||[May. 5th, 2003|11:40 pm]
and i will away.
|||||Laura Palmer's Theme from Twin Peaks||]|
"How do you want me to introduce you?" the real-estate agent asks as we are being driven in a gold Rolls-Royce toward the Garden District in New Orleans.
"Courtney Love-Cobain", she says curtly, lighting a Camel. She is at her grown-up finest this afternoon, determined to find a house in only a few hours so that she can come down here after Lollapalooza and write her next album, which she plans to call 'Celebrity Skin'.
"Because I've touched so much of it," she tells me. She has her hair swept up on her head like a punk Ivana. A pink silk suit rides high on her white-stockinged thighs. Her makeup is perfectly applied; still, retrieving a Chanel compact, she checks her lipstick yet again. "1.8 million is a mortgage for me, honey," she says to the agent without moving her lips as she reddens them even more. "$600,000 is cash."
As we pass mansion after mansion, Love points out what she likes and doesn't like. Bob Dylan has a home down here. Peter Buck of R.E.M. has bought one in the French Quarter. Her buddy Brad Pitt has reportedly been looking at one of the city's most sought-after properties. Even Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails, which Hole toured with early last fall, has begun renovating a historic home. The fact that Reznor, who fueled a rock fued with Love when he called her a "manipulator and careerist" in print, is making the move hasn't deterred Love from trying to find her own house in the neighborhood.
"Yeah, I fucked Reznor, but it wasn't that great of an experience," she tells me later, after we've looked at a few houses. "I was slumming...Simone de Beauvoir in 'The Second Sex' wrote about this thing called sexual valuation, meaning you are who you fuck. You cannot get back at a man that way, but a man can get back at a woman by sexually devaluating her." Bored with the subject, she turns her attention to more important matters. "I want witches and vampires! I need some demon possession!" she screams at the real-estate agent, in the front seat. "That last house you showed me was too damn clean!"
A rambling old mansion across from Anne Rice's house is closer to Love's taste, but it would require too much work. "I'm sorry I'm so picky," she sighs as we climb back into the Rolls, "but I had a subscription to Architectural Digest before I had one to Ms. magazine...That one thing I didnt like about that other house was that the garden was way too pristine. I'm really good with gardens. I'd love to rip that garden out and make it a really decadent old-style New Orleans garden. Lots and lots of jasmine. Wild roses. Trellises....And then I've got some wonderful poppies and poppy bulbs..."
"We're losing our daylight,"the agent tells her.
"That's when I like it here. I like it when it gets dark....I dont know, though, do you think this is a good place to raise a kid?" She lights another Camel and, sliding down on the backseat, sticks her pink pumps out the open window. "Do you know that Mississippi John Hurt song?" she asks me, then begins to growl off-key as the sun squats lower in the Louisiana sky. "Angels take him away, oh, Lord," she sings, her feet dangling in the breeze, smoke devilishly lurking about her face. "Angels took him away..."