Wednesday, April 18, 2012

The Old Angelina

All this talk about Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie finally getting hitched after six kids and seven years got me to thinking about the days when I kinda, sorta ran in a similar circle with the wild Angie. The kind of Angie the Rolling Stones would’ve written a ball-aching song for. Not the globe-trotting, humanitarian, vegan who home-schools her multi-ethnic children in France. The woman who has more black children than Janet, LaToya and Michael Jackson combined. I’m partial to the chick who dabbled in heroin, who wore the vial of blood around her neck. The chick who kissed her brother on the mouth. Anyhow, here I go dropping names again. I’ll pick them up as we go along. You just listen.
There was a night back in the late 1990’s, back in my gossip-column heyday, when my buddy’s cute, British girlfriend was on the prowl looking to take home a random hot girl for a possible three-way. So, while my buddy and I waited and got loaded at the bar at Moomba, his chick was off on her gracious and thoughtful errand. But after an hour there was no sign of her and she wasn’t answering her phone, so my buddy and I split back to his apartment. Round 4 A.M. in walks his girl with her hair all askew, her clothes a bit messy, her thigh-high stockings ripped and one of her legs running with blood.
“What the Hell happened to you,” we demanded. “Who did this? We’ll kill the guy!”
Upon closer review, once we wiped the blood away, her leg suffered cuts from a pocket knife that revealed the initials “A.J.”
What the what?
“You’re not going to believe this,” my buddy’s chick said. “I almost had Angelina Jolie come over. She was all over me in the car.”
Remember, these were the days when Angie made no bones about jumping a girl’s bones from time to time. So the story held weight.
I just wanted to know if the initials she carved into the Brit’s leg meant she wanted me, the only A.J. I knew. “No, ass,” she said. “Angie carved HER initials in my leg. Not yours!” Oh. Hey, a guy can dream.
Fast forward a few years, I’m living in Hollywood and I made a new friend in Billy Bob Thornton. We had just drank a few at the Sunset Marquis where Billy Bob was telling me about another A List actress who made him have sex with her in his “SlingBlade” voice. Suddenly he tells me how he’s been seeing Angelina on the hush-hush and she asked him if he wanted to get hitched. He was uncertain what to do, being a four-time divorcee. I literally took the drink from his hand, downed it myself and told him to go get her right now and do it. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “I am right,” I demanded. “Do it for us guys who can’t marry her. It’s your fuckin’ duty, hombre.”
A few days later they eloped. Still waiting to hear from Billy Bob about that honeymoon. But at least he got the Angie who was off her wheels enough to give a guy the ride of his life. Poor Brad only got the mini-van version of that once great sports car.

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