“I love pink and gold,” she sings along with the newest Ludacris. “I…love…pink…and…gold!” Babydoll loves this one, especially because of the lil motherfucker with the teeny squeak squeaky toy voice hollering “I love pink and gold,” and I know she drops it like it’s hot whenever she’s out of sight, just like I do, like I did last night when she wasn’t looking and she said she knew what I did and I said no you didn’t.


I love that he put on his hooka boots and prostituted on Hollywood Boulevard. “I love a girl with caked up make-up,” she starts singing along with Mickey Avalon. She loves that he was a man whore, loves his lyrics. “He talks about shit that nobody else talks about,” she narrates, then kicks it back picking up the lyrics, “I love a girl who eats and brings it up…” “Her nose goes bloody cuz the coke’s so yummy.”

I would love to be in a group of people and my nose started bleeding and everybody knew that I’d been snorting lines and they’d all gather around me and…I ask her to repeat what she said, verbatim, and she sounds irked and says, “I don’t know,” like I’m a shitty interviewer, need to step up my goddam game, yo?

“I don’t go under 100,” she says, referring to her permanently accelerated pulse. She starts laughing, “My mom loves this song….with a passion,” referring to Petey Pablo’s Freak-A-Leek club classic. Makes you see sweaty ass-clapping strippers


Babydoll has had an explosive series of events from which to draw. Her forlorn expression makes dirty little teacups out of her multi-colored eyes. Her hair, as usual, is knotted atop her head, a moppish Tinkerbell-bedhead. She plunders around sullenly around my desk behind me because she knows I’m leaving soon, off to see the lover, a year-long and counting one, a kissing cousin, a son to a 70s TV star and an ex-pat mother whose raven hair still-crisp British accent always set her apart from the jungle of rural-metro culture we’ve been reared in and call home because it is and that’s how it is with homes, and families. You think you wouldn’t have picked either of them, had you been given the conscious choice, but then again, who the hell knows. Maybe you did pick, maybe it’s all part of the plan, and we roam devoutly about with our roots dug in deep and no matter how far away we travel or let our minds roam or traipse through the fantasy brackishness of TV and Hollywood flotsam, we always return to the place where our roots keep us – whether against our will or because we like the fit, doesn’t matter.

Home is home.

A prison cell is, too, if you stay there long enough.ImageImage


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