Project Runaway: The Amnesia Ex - January 9, 2008
I am not much of a reality TV guy, but recently, at the behest of many of my friends, I Tivo'd an episode of "Project Runway" on Bravo to watch Elisa Jimenez; the bizarre, beautiful, worn, alien, "spit-marking" designer who, I was told, seems to spend the end of every episode wincing and waiting for the inevitable axe. She and her crazy antics have been the subject of numerous late night talk shows, blog posts, and even Margaret Cho's Off-Broadway show. Sometimes she's admired, but the general consensus seems to be that, at some point in her life, the cheese slid off her cracker.
Begrudgingly, I watched an episode where Elisa had to make a casual outfit for a male model. Since Ms. Jimenez ONLY designs "couture" - on the body - she found herself in a self-imposed conundrum. Out of respect for the love she shares with her partner in New Mexico, Elisa never touches other male bodies. In an interview sidebar, she aired her apprehension, stating, "My current lover is the only man I've ever made clothes on."
Hmm....that's interesting.
Because for more than two years, she made clothes on, and for... ME.
But she wasn't necessarily lying...
Confused? I hope so.
If you're patient enough to read the rest of this entry, though, your confusion will clear and you will have read a strange and heartbreaking story. There is not an ounce of exaggeration or fabrication in it. I took no creative license; this isn't a poignant Denzel Washington movie. The conversation that happened on a fairly recent Saturday afternoon is recounted almost verbatim, transcribed cleanly from an audio clip running incessant loops through my cerebellum for the past two years. The preternatural conclusion of my relationship with Elisa is probably the weirdest thing I've ever experienced.
It may also be the saddest.
Six years ago this past October, I approached a girl on the corner of 47th Street and 9th Avenue in Manhattan. It was the first Saturday of October. For anyone who doesn't know The City, early October is smack in the middle of the perennial Indian Summer; a period that, along with Spring, serves as a kind of magical bookend for the warm weather months in New York. It is the time, mostly, that Manhattanites fall in love.
I knew her by sight. A mutual friend, Phalana, had taken me to one of her Soho fashion shows earlier in the year and I remember thinking she was one of the oddest and sexiest women I had ever laid eyes on. I don't remember how I approached her since I didn't know her name, but according to Elisa, I stopped in front of her on the corner of 47th Street and 9th Avenue and said, simply:
"Hey, Elisa."
Whereupon she stopped and looked at me quizzically, without any recollection of having met.
"Do I know you?" she offered.
"Hi, I'm Bill, nice to meet you," was my flat-footed response.
"Hi, I'm Elisa."
Months later, despite my subsequent playful protestations to the contrary, she insisted that hearing her name was the ONLY reason she would have stopped to speak to a stranger on the street. Whatever the case may be, the result was us standing there for an awkward, red-faced three minutes, shuffling imaginary dust off the concrete sidewalk with shy shoes, stammering and stuttering our way through the beautifully painful first conversation.
We discussed our mutual friend Phalana, blushed a little more, awkwardly parted, and then retreated to our apartments, conveniently positioned catty-corner to each other. I bounded up the stairs two at a time and called Phalana to inquire about Elisa. I could feel her Cheshire grin through fiber-optic cable all the way from Los Angeles -- Elisa had just called as well, with a similar breathless inquiry.
That was it. Elisa and I fell in love. Quickly. For two, maybe three days, we played coolly cynical, dipping our toes into the crocodile-infested waters of new love. After less than two months, we'd already made that delicate and unspoken pact that lovers often make: one of us isn't getting out alive.
In a turnabout on the clichéd path down which many of my relationships have run, with Elisa I was cast in the role of the staid, nerdish adult. She was the tattooed and reckless wild child who fecklessly made out with girlfriends at parties -- dying her hair and/or inking her body bimonthly with the brash abandon of a teenage runaway. I watched nonplussed as Elisa flitted through her life unconcerned with humdrum things like health insurance or filing taxes; completely unfettered by financial obligation or even the internet. She "bartered" clothes for food, rent, supplies, and, often, presents for me. And when she wasn't bartering, meditating, hand-sewing, or caring for her 7 year old daughter, she was consuming me with a sex drive that was ... in a word ... epic.
