Kris and I when we head back to LA tomorrow despite our purposeful tortures to get him out of his shell. For example, talking uncomfortably openly about sex or blaring Paul Wall from his bedroom while we “dance party”. “I’M TRYING TO WATCH THIS PROGRAM!” he screamed.

“YOU ONLY LIVE ONCE AND TV SUCKS!” I scream back as Kris turns down the volume. We stomp loudly on the floor over the living room to compensate for the lowered music and I wonder, “Why do I act like a ten year old every time I’m here?”…

Kris and me, acting 10

Suddenly I realize how beautifully untainted this house is. Our older brother and sister were both married and moved out by the time I was 9, so the tone of 4 [something] Road was ours for the choosing. I simply held huge slumber parties with pina coladas and Exorcist viewings while Kris opted for video games and the occasional venturing out of his basement lair to skateboard.

In my pink floral bedroom celebrities were perfect, drugs were in distant lands, a pudgy belly was no matter, and boys were unobtainable, romantic creatures. Tara and I would play Barbies countless afternoons and, years later, finding a prom date was the biggest stress that existed.

When I was 11 my mom redecorated my room and it is in the exact same condition today. Discarding a specific place for a brand new life gives it the strangest essence. I knew so little about myself when I inhabited it so now I truly feel like nothing about it is mine anymore. When I visit home and my thrift wardrobe, racy bras, and stilettos hit the floor they seem to be intruding upon a sacred, undefiled time capsule. I’ve not kissed one boy in that room, had one argument, had to defend my life or sexuality, or had to turn down drugs in that room. I merely slept, dressed, danced, and dreamt of the woman I might someday become and how to please become her.

That woman still seems kinda far away. I can hear her rooting for me, telling me about the love of her life, and giving me a tour of the house she lives in. This distant house she has made a home.

It seems unfortunate that although that future me can be dreamt about here, she will never become alive in here. If the current girl I am remained here, that future would shrivel away and die, strangled by the securities of an ordinary life.

Extraordinary is what you make it, whether it’s a housewife or a movie star but, either way, this woman is accomplished and alive, alive beyond measure, and I am determined to become her while I hold onto God’s hand for dear life.

In my bitterest Hollywood party moments I’ll see yet another married star I grew up admiring put his hand on my inner thigh, look around and think, “Why can’t any of these filthy, stupid decadent mansions just have some freakin’ floral wallpaper?! Is all this stucco, gothic, pleatherness necessary you arrogant jerk!!?!”…

 by Corinne Day

Then I’ll breathe for a bit of solace and realize I will one day have at least one room with floral wallpaper. Whether its here or there, tomorrow or ten years from now, I will have a place to call home. Just as Kris and I set the tone of this beautiful house on 4 [something] Road, I can set the tone of where I live. I want there to be infinite laughter, open honesty, love-filled sexual pleasures, and children who aren’t afraid to shine.

 bt Eric Nehr

Bikini and pink pleated mini-skirt. Her in a suede bikini and jean skirt. Heels and miles of leg between the two of us. The white shuttle, stamped with that bunny emblem, as familiar in America as a stop sign or a “don’t cross” light marked the sides and wrapped a million times around our VIP bracelets. Courtney gripped my thigh like she’d fall off her seat otherwise as my eyes skimmed over my modest cleavage. “Wow, this should be interesting,” I think.

The driver leaned into the gray rock speaker and waited for the black gates to welcome us in. We accelerated again, green hill to our left, “Bunnies at Play” signs donning the driveway until the house rose into full view on its hilltop. My heart jumped into my throat and Court’s nails dug into my leg. The pain was inconsequential and served to assure me that I was indeed not dreaming…

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We emerged from the bus as elegantly as stilettos would allow and walked through the giant wooden door pretending we knew where the hell we were going. Our soles clicked on the marble floor, the castle’s bedroom to our left was marked with a large painting of the King himself and the window paneled doors ahead assured us the outdoors were green and plush.

The moment we stepped outside, an older gentleman flashed several pictures and asked our names. “Is this your first time?”

“Can you tell?” we chimed.

“Yes. Very much. Just enjoy!” And like a circus master, he flung his arm out. My eyes followed his fingers’ leading and it revealed an array of Brenda-like fun. A large trampoline, cotton candy machines, a volleyball net, hula hoops wrapping itty-bitty waists, beach balls the size of artificial bosoms, and, of course, the infamous pool and tunnel to the grotto. Court and I plopped down at the nearest table to formulate a game plan. “We look like a-holes,” I offered.

