Freakum Pants & Tuxedo Dreams

After yesterday’s successful pant shopping, I was feeling in a much better mood. Shopping does that. You should go buy yourself something. I’ll wait…fiddle dee dee…ho hum…oh, you’re back! What’d you get? You look great. *forced smile* Well, back to the narrative, then.

I was very refreshed when I woke and had a healthier attitude. I think it’s my undiagnosed depression playing with me. That happens far too often. I should probably be concerned by it. I suppose I might visit a doctor when I get back home. How bad can a few antidepressants be? Maybe I’ll get to go to therapy! I’ve always wanted to do that and find out why I can’t remember any of my childhood. I have like five memories. That’s it. I don’t recall being abused, so that can’t be it. Maybe I was in some accident. Hey, I was in a car crash when I was younger. Hmmmmm, perhaps that is the root of my loss.

How did I get there? I woke up in a great mood and put on a concert for all my neighbors. I know they were really impressed that I knew the entirety of the Sunset Boulevard soundtrack. I’m impressed that I still remember it. It’s one of the albums that I used to play years ago when I was still willing to mow the lawn — I don’t do that anymore — and I would sing it and sing it and sing it. I love singing. I wish I could sing, though.

Before too long, it was time to go to Craig Ferguson and I put on my adorable ensemble — all browns — with my new pants and I marveled at how nice they looked on me. In fact, they made me feel incredibly sexy and handsome and dashing. They’re my freakum pants. If you don’t know the word freakum, get off my blog.


Refreshing, wasn’t that? I just love a good Bey interlude. We’re very close, you know?

I felt very old fashioned in my outfit and I loved that. I looked like I was going to the studio in 1947. And, in fact, I was going to the studio, CBS studios! What joy.

I was soon in line and in the priority section, thank Allah. I was going to get in for sure today and it wasn’t too hot out. Then, they let us borrow umbrellas so that we wouldn’t burn. The umbrella made me think about the Amelia Peabody Series of books which I dearly love, and I made a note to write to the author when I have the chance. I might beg her to write another. I need another. I don’t need another, I can’t live without another one. I’m sure she’ll find me crazy. I don’t mind. I am.

We stood and stood and I thought about my feelings about Hollywood. I realized that Hollywood is what you make of it. Just because Gloria Swanson isn’t dining at the Roosevelt Hotel and just because the Brown Derby is now a parking lot doesn’t mean I can’t experience Hollywood as if it were the olden days. Hollywood is different for everybody. For some it’s a prison, other’s a dreamland, and for another it’s a shopping spree. I decided to go to a showing at the Egyptian theater and then take myself out to dinner at some old restaurant — perhaps the one in the courtyard of the Egyptian where stars would gather after premieres. That sounded just right to me, and then all of a sudden the line was moving.

We were corralled into a cooler little area outside to wait for instructions on what to do. They were: laugh even if you don’t understand the joke, laugh all the time, laugh some more, laugh, laugh, laugh. Just don’t have a crazy laugh. The page was very into his job and I’m sure he’s known as a power hungry control freak. He had nice hair, though.

The dress code for the show is nice casual. I wondered what that meant to these hideous peasants that surrounded me. One gentleman was wearing a swimsuit. One lady was wearing sweatpants. One man was a legitimate hobo. I was glad not to be near them. I was instead next to the guy with the bad breath, the lady who didn’t seem to have a sense of humor, and next to them was the guy who never learned how to take care of his feet and the girl who never learned how to take care of her body or her hair or her teeth or her skin. Sad people. I was the handsomest person in the room and I’m not even beginning to brag or exaggerate — I’m just telling you an honest fact. I’m often the most handsome man in the room, but there…there it was obvious.

We finally got to go inside and it was very white and hideous on the inside — expected. We walked up several flights of stairs and the peasants started huffing. Staircases don’t bother me. I refuse to take the elevator or escalator if there is a staircase available. It burns more calories and then you can eat more. Plus, you’re fit and if you’re fit you’re sexy and if you’re sexy people will like you more. Just some more honest facts for you, reader.

Chunky, the warmup comedian, gave us some candy (that he made some ridiculous spiel about) and then we were seated. I had a very nice spot in the third row, center, stage left. I was very glad. I wasn’t glad that I kept catching a whiff of the nasty girl’s stank two down from me. Look for her in reruns and vomit with me. I’m sure she’s a lovely person, but nobody is ever going to get to know if she insists on reeking like that.