For two years we lived like that. But, as is often the case with fast love, the things about her that most intrigued and titillated me slowly became the things that drove me batguano. I started lying, first to myself... and then to her. Unable to continue wearing a mask, though, I finally steeled myself to tell her it was over.
The two of us flew west for the AFI Film Festival where a film I'd recently shot was being screened. I decided to do it there....not in the audience during the movie, but while we were out in Los Angeles. After the screening, we returned to our suite at the Chateau Marmot where, in a sardonic twist, Elisa told me she was in love with me and, for the first time in her life, wanted to marry someone.
Clearly the gods enjoy the misery of human courtship.
I took a breath and told her that I was, once again in my life, not ready. I'll never forget the look in her eyes when she absorbed what I had said. The visceral u-turn from hope to despair she underwent seemed to literally change the color of her irises, like a living thing died inside them. Elisa crumpled to the floor in a melodramatic heap of femininity, hyperventilating and crying with a ferocity that was, in my mind, previously and exclusively relegated to the mythical pathos of Medea. As much as I wanted to backtrack, to accept the indirect proposal while she writhed on the beige carpet, my mouth could only move up and down silently; any words held in submission by an emotional Jiu Jitsu choke.
And so, almost three years after it had begun, we had that breakup; the type of breakup that only results from true love. It got ugly. Friends got involved, rumors flew, more lies were perpetrated; and all of this was exacerbated by the fact the her seven year old daughter was now caught in the middle of the pain and depression. Even after the "official" breakup, months and months of make-up sex, negotiation and recrimination spiraled down a tortuous path of searing shame and regret. There was only one thing I could do.
I met someone else.
I fast tracked the relationship so my new girlfriend could move in, knowing full well that part of the reason I was doing it was to erect artificial barriers to physically pry myself from my habitual and habituated connection to Elisa.
It worked.
Once my lover moved in, got a key and scribbled her name on the mailbox, it was over with Elisa. The dripping faucet of our broken relationship finally closed. No more fights. No more mad scrambling and impromptu stripteases in the corridors of my co-op. However, the news of the move-in crushed Elisa and she told me, in no uncertain terms, never to talk to her again, never to approach her or her daughter on the street, and, even more specifically, to walk across the street if I ever did happen to see her. Since she lived around the corner, this would not be the simplest of tasks.
Nevertheless, for the next year I did it: I walked on the side of the street opposite her apartment. I abruptly changed direction when I saw her (often to the confusion of my current lover), and did everything in my power to respect her wishes. And then, suddenly, I stopped seeing her.
About six months after my last peripheral glance of her with her daughter on 9th Avenue, Phalana called to tell me Elisa was hit by a car in London. She was crossing the street with her daughter and was blindsided; apparently a common occurrence for Americans abroad because of the inversion of the driving patterns. Phalana told me that Elisa pushed her daughter clear out of the way and took the hit head on. She had just emerged from a week long coma when Phalana called. Elisa had broken her neck, hip, back, leg, and skull. Doctors were afraid she might never walk again.
My knees buckled. I sat on the edge of my bed, slack-jawed and speechless. It affected me in a way that belied the roiling sea of emotions just below the surface that I'd been repressing for almost a year.
Immediately, I sent letters, emails, flowers, anything I could think of to get in touch with her and let her know I was thinking of her and that I cared. Her "friends" received everything I sent and either returned it or threw it away. They wrote emails back to me that ranged from pleas "to stay away" to assertions that I was "the Devil." Since they wouldn't let Elisa speak or write to me, I responded that if I were the Devil, I would banish them all to hell and have imps buttfuck them for eternity.
About five months after the call from Phalana, I started seeing Elisa around the neighborhood again (wait... I DO live in Hell's Kitchen... hmmm). The first time she walked by me, it was like seeing her ghost. She was a shell of the woman I used to know. Her sturdy and bronze Mexican legs now looked and moved like pale stilts. Her improbably wide-set and smiling green eyes that once upon a time made her look like some impossibly sexy human cat hybrid -- eyes that made people stop in their tracks when she walked in a room -- now seemed sullen and lost. She now seemed excessively wrinkled, tell-tale rivulets of pain and wear etched into her face. Yes, it had been years since I saw her up close, but it appeared like the accident had aged her exponentially.
