Exerpt from book about dating Steve


There is an article about this book and its Steve connection in the January 11, 2004 blog entry (see archives for that month). It tells all about the book. Here are the relevant exerpts.

Elisabeth Robinson
The True and Outstanding Adventures of the Hunt Sisters.
New York: Little, Brown and Company (2004).

[excerpt pp. 66-69 letter to sister with leukemia about a date with THE Steve]

October20, 1998
The Basement

Maddie,

I thought you of all people would be excited about me dating a celebrity. That jab about forgetting who I am was out of line. (And what did you mean by that, anyway?) Robin Williams wanted to introduce us; I’m going to say no? I don’t think it’s going very well, anyway. I just got home from my third date. I wish you were up, because I’m dying to talk to you. What do you make of this?

After dinner (cooked by his private chef, of course) I asked Steve to show me his art collection, which is incredible. Most of it was on loan to a gallery in Aspen at the moment, so where all the Hoppers and Picassos usually hung were only rectangles lit by spotlights. A few lesser works still remained, but the best pieces, he said, were in his bedroom.

Aha, I said. Are you going to show me your “etchings”? I was making a joke, and since he’s a comedian, I thought he’d get it, but he looked sickened, like either it was a really lame joke or he was horrified that I was serious and might jump him. Still, he led me down a long hallway, I mean long hallway, to his bedroom. A white bedspread covered a king-size mahogany four-poster, which domi­nated the room. I saw a painting and made a beeline for it. I stood in front of it, looking at it. It was an unamazing landscape by some very famous midcentury Californian artist I’ve never heard of. I said, This is amazing. I said it a few times: This is amazing. He told me about the artist and the painting, but if I found it interesting then, I sure don’t now; I can’t tell you a word about it. I remember thinking, Wouldn’t it be ironic if this movie star falls in love with me because Michael taught me enough about art that I could spew some decent art-appreciation nonsense about the artist’s brush stroke and color palette evoking the late-afternoon light of the dying frontier? It’s the way life works. All those afternoons at the Met or MoMA with Michael end up paying off big.

I stepped over the sisal to the other lit landscape, this one by some other guy, don’t ask me who, and that’s when I heard the first tenta­tive twangs of the banjo. Steve was sitting on his bed strumming his banjo. He was. And what was I supposed to do then? Continue to express my appreciation of the famous painting or direct my admira­tion toward his musical talent? I felt like a mother of hungry twins. I love this, I said, nodding at the painting, I just love it.

It’s beautiful, isn’t it?

Very. Then, smiling at him adoringly, I said, You’re good.

Oh, thanks.

He kept playing. Now I’m standing there in his bedroom, and he’s playing his banjo. Should I sit on the floor at his feet? Pull up a Biedermeier and settle in? I remained standing, arms folded across my chest, grinning at his banjo, nodding my head. What should I have done, Maddie?

He played for about twelve minutes. In fact, I know it was twelve minutes because I couldn’t help seeing over his shoulder on the bedside table the red numbers of his LCD clock. It felt longer. Like an hour and a half. At 9:53 he stopped playing, and the minute he did I said, God, you are good (and he really is).

Thank you.

Then he walked me to my car.

What’s that? You know this happened the last time, too, when I sat on the couch in the living room: out came the banjo. I listened and wondered, Could this be a pass? How do I get by the banjo? If I make a move will he think I’m just a star-fucker, some cheap groupie who’s only attracted to him because he’s a celebrity? If I don’t make a move will he think I’m not interested? The first time he played I assumed I should sing along. I wasn’t familiar with the song so I just hummed, demurely slapping my hand on my thigh to the rhythm, but he got that pained look on his face, which is why this time I just listened rapturously. I waited for him to throw the banjo aside and make wild love to me, but as painful as this is to admit, he somehow just didn’t find me irresistible.

Even if tonight I did find a way to his heart (or whatever), I don’t see why you’re not more supportive. You hinted that I might have had ulterior motives i.e., all that money! -- but that’s not true. I think he’s cute. And obviously very funny. And smart. I’d never marry for money. I know too many girls out here who did and they paid with their lives, Mad. I may be desperate -- well, yes, I am desperate -- but I’m not easy, so I’d never get that kind of job offer. Men who buy their wives prefer models with fewer neuroses, slimmer egos, and hobbies, not career ambitions usually just plain models. I don’t think I’ll be finding my way out of this hole I’m in with the help of a rich husband. Besides, I’m too romantic. There is only one way I’d live with a man again, and that is for true love. The kind you have with Bobby. The kind the movies portray so well. The kind I had, briefly, with Michael.

It’s late. I better sign off. I have an early meeting with Warners tomorrow; they seem pretty serious about the movie. You’re not lying to me about your counts, are you? Mom says you don’t look so good. I hope you’re being straight with me, Madeline Anne. Don’t sugarcoat things for me, okay?

I love you,

Liv



[excerpt pp. 211-212] (from letter to best friend Tina dated February 1, 1999, Hollywood Hills concerning events at a movie premiere and after party)

The movie was godawful, but I said it was incredible because Russell represents the director. The minute we were outside he grabbed my elbow and pushed me like a lawn mower over to the Armand Hammer Museum, where the party was being held. A red carpet, taped down with silver duct tape, stretched from the door of the Westwood Theater three blocks to the museum. Inside there was the usual mix of stars and jumbo shrimp. I know I sound jaded, Tina, but after you do these things once a week for a few years, how can you not be? It’s like going to the office Christmas party every week, only it’s covered by ET and CNN because Ben Affieck and Susan Sarandon are going to be there. Even my first few times seemed odd to me: you get dressed up, sometimes in black tie, park in an underground lot, and walk into a mall to watch a movie, while news cameras follow you as if walking itself were a newsworthy event.

This one was pretty well attended: besides the stars from the movie, there were lots of A-list names walking around, like Brad and Jennifer, Jack, Warren, and Steve -- yes, Tina, that Steve. As he walked by, he smiled at me and I smiled back. I still wonder what happened and what I was supposed to do.... Oh, well.

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- posted by sookeyjane 3/06/2004 02:08:00 AM PERMALINK 0 COMMENTS