I hung out with a really groovy girl today. As I have been prone to isolation this year, I took it as a pleasant bump-in-the-road that I should happen to spend time with such a cool chick. Her name is Morgan. She was born in 1982 which means she is the same age as my estranged father's daughter from his second marriage. The latter girl is someone I witnessed being born and only remember as a lilting tot who was always available to share her Barbie dolls. Morgan is the personification of those children born in the 1980s, named after social-climbing, yuppied parents who watched too many episodes of Dynasty. Until today, I had never come into contact with such a creature. I imagined such a creature to be challenged in the pursuit of living up to her affected name. Morgan seemed to live the dream as I studied her model-perfect, Madison Avenue, made-for-the-runway frame and flame colored mane of frosted weave. Her individual facial features were put together to resemble someone Angelina Jolie could favor sans the collagen. I was impressed by her overwhelmingly fabulous aesthetic at such a young age. I knew little about her-- only bits and pieces of gossip compiled from my personal network of other like-minded bitter queens who dreamed of being her. She has a boyfriend she calls her ex- Steve who she claims is mixed up in manipulation with my friend Charlie. That means Charlie inevitably wants to fuck him and has been playing both sides to the middle as he winds himself in between their lovelorn drama. I can personally relate because I harbored Morgan's previous boyfriend in my apartment for three months in hopes of helping him come to terms with the hidden homoexuality I was sure was hidden just beneath the surface of his Calvin Kleins. Being alone with Morgan in my own environment was the next best thing to trying to fuck her boyfriend and better than Charlie could do with his meddling. Morgan told me none of these details so my perception was purely based on the gossip at large. As she asked to use my computer--- "I need to sling some ass," she said, I obliged by running to the local taqueria to order her a cheese quesadilla. Her pink-pimped-out cell phone rang 6 times in three minutes and I busied myself by responding to her text messages and placing calls on hold or banishing them to voice mail. Then she wanted me to take her picture with the camera-phone-vibrator thing and I adjusted the lighting while she slipped into an azure blue bikini and affected a provocative, come-hither pose for the hungry eye of the camera-phone. As she stood on my bed and towered above the lens, I became the Mark Morrisroe of shutterbug aspirations. As she juggled what seemed to be four to six email accounts on various hook-up sites, including craigslist, I marveled at the ease with which this rumored debutante graced the keyboard without budging her eyes from the monitor. Knowing nothing about her background except that she was purported to be the only offspring of filthy rich cultured denizens of Russian Hill and old moneyed Bay area blue blood, I saw evidence of what must have been leftover from a finishing school for nice girls. She was the Pretty Baby Brooke Shields paved the way for-- a tantalizing and enticing child-like model with sea-blue eyes, vanilla complexion and provocative pout. It was rumored among the bitter queens of my peer set that she crashed and burned a promising supermodel career that garnered her even more riches than the ones she was raised with. The ex-boyfriend that I held hostage had let me in on a secret of Morgan's storied past. Apparently, she had barely escaped high court federal charges for drug trafficking only a short time ago. Her parents purportedly paid up the ass to save their prized only daughter from being the starlet subject of women-in-prison trade films. What would Morgan have done without her french vanilla, European cigarettes? (I was duly impressed with this added detail) The business savvy she exuded as evidenced by her brush and escape from the feds was played out in executive Devil Wears Prada style as she clicked between Heidi Fleiss-like profiles. Self-described as "Vixen Veronica" she apologized upon realizing she had accidentally forwarded her response to a client's request for her piss to my email account. I strangely felt unworthy of such an honor and affiliation. As weirdness of fate would have it, I soon asked Morgan point-blank about her age. Knowing as I did that she was a child of the (cough) 1980s, I found out she is also a sister Virgo like myself. Born September 14, she is one day and 9 years shy of my birthdate on September 15. She called it "Virgo-Chi" and I relished the sound of the words in my head. "Virgo-Chi", I repeated out loud. It's almost as if it's the super-power I was always sure was my birth-right in a childhood fantasy dream sequence.What's more, all of this took place on a day I had heard Morgan was to be evicted from her Mission Street flat. My friend Charlie had been sneaking off to "help" her ex- Steve pack for weeks. Morgan wasn't supposed to know as Charlie always managed to escape out the back door before Morgan returned from whatever distracted her from this impending homeless fate.She made no mention of such a turn of events and hardly seemed bothered by the fact that she would be sleeping in a hotel this evening. I learned about the hotel thing after reading her text messages urgently sent by her hunky "ex", Steve. I was trying to manage her correspondence so she had time to devote to the search for slinging ass at my computer. She threw me a sparkle kiss and we ran like wayward Catholic school girls into the ghetto making up my neck of woods in San Francisco urban "T-L" hell. I caught her a cab as she was too nervous to draw attention to the perceived paparazzi she was sure loitered nearby. "Give me a call sometime" I offered. "I hate people" was her reply. "Oh, me too," I shot back. Finally, someone could relate to the spoiled princess and the pea persona I held inside the superior netherworld of my fantasy land. She had the aloof charm of a Russian Faberge and the oozing sexuality that Cindy Crawford grew into. She didn't have to try as hard as Angelina Jolie while still demanding the respect one would bestow to (dare-I-say?) Princess Caroline of Monaco, the troubled, wild-child sired by Prince Rainier and Grace Kelly. An untouchable fire-starter wreaking havoc in a clueless wake.We went about our separate day until she called out of the blue at 3:00 AM. Swearing me to secrecy about her location, she invited me to "just call if you want to hang out". I agreed and now sit in fearful stoicism, awe and silent self-flagellation. Could this A-list girl from rock-star meets Hilton strata really be giving me the time of day? Well-- yeah, I guess. Cuz I'm a wonder twin with Virgo-Chi- Virgo-Vixen-Chi for that matter. And I'm older.
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