I made a halting step forward to say something, to approach her, but she floated right past me. Clearly, Elisa still wanted nothing to do with me.
Before I knew it, I started seeing her all the time. For months, I would walk right by her at least three times a week. I would get mysterious itches on my scalp as I looked down to avoid eye contact. I would shuffle into a store whenever I saw her walking towards me on the sidewalk. Then, once again, the run-ins suddenly stopped. I assumed she finally moved from the hurly-burly of New York - a city that never seemed to suit her earthy, eccentric sensibilities. .
And then this past October, Elisa and I had our penultimate meeting...
I'm going into a store to buy some juice and Elisa walks in right behind me on her cell phone. She doesn't acknowledge me and goes immediately to the back of the store. I thought it was odd that she didn't run away when she saw me in there, but clearly she was still ignoring me.
I quickly finish my shopping and cross the street to go into another store. As I walk out of that one and turn uptown towards 47th Street, I see her walking downtown straight towards me. I decide not to duck. We are about to cross paths. We begin to sheepishly look at each other, when, for the first time in two years -- EYE CONTACT!
I stop in my tracks. I have to say something...
"Hey, Elisa!"
Elisa stops and looks at me quizzically, seeming to have no recollection of ever having met me.
Finally, she gives a nervous laugh and says, "Do I know you?"
I inhale a cloud a confusion into my thoughts.
"Very funny," I laugh as well, covering my befuddlement as best as I can. Part of me thinks she is deliberately mirroring our meeting years ago.
However, when she continues, there is no con in her voice, no tongue in her cheek. There is only a trembling and frightened sincerity, halted by a sporadic nervous laugh that only reminds me of the first meeting all the more.
She continues, "I'm sorry, I had a near death experience not too long ago, and I don't remember a LOT of people from my past."
"Wait...you really don't know me?"
"I didn't even remember someone from my childhood when I went back home to Dallas."
"Hi, I'm Bill. Nice to meet you."
"Hi, I'm Elisa."
My head starts to pound.
"I don't know if you knew about what happened to me, Bill."
"Yeah, I heard."
"I was walking with my daughter and a car came. I pushed her out of the way and got hit. I broke my neck and skull. I'm a miracle, actually!"
"Yeah, it sounds like it."
".....did we know each other well?"
"Very."
"I'm sorry."
"For some reason, deep down, I think you know who I am."
"All I know is for some reason my heart is beating really fast right now."
Something about that sentence cut me to the quick, affecting me in a way that even today, almost two years later, I feel fraudulent trying to describe. It took my breath. It made my tear ducts shudder and wretch. It made me want to puke up my soul and ask God for a new one please.
Finally, I recover, and say, "Well, Elisa, you look fantastic and happy. I'm glad you were able to recover so well."
"Thank you."
"I'll see you around the neighborhood."
On the foggy walk home, I remembered that it was six years earlier, ON THE VERY SAME CORNER, AND ON THE FIRST SATURDAY OF OCTOBER, that we'd met on that very first occasion. Both meetings started with me summoning up the courage to say;
"Hey, Elisa."
When I got home and told my girlfriend, she instinctively shrunk away from the romantic tragedy of it all and tried to dismiss it as something commonplace. Between deluded rationalizations, she inhaled her cigarette like it held salvation for a relationship that, not unironically, would very soon see its last day.
When I had time to process the conversation, I was confronted with the unsettling fact that after all the time we spent together, Elisa had absolutely NO recollection of me. No recollection of the pain and heartbreak and tears and screaming. No recollection of the lies and betrayal, of the loss and remorse.
I told the story to other women I dated in the past or women with whom I was friendly and, to a person, they reacted like it was the most horribly depressing story they could imagine; like they had been stabbed in the heart. Tearing up, a few expressed the faintest hope that this was a serendipitous chance for Elisa and I to start anew.
When I told my one of my best guy friends, Garret Dillahunt, that Elisa had no memory of me or the relationship, he said, plainly, "Damn, I gotta send all of my exes to England."
