in the valley of the doll
it's nearly three in the morning and i have been waiting in the rain for kathleen 'the doll' outside of the exclusive l'amour restaurant and bar, in the heart of arcadia, for the better half of an hour. she ducked inside for an unannounced round of drinks with friends forty-five minutes ago, as we were en route to her 312 home. honestly, i’m beginning to think i’ve been given the slip.
then, a black rolls royce town car barrels out from the alley and parks in front of the restaurant. the passenger door opens and a deep, brooding voice belonging to the man known as 'headlock' - who has the very special job of wrangling the latest 'it' girl - demands i get inside and take a ride with him. we arrive at 312 skid row - the house with the revolving door reputation.
kathleen’s home is nearly at the end of the street in the affluent arcadian skid row district. her ancient rolls royce, which she has affectionately nicknamed 'the gravedigger', grumbles as it comes to a stop, much like ancient carnival ride. on the sidewalk, in the gutter and inside the heavy, wrought-iron security gates themselves, there is a dusting of broken glass, portentous to another wild night - something 'right hook' kathleen is surely used to. still outside, i watch as the sun glows a dusty violet and emerges from behind a thickening of skyscrapers - in the background, a siren screeches loudly and the dry arcady wind whistles through the trees. i begin making my way towards the house and see kathleen silhouetted in the frame of the front door. she introduces herself warmly and offers me a cup of tea inside.
the house is composed of three levels - the attic-turned-loft; an expanded roost where kathleen and jimmy rest their heads - the second floor; foyer, a kitchen, study, and balcony - the bottom level; yet another kitchen, a den, two rooms connected via powder room, one of which is filled with guitars and several floor-to-ceiling bookcases, stuffed full. this room also features a hidden door to the backyard. the other room, however, is purposely left empty. the couple remarked convincingly, "we brought in a shaman to feel out the house when we first moved in and he reported back to keep the room empty...you know, on account of all the spirits." regardless of reason, the room is eerie, yet enchanting at the same time.
the backyard features a pool, heated by skid row's own geothermic water, a greenhouse, a moat, a yurt and a handful of lemon trees, which dot the yard. the floors are all wooden and old and creaks wherever you step. she has cupboards from brazillian and argentinian catholic convents, a hallway with painted mural of the night sky leads to her private quarters, her bookcases are inscribed in gilt with the name of greek gods.
i walk in and interestingly enough, nothing about it stirs up the wince-inducting crackhouse palace, which the papers - or 'the fence' as kathleen would call them - sketch it out to be, what littered with rubbish and bits of wadded up foil. there is a large stone fireplace and a baby grand in the living room and the dining room's rather traditional-looking table is illuminated by a large, all black glass chandelier. turning another corner, i catch a whiff of some incense and a tune from the music, blaring out poolside. kathleen puts a pot of tea to boil in the kitchen and begins skinning up a joint. she offers me some, to which i accept. we sit on her countertops and smoke, until jimmy kiss lopes in. totally unaware, he fixes himself a cup of tea. then, lifting his head ever so slowly, he looks at kathleen. "babe," he whines unconvincingly, "you know you can't let the fence in here. don’t you know the rules? it’s us versus them. they take notes with their eyes and are always thinking of ways to sell you down the river." he turns to me and shakes my hand. "i’m kiss," he says, smiling loosely.
i tell him i wouldn't dream of selling them down the river and he says, "i wouldn't dream of it either, but all too often it happens."
kathleen was tossed into the public eye after her campy columns in select riot grrrl magazines were recognized and she was offered work with the toybox, a magazine and book publishing company. before long, everybody worth knowing knew who the doll was. photographers were tripping over themselves to get a picture of her. within time, "the money was rolling right in," and kathleen purchased the house at 312 skid row free and clear. "our days of eating sugar sandwiches were over," jimmy says.
a sugar sandwich, i come to find out, am a doll delight and is composed of white bread, butter and granulated sugar. "and it was like we had moved to a land that's fair and bright - where the handouts grow on bushes and you sleep out every night - where the boxcars are all empty and the sun shines every day - on the birds and the bees and the cigarette trees - where the lemonade springs, where the bluebird sings - in the big rock candy mountains." he continues singing the folky slap with added enthusiasm from kathleen. she smokes a cigarette, still sitting, perfectly poised on the counter top and headlock comes in to inform her that she is about to miss an important business meeting in the cielo valley - a city several hours by flight - in a half an hour. she lights another cigarette, as she is obviously stressed.
she is always smoking. if it's not a cigarette - it's a joint. she is still dressed from last night's party and her makeup is still fresh, albeit it being nearly a day old now. kathleen boils another pot of tea and skins up a few sneaky smokes. "you know, sometimes i think headlock is blind and confuses me with just any blonde dame off the street. i am the doll. you don't tell me when it's time to leave - i call those shots." mere seconds later, headlock leans his head in the back-door and calls out, "whose dick do i have to suck, doll, for you to be somewhere on time?"
with that, kathleen hops off the counter, drops her cigarette in her cup of tea, throws her jean jacket over her shoulder and walks out the door. she is not your standard elitist celebrity. she makes her own tea, rolls her own doobies, she goes to work hungover - she puts her trousers on one leg at a time like the rest of us. as we parted ways - she clambering into the gravedigger with jimmy and i walking down skid row to hail a taxicab - i imagine that perhaps it is not she who has shambled into our world. perhaps it is we who simply exist in what will now forever be known as the valley of the doll.
