Paris: The Memoir(55)
The only way I could sleep in my own bed—alone or otherwise—was if I had my dogs with me. Back then, I had two sweet teacup Pomeranians: Sebastian (named after Ryan Phillippe’s character in Cruel Intentions) and Dolce (self-explanatory). They weren’t trained as such, but these were therapy dogs in the truest sense. All that CEDU “emotional growth” BS left me with an abiding fear of human therapists, and I thought I’d die if any of my friends or cousins knew what had really happened to me. My dogs were my support network.
Dolce and Sebastian didn’t question my choices or prod me to talk about my feelings. They didn’t try to unpack or understand me. They were just there, following me when I paced in circles or piling on top of me when I curled up in a corner on my closet floor.
Dog love has always been my sanctuary.
My current cutesy crew—Diamond Baby, Harajuku Bitch, Slivington, Ether, and Crypto—live in their own mini Dream House in my backyard. It’s big enough that I can crawl in there if they need me. Or if I need them. A mini Dream House is not over the top at all when you consider that my dogs surround me with a fortress of love.
Mornings were usually pretty rocky for me. I was grateful for an hour or two of dreamless sleep, if it finally came, but I usually got up feeling like I’d slammed my head in a car door. My stomach churned, empty and tight. My jaw throbbed from clenching my teeth. I forced my forehead to relax, because I didn’t want to develop a line between my eyebrows.
By midafternoon, I was ready to chow down on whatever fast food was available. I lived for McDonald’s and Taco Bell, and I could eat a gross amount of fat and calories, because I never sat still. I was constantly trotting, skipping, hustling, hopping, and dancing. I never sat down while I checked my messages, returned calls, and paged through the papers, soaking up the gossip and planning my evening. At night, I came alive.
There’s nothing like that LA nightlife anymore. Back then, we didn’t have to deal with any of the exposure and distractions that consume people now. Twitter and Facebook hadn’t been invented yet. Netflix was a thing where you literally received a physical disc in a bright red envelope via snail mail, played it in a DVD player, and then mailed it back to Netflix in the same envelope with a little flap torn off. If you wanted to see people, engage in conversation, hear music, and develop a network, going out was a way of life. You were never troubled by the idea that someone was going to film you doing something idiotic, and if they did, so what? Who were they going to share it with? There was no YouTube, either.
I had no stylist, no agent, no managers, no publicist. My friends and I were just out there every night, wearing whatever we felt like wearing, finding our own style and having fun with our hair and makeup. Some of my looks back then were way over the top, but my childhood had been stolen from me before I was done playing dress-up; I earned all that extra.
Mom and Nicky shopped for the big labels at Henri Bendel, but I was a downtown girl. My favorite boutique was Hotel Venus, a rave store owned by Patricia Field, the costume designer for Sex and the City. I went in there with my mom’s credit card and loaded up on platform boots, micro-minis, and several sick outfits my mom hated. When the bill came in, Mom thought I’d spent the money at an actual hotel, and she called them up demanding to know what the hell her daughter was doing there.
Nicky and I both wore a lot of Heatherette and walked in a lot of Heatherette shows. This adorably campy brand was founded in 1999 by Richie Rich, a performing artist with Club Kids, and Traver Rains, a Montana farm boy who somehow ended up in the New York fashion world. I read somewhere that they named the brand after their friend Heather, an opera singer with one leg. Clearly, it was destined for out-there greatness.
I lived for Heatherette’s rave tanks—glittery, glammy, heavily bedazzled tops worn by Britney, Madonna, and Gwen Stefani. I think one of those little tops made an appearance on Sex and the City, which was a serious style barometer at the time. You could pair these little tops with jeans or a little skirt or just about anything, and because they were designed by a dancer, you could rage all night, look great, and be comfortable. They also made the sickest, sparkliest little dresses.
Oh, come back, Heatherette! I miss your crazy charm.
My calendar was jammed with events at various clubs, private homes, and Avalon, a huge event space in an old building on Hollywood and Vine. I made a point of attending events thrown by Brent Bolthouse, my old friend who had planned my sweet-sixteen party, and learned a lot from the way he curated parties based on the right mix of talent and experience rather than fame and money. There were no random people, no crashers, no desperados. It was all people you knew or wanted to know—interesting people having interesting conversations about art, music, and movies.
People trusted each other. I felt safe, even when I drank too much. It was all so much fun. (Remember fun?) There were signs: NO CAMERAS. Purses and pockets were checked at the door to make sure no one brought in those little disposable cameras we used before smartphones were a thing. Now you can’t keep the cameras out because no one wants to give up their phone. You’d get less resistance if you asked them to donate a kidney at the door.
I’m not judging. I’d give up the kidney in a heartbeat. My phone is like my jet pack. I have five dedicated phones, separate numbers for work, personal, Europe, prank calling, and one more with a number I give out if people ask me for my number but I don’t feel totally comfortable giving my real real number and I don’t want to be mean, because I’m a pathological people pleaser. Even Carter can’t get me to part with more than two of these phones, and believe me, he has tried.