MALIBU – Lyndsay Lohan comes to the door looking a wreck. Her hair is pulled back into a pony tail, her eyes are red and her skin is pallid. “Hey Chad! Come on in.”, she says, pecking me lightly on the cheek. “I think it’s time I admitted I’m an addict.”
In her breakfast nook the place looks like a bomb has hit it: a library bomb. There are books everywhere. “A book addict.”“This is in Russian.”, I say, leafing through a heavily notated edition of War and Peace.
“Mostly in Russian.” Lohan says, clearing a space for our food and pouring orange juice. “You’ll notice Tolstoy wrote many of the conversations in French, which his readership would understand and would be the way that Russian nobility would speak to one another.”
“You need to read it in the original language – otherwise you miss all the nuances. Have you read it Chad?”
“I know what you mean.” Lindsay passes me a plate of waffles with syrup. “The death of grand narratives in history means that the epic novels lack a substantial relevance, but they are still diverting when you need to refresh your mind with some light exercise.”
“So what do you read?”
“When I was doing Herbie Fully Loaded Michael Keaton got me to read some Wittgenstein and it was like discovering Narnia. Jane Fonda told me you can’t read Wittgenstein and not have read Hegel and Kant, so I went to my friend Charlie Sheen and he gave me a full reading list.”
After the waffles, there are pop tarts and raw eggs. “This might surprise some people who see your media image and think you know…”
“That I’m a fuck up? Yeah, I know. But that’s about the relationship between the symbolic and the real.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the real is there, when you bite into a pop tart and it is too hot – you experience the real. But everything else about the pop tart, the advertising, the packaging, the cultural idea, even the word pop tart, that’s all in the realm of the symbolic. It enslaves, bewilder,s and baffles us. We must liberate ourselves from the symbolic and experience the real. Open ourselves to that.”
“So you’re not a wreck?”
“I want to challenge your definition of wreck.”
“Interesting.”, I say, sipping my orange juice.
I wake up and it’s Monday. I haven’t got my trousers and I’m in down town New York, the wind is blowing and apparently there’s a hurricane coming. I find a text on my phone from Lindsay: “Sorry, there was a bit of orange juice in your vodka.”