We skimmed the yard, “I feel ugly…and…not blonde.” Court concurred. However brunette, I was positive her Coke bottle figure, flat tummy, and DD boobs were our ticket in this strange little world. When a place is scary I often find the solution in a place of solace, “Let’s look for the bathroom.” She agreed…

Kendra and company

We intruded down the tunnel of bathrooms, moving the long fake vines out of our hair and found the furthest outcove. The lights were dim and walls were 70’s stone with shelves offering towels, tampons, condoms, and spray deodorant. I couldn’t think of anything else one could need there. (Except maybe some confidence, which I was slowly working on.) Several bunnies entered behind us loudly, “I need some fuckin’ blow!” The closest thing I had was a rum and coke, which didn’t suffice for the ladies.

A smaller woman near the coat check stopped me. Her dirty-blonde hair was parted in the center and her eyes were decorated with wrinkles proving years of hearty laughter. “God, you’re beautiful!” I laughed until I noticed she looked a bit insulted. “You are. You think these girls are beautiful?”

“Um. In their own way, yes.”

“Well, my daughter would adore you. She hates these chicks. You’re right up her alley. Please, please hang out with her.” I shrugged and agreed. It’s not like I was on some sort of schedule there. The woman stuck out her hand and introduced herself. I recognized the last name, but highly doubted her daughter was whom that implied…

Me and Courtney in the bathrooms

However, as Court and I followed her outside we were indeed headed towards the girl I grew up watching in movies. My heart dropped because, what do you say to these people? Its not like you can start with the, “So, what do you do?” sort of small talk. I’d only been in Hollywood several months and my naive New Jersey mentality was still all over me. I still believed celebrities were gods of sorts. Worst of all, she looked up and rolled her eyes. Her mom clearly tries to set her up with “normal girlfriends” all the time. She swallowed her annoyance and gently shook our hands while her mom excused herself. We sat down staring awkwardly until, “Let’s go swimming,” she suggested.

Moments later we dove in the pool and she showed us the grotto. The pool had an array of wonderful inflatables that we jumped on as we commented on the weather and our childhoods. Hers casually included award parties and mind-blowing directors while mine included mounds of snow, summers on boardwalks, and thrift shopping. In a moment of silence she giggled and chucked a ball into a crowd of bunnies in flirtation with a reality star, “Bitches.”

SMACK and bleached hair tumbled.

The girls parted and the man’s machismo rose, “Who threw that?!” Court looked guilty having not been able to swim as fast as the star and I.

The three of us ran for the game room, “Come see this!” We had a blast playing Pac Man and pinball until 4 other girls entered. Instantly the embarrassing, “Whoa, you’re so and so!!” comments began flying. I watched the star shrink back and reenter her shell. She excused herself and remained withdrawn the rest of the day. Upon our leaving her mom slipped me her home number, “Please come over for dinner and a movie sometime. I know you’d be great friends if you gave her a chance.”

“Of course,” I smiled…

Court on the slip n' slide

I called once after that and her father provided me her screen name. Over the safety of the internet she was more expressive and honest and lovely. She has grandiose dreams and all the blessed resources to make them a reality. Unfortunately, Hollywood has given her a chill that hardens her to the core. So distrusting and afraid of everyone she seems. The moment my goals were mentioned she “needed to leave”. Would I use her? Would I hop on her bandwagon to peddle my own dreams?…

Me and Courtney with Hef, movie night

As days turned into months and into years, Court and I were shrugging our way through the Playboy Mansion and giving tours to other new visitors. We’d spoken to countless celebrities and held mindless polite chats with Hollywood producers, as well as plenty-o-shady individuals in a dozen different situations and hills’ mansion parties. I don’t take anything for granted but, to say I’ve realized stars aren’t “god” status would be an understatement. Some of the most miserable, troubled, addicted, arrogant people I’ve ever encountered, they are. My favorite is hearing another specific star club hop yelling, “UM, HELLO!! I’m motha fuckin’ [so & so]” if she stands in line for over 2.5 milliseconds.

So, as this town takes the best and brightest and strangles every last bit of joy they ever grasped until they’re reaching for air in the darkest places, I shifted their positions in my life off their pedestals and into my heart. After all, all the rest of us love the argument, “well, I’m sure I’d be happy if only I was [fill in the blank, "rich, famous, a movie star"]. These poor souls stand on top those mountainous goals only to find there’s still no joy there in themselves.

The star and I never talk anymore. She’s diminished into a stickly figure that once bounced with vibrancy. Frankly, joy is something I’ve yet to see in her eyes, even in her earliest films. The last time I saw her, I walked in the grotto to find her rounding third base with a mansion employee (who are the only attractive guys there except for celebrities, PS). That was an awkward reunion. I think I even waved and smiled before ducking out with lightning speed.

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