POSTSCRIPT
I kept seeing Elisa around the neighborhood. (I realize now that she was back from her home in New Mexico to film "Project Runway".) I approached her one more time, trying to keep a casual air of affection towards her and her daughter. The daughter looked at me askance, with the keen intuition of a loving child, while Elisa managed one terse, forthright and confident paragraph.
"I found out who you were. I asked my mom about you. She said that you were a karmic debt that I had to pay. And I paid for it dearly. But that I should wish you well and give you blessings and move on."
Once again, like three years before on the hotel room floor, my mouth moved slowly like a carp. This time she was calm, almost ebullient, as she spun on her heels and walked hand-in-hand with her daughter up 8th Avenue.
For the next week I slept fitfully or not at all. My skeletons barged out of their closet and my ghosts tunneled up from my subconscious. They reclined comfortably, smoked ghost cigarettes, and had a big fucking party staring at me while I squirmed in existential torment.
Unable to quiet all the voices, finally, I wrote her a card, ending our communication with the same words that started it over six years earlier:
"Hey Elisa,I am not a karmic debt that you had to pay. We were two people who were very much in love. For reasons I can't seem to explain now, I got scared, and it ended badly. But it was real. For both of us, and maybe the most intense thing either of us had ever experienced. Someday, you might want to know more about it, and when you do, I'll be here waiting.
p.s. The last movie we saw together was "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind." At the time, even though we hadn't broken up yet, we joked that was us. I guess we had no idea how right we were."
I snuck into her building and slid it under the door to her apartment.
And then I never saw her again.
Until "Project Runway."
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NOTE TO THE READER
Elisa was voted off Season 4 of "Project Runway" in the 6th episode when the designers had to make an outfit out of stuff from the Hershey's store. I guess I can understand since the dress has these sleeve things that look like swim floaties. What I can't understand is why she, or the producers of Project Runway, didn't bring up her amnesia. In the episode where Elisa was kicked off, they finally got into her accident but never even touched on the memory loss. Maybe she forgot that she ever made clothes for me and that I was her male guinea pig for years before "Project Runway." Maybe she forgot she had amnesia.
If that is the case, I will, like a fool and comic, end this story with a bittersweet joke. It is a photograph from "PAPER MAGAZINE". It was from a bizarre fairy fantasia fashion show of Elisa's. It is a picture that, if I had "pride," could be used against me as blackmail material. It is at once humiliating and hilarious.
The picture simultaneously proves two things:
1. She made clothes on, and for, me.
2. I was pussy-whipped.
But, like I said, it doesn't prove she is a liar. I just shake my head and, with a smirk that covers a thousand heartaches, remind myself that she is ... forgetful.
***A fan of mine has already submitted this to Digg with a great title. DIGG THIS PIECE SO MORE PEOPLE CAN READ THIS CRAZY STORY!
Posted by Bill Dawes at 7:53 PM
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Comments
Bill,
I can't begin to imagine how intricate and expansive your life has been. This story is quite possibly my favorite of all that you've written, mostly because it has such a human element. Don't get me wrong, Nestle Knockouts are funny as hell, but the emotion conveyed is tangible.
Don't stop writing. And come back to Palm Beach soon - I missed the last show you had here.
-Drew
Posted by: Drew at January 10, 2008 05:16 PM
While reading your story I thought, "Man...this sounds like Eternal Sunshine." Then you dropped that bomb in your note. Wow, what a wonderfully depressing story.
Posted by: Marcus at January 10, 2008 06:16 PM
Excellently written piece, Bill. And here I was prepared for my usual irrelevant drive-by blog dicking comment.
Damn. I got nothin'.
Nice.
Posted by: Dr. Joker at January 10, 2008 06:32 PM
I agree, this is by far the best thing you've written to date. Damn you for making me cry and for making me remember what it's like to be that deeply in love with someone.....
Posted by: Tracy at January 10, 2008 07:45 PM
Barbra Streisand.
Yes, I know... but it's all I can think about, so I'm sharing.
Possibly this is a bit deep for me, and is not usually my style (wait... I have a style?), but I think it all seems to be here in these lyrics...
