I had never really thought of writing this story—when it happened I was in an emotional blur—but I was reminded of it the other day. I applied for a writing job at Dlisted.com. (Cross your fingers!) They are frequently referencing Angelyne, and I used this story—or a tiny snippet of it—as part of my application. When I woke up this morning, it literally dawned on me that this might be of interest to you.
First, let’s introduce our heroine. Do you know of Angelyne? Points if you do, but don’t worry, I can give you a pretty good run-down. Or you know what? Let’s rely on the internet for that.
I was first introduced to Angelyne in the movie Earth Girls are Easy. Again, if you know that one, points for you. If you don’t, you can catch Angelyne’s scene below.
I also highly recommend watching all of Earth Girls because it’s a classic. Jim Carrey is in it and plays a hairy red alien. Geena Davis’ body DOES NOT QUIT. And Julie Brown’s musical numbers are so bad they’re good. I won’t speak on Jeff Goldblum’s performance because I am NOT A FAN. That’s a story for another day.
Anyway, Angelyne is rad. She is famous for being famous, and entirely self-made. Her look is insane albeit iconic (my favorite) and I’m into her. So of course, when I saw a contest to win a ride with Angelyne in her pink Corvette, I entered. I won.
I got the call one week after my dog Sinatra died. I was grieving, and not at all surprised I had won the contest. I have a knack for winning contests, and I felt like it was just what I needed to shake off my dead-doggie depression. Angelyne’s agent made the call, and scheduled me for that Thursday afternoon. I was to meet him at a Starbucks on Sunset, and then he would introduce me to Angelyne. From there, we would go on a ride around Los Angeles. I was psyched. Angelyne?! In her pink corvette? This was so L.A.!
I arrived at the Starbucks on time and waited for Angelyne’s manager. I don’t remember his name, but he was a nice, eccentric man in a 70s leather jacket and snakeskin boots who showed up only a few minutes late. I think he had a British accent, but I may have imagined that part. For this story, we will call him Frank.
Angelyne arrived, and offered to buy me a coffee, but I was too nervous for caffeine. Once she and her manager had their drinks (hers was sweet and had lots of whipream, of course), we walked over to Angelyne’s infamous pink Corvette.
The corvette had seen better days, but I wasn’t in a position to judge. It had dents and needed repair to the back fender. It mirrored Angelyne, who had also aged out of her early sex symbol status years ago.
Don’t misunderstand me. Angelyne is art. Angelyne is a babe. But Angelyne has been on the stroll for sometime now, and it shows. We rifled through her trunk in search of T-Shirts, and I bought one for $40. Steep, but totally worth it. Besides, what did I care? I had just spent 800 bucks on a massage for my dying dog. What’s 40 bucks?
“You have good style,” she told me, “Are you a stylist?” I loved her even more.
Next, we went for our ride. We made polite conversation at first, she explained that she had errands to run, so we would just be zipping around the neighborhood. When she asked me about myself, I told her about Sinatra. She shared her own brief story of losing a dog.
“What do you think happens after you die?” She asked me.
“I don’t know. I guess, if you’re lucky, you get reincarnated?”
“Oh no. Not me,” she said, “I’m a fully actualized person.”
I laughed, admiring her complete confidence. What a bombshell.
As we drove, people on the street tried to flash pictures. Angelyne explained that she doesn’t let anyone take a picture of her face for less than $10,000.
TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS, YOU GUYS. We are doing everything WRONG.
We pulled into the parking lot of a local Vons. Angelyne armed herself with a large, monogrammed fan from her purse. She popped open the fan, covering her face, ensuring no one snapped a freebie as we walked into the store. I mentally added “Personalized Fan,” to my Christmas list.
Now, I could be wrong here, but inside the grocery store, I think Angelyne stole a small bucket of potato salad. Maybe macaroni salad. But it was a mayo-based salad of sorts. I didn’t see her buy it, and she encouraged me to buy something as we exited the store.
“Get a magazine,” she told me, as we hurriedly walked through the checkout together, Angelyne sneaking behind me toward the exit.
Maybe she bought the snack earlier, but I don’t recall a time that we were separated. After that, we went to pick up some seat covers for that Corvette. We talked about makeup, and women who don’t wear it.
“Women are the flowers of humanity,” she said as she expressed her disdain for any woman who didn’t turn it out, “They should do their makeup.”
We listened to her original music for the rest of our ride back toward the Starbucks. Her music is awesome and 80s and synth and kitsch, just like Angeline. I asked if I could buy a CD.
“Maybe Frank can make you one, I’m not sure,” she said, “But it’s not available online. Email him and ask,” I never did. Maybe later today...
We ended our ride and Angelyne took a few more quick pictures of me in her car. I drove home inspired by the tiny icon. She was so bizarre and sweet. For the first time that week, I didn’t feel sad. Thank you, Angelyne. You and your pink Corvette are the best, and just what I needed.