Amy Karl - He Put My Buddha In The Freezer: The Hopes, Letdowns & Disastrous Almost-Love Stories Of One Womans Hollywood Decade

He Put My Buddha In The Freezer: The Hopes, Letdowns & Disastrous Almost-Love Stories of One Womans Hollywood Decade

Published by Gatekeeper Press

2167 Stringtown Rd, Suite 109

Columbus, OH 43123-2989

www.GatekeeperPress.com

Copyright 2020 by Amy Karl

All rights reserved. Neither this book, nor any parts within it may be sold or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

ISBN (paperback): 9781642376159

eISBN: 9781642376166

Printed in the United States of America

T he stories in this book reflect my recollection of events. Many names have been changed and some details modified to protect the privacy of those depicted. Dialogue has been re-created from memory.

The names of the actors remain unchanged. There is no way to fictionalize the already famous and still tell my story. The scenes with them only add to their existing charm and many of the characteristics I portray are already known in the mainstream media.

For example, no one is going to be shocked that Woody Harrelsona known rainforest activist, vegan, and hemp clothing wearer who openly advocated his use of marijuanamight actually smoke a little weed. Plus, its (now) legal in the state of California: a member of the Union that adores and advocates free speech, especially for the underdog: me.

HenceHe Put My Buddha In The Freezer.

We engage in many defenses
against the uncomfortable feeling
of rootlessness and insecurity.
The Aquarian Teacher

I bellied up to the bar and downed a shot of tequila.

Want to dance? a tall, balding, Jewish man in wired-rimmed glasses asked. He looked to be in his early forties. I sucked hard on the lemon slice that came with my tequila.

No thanks, I replied, my face probably looking as sour as the lemon.

Undeterred, he told me his name was Richard and offered to buy me another drink. Forcing a smile, I told him I was good and turned back to chat with Amanda Peet, the up-and-coming actress whod just starred in a film where I had my first movie role. I only had a few lines, but the part was opening some doors for me.

It was 1998, and I was at New Line Cinemas Christmas party in Los Angeles with Brett, a producer Id been dating for about eight weeks. Brett was on the verge of making a name for himself with American Pie. But hed already lied to me twice, cheated on me once, and didnt have much time in his busy schedule to see me. I planned to break it off before heading back to Chicago the following day for the holidays, but he kept introducing me as his girlfriend. Like everything in L.A., this perplexed me. Hence the tequila shot. I thought back to the day, two years earlier, when the letter arrived that would change my life:

It was a cold, gray day in Chicago, and I was dying for another life. One that might begin within a few weeks, depending on the contents of the envelope I was holding. I looked out the bedroom window of my first-floor apartment. Thick, frosty ice covered the pane like fairy dust. Inhaling deeply, I closed my eyes and ripped open the envelope.

Congratulations! Youve been accepted into the American Conservatory Theatre.

Incapable of moving, I read and reread the words. Then a tear I hadnt even realized I shed dripped onto the letter and smeared the words a little. Hopping onto my bed, I jumped up and down with reckless abandon, hollering at the top of my lungs, Im going to win an Academy Award! Im going to be an actress!

Id spent the better part of the last four years, since graduating from college, sorting though my parents divorce, my fathers new identitywhich included, or would soon include, a shiny red Corvette, a 44-foot Beneteau sailboat, and a girlfriend my agemy moms post-divorce size two jeans, and, oh yes, what I should be doing with my life. At least, to that last question, I now had my answer.

Several hours later, Sam, my boyfriend of the last two years, who had a key to my place, shook me awake. He looked like a J. Crew model with his gorgeous green eyes, thick, dark eyebrows, and loose curly hair. I should have wanted to get naked with him, only every time he was in bed with me, I stroked his earlobes the way a masseuse does at the end of a massage, hoping hed fall asleep and forget about wanting other body parts stroked.

Whats this? he asked, peeling the clutched letter off my chest. I never told him that Id applied to acting school.

Im moving to California, Sam.

Ready for that drink yet? Richards voice interrupted my walk down memory lane.

I saw Brett heading toward me. Sam would never have cheated on me. He may have been boring, but at least he was loyal. Looking back at Richard, I said, I dont need a drink, but how about that dance?

I had no idea who Richard was or what he did for a living, but when he extended his hand and led me out to the dance floor, I felt oddly protected. A few minutes into the song, Richard asked for my number. As I was mouthing my digits to him, Brett walked up from behind and tapped me on the shoulder. I could tell by his puppy eyes that he knew I was going to dump him. I thanked Richard for the dance, and he said that he would call me, like Brett wasnt even there.

When I returned from Christmas break, ten days later, two things were outside my door: a beautiful bouquet of flowers from Richard with a note that read, Just Because and a letter from Brett apologizing for all the reasons why he hadnt called me over the holiday, begging for my forgiveness, and professing his love. Richard called me first thing on New Years Day while I was still in Chicago. He told me he hoped all my dreams would come true and asked if he could pick me up and take me to lunch that upcoming Saturday. I told him yes and gave him my address. Were practically neighbors, he said, going on to tell me he lived less than a mile away.

I lived just below Sunset Boulevard, across from the Viper Room (the club where River Phoenix had just died), in a rundown English Tudor Style building comprised of three bungalows and a two-story building with four apartments. I rented the apartment on the second floor. The landlord told me that Marilyn Monroe had lived in the apartment across the hall from me right before being discovered. My place was only 600 square feet and in dire need of repair-- cracked tiles in the bathroom, dirty grout on the kitchen counters, and missing knobs on the vintage stove. But I half-hoped that living in proximity to where Marilyn began her career in Hollywood foreshadowed the kind of career opportunities awaiting me.

That Saturday, Richard knocked on my door at exactly noon. Id assumed that hed call from the car and Id run down. Scanning the room for any overlooked sock piles, I noticed Richards note prominently propped up against his vase of flowers. I thought about turning it over. But then there was a second knock. Adjusting my shirt, I opened the door. Richard was wearing sleek Italian sneakers and a designer t-shirt that showcased his perfectly trim physique.