Time went by very quickly in the studio and before I knew it, the taping was over. The show was very funny, I caught candy, Jeffrey Tambor insulted a woman in a wheelchair, Canadians were there, of course, so they got to be on the opening. I WANTED TO BE ON THE OPENING. Next time, I suppose. I’ll just go on as a guest for something eventually. Jane Lynch was very funny. There was a great comedienne. And then there were the Goo Goo Dolls. Who are the Goo Goo Dolls? I didn’t care for them in the slightest. I just don’t like that kind of music. Give me some Eartha Kitt or Beyoncé.

Then it was all finished and we filed out and were back on the streets.

Back at the apartment, I had a bite to eat and then hurried to the bus to catch it up to Hollywood Boulevard. When I say a bite, I do mean a bite. I literally had a single bite of a lemon tart and that was that. I didn’t have time to eat all of it.

It didn’t take too awfully long to make it to the Egyptian Theater — I think I’m actually getting the hang of these buses. I hate that. I don’t want to know how they work. I don’t want to be on them. I don’t want anything to do with them, but I must. Le sigh…

I bought my ticket and hurried inside. It was marvelous. The screen was prepared for a 4×3 showing of Mystery of the Wax Museum and Dr. X. I watched Dr. X last year as part of that horrible movie resolution. I don’t recall caring particularly for it. I think it was fine, but I recall much more vividly washing the dishes as I watched it. I hate dishes as much as I hate the bus.


The place was hardly filled to bursting. There probably weren’t more than fifty people in all, which was sad, yet somewhat charming. It was a mixed crowd and they were awfully strange. A few children. Lots of old gentlemen who seemed to be movie buffs. They would applaud when the film started and when it ended. They would applaud when certain names came across the screen and when they first appeared in the picture. They discussed old films during the intermission. It was a curious place that felt a bit unwelcoming at first, but once the film started, everybody relaxed.

I loved the theater itself, the giant scarab on the ceiling and the balcony. I was sad that there were modern vents and nonsense for air conditioning that obscured the walls on the right and left, but they were still visible when you came in and went out, just not while you were sitting at the theater.

The film about the wax museum was very good and quite funny. It was the inspiration or the original to the one Vincent Price later made and then even later with Paris Hilton. I’ve not seen any of them. I should though, now, just to say that I’ve seen them all.

Dr. X was a bit better than I remembered it, but I wasn’t focused too much on the narrative. I was hungry, but more than that, I was daydreaming. All I could think of was attending the premiere of Terrible Miss Margo there wearing a beautiful tuxedo. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? You’re all invited, of course. (Not really. I don’t even know most of you.) I’ll certainly write about it.

When the film was over, I headed over to the Pig N’ Whistle, that Old Hollywood haunt where celebrities would gather after premieres or after a day of shooting. Unfortunately, the kitchen was closed. I didn’t understand why they would close the kitchen at ten o’clock on Hollywood Boulevard. The streets were still flooded and people constantly streaming in.

So, I walked a couple blocks up to the Roosevelt. There was sure to be something there. And there were, but the kitchens were closed at all but one! What?? So, I went there. It was called 25 Degrees, but I don’t know why and I forgot to ask. It was done in what felt like “Hooker’s Closet” style, but whatevs. I ordered a mojito since they didn’t have brandy. Is brandy banned in California? Nobody seems to stock it or have it on hand. I find this strange. Mojitos are good, though.

I ordered tomato soup and a grilled cheese. Both acceptable, but nothing out of this world. The cheese-to-bread ratio was off and there were way too many basil stems in the soup. But, it wasn’t awful.

I wondered what the stars of yesteryear would have thought about Hollywood Boulevard as I looked out the window. I couldn’t make up my mind. They probably wouldn’t think anything of it since nobody close to famous is on it unless there is a premiere or an award show.

As I left the Roosevelt, I began to slip on the tiles. Thinking quickly and behaving rather foolishly, I made it look like a poor tango and said to standers by, “Valentino said it takes tile to tango!” None of them got the reference to Sunset Boulevard. That upset me. People just have no movie knowledge anymore of the classics. They’re dumb.

As I walked down Hollywood Boulevard in my freakum pants and dodging the Starline Tour people, I realized that at that moment I was enjoying myself. Hollywood is only what you make of it after all. I made it Old Hollywood and so it was for me. That’s all I really wanted out of this trip.

And to top it all off, I was all over The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson that night and my good looks triumphed after the hideous trolls that composed the rest of the audience. Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.

Me On CRAIG {Sherif}

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