'Memories'
Midnight. Not a sound from the pavement.
Has the moon lost her memory. She is smiling alone.
In the lamplight the withered leaves collect at my feet
And the wind begins to moan.
Memory - all alone in the moonlight. I can dream of the old days
Life was beautiful then.
I remember the time I knew what happiness was.
Let the memory live again.
Every street lamp seems to beat a fatalistic warning.
Someone mutters and a street lamp sputters and soon it will be morning.
Daylight - I must wait for the sunrise. I must think of a new life
And I mustn't give in.
When the dawn comes, tonight will be a memory too.
And a new day will begin.
Burnt out ends of smoky days
the stale cold smell of morning.
A street lamp dies
another night is over
another day is dawning.
Touch me - it's so easy to leave me. All alone with the memory
Of my days in the sun.
If you touch me, you'll understand what happiness is.
Look
A new day has begun.
Uncanny!? Well, I think so.
Nevertheless, eerily moving and emotionally competent as this piece is, I just couldn't bring myself to leave without commenting on the group photograph -- absofuckinglutely no way, bonny lad!
As I gently rubbed my disbelieving eyes and hastily applied soothing eye drops, before moving even closer to the screen (for a better view of what it's really like living in Fairytopia), I couldn't help hearing another of Barbara's song titles - possibly one that the photographer referenced, when directing his assistant to get you all out of your dressing rooms prior to taking that dreadfully mortifying celluloid -- "Send in the Clowns!"
Posted by: IRISH N BRITISH at January 10, 2008 09:47 PM
Wow, that probably was your best post ever.
Posted by: 10lbs at January 10, 2008 11:26 PM
I remember reading your original story on MySpace a little over a year ago. To be able to read more into that and put a face to a to a story, let alone a face and personality from a rather popular TV show, made the story even more incredible. Very well written then and now, and almost sounds like a made for tv movie.
Posted by: Rachel at January 10, 2008 11:42 PM
Maybe you shouldn't post this on the internet?
Posted by: anonymous at January 11, 2008 02:12 AM
why not post it on the internet? what POSSIBLE reason do you have to express that?
Posted by: bill dawes at January 11, 2008 08:19 PM
Bill, thank you. This is, honestly, one of the most powerful stories I have ever read. This is the kind of story that reminds us what love really feels like, at least for the few of us who have had the luck to know what love is. I know I was crying by the end.
Posted by: geckahn at January 12, 2008 03:04 AM
Dude. Fuckin' wow.
Posted by: Captain Canada at January 12, 2008 05:50 AM
I've read this before on myspace, but it still made my heart ache. I think love like this happens only once. Have you already met someone who makes you feel the same, or more?
Posted by: Stella Q at January 12, 2008 07:04 AM
"why not post it on the internet? what POSSIBLE reason do you have to express that?"
I don't know-- and I honestly don't mean to be judgmental. I occasionally publish writing about my family, but ethically, sometimes I wonder how much I can reveal.
It's an interesting issue to think about. As writers, we inevitably reveal a lot about those close to us, but where is the line?
This story is beautifully written. I just wonder whether or not it could have been just as powerful if you hadn't specified who your ex-lover was.
Posted by: anonymous at January 12, 2008 02:02 PM
"It's an interesting issue to think about. As writers, we inevitably reveal a lot about those close to us, but where is the line?"
Where is the line? The line is just on the other side of "GOING ON TELEVISION AND BRINGING UP YOUR PERSONAL STORY YOURSELF."
Posted by: Nils at January 12, 2008 04:53 PM
Bill,
I have been a long time reader from Myspace. I really dig your writing style and your grasp of the english language. I remeber when you first released the first part of this story. All I wanted was to know how it ended. The story is very moving and haunting.
On a lighter note I can not remember the name of the movie but you were the or one of the Gaffers in it.
Elisa sounds great man can you get back with her?
Posted by: Joshua at January 12, 2008 06:24 PM
I liked your story, but I wish you hadn't weeped and moaned about Elisa making clothes for you. Who cares? As I recall, she said that she was shy about touching the male model because her boyfriend was the only man she chooses to touch intimately. Not that he was the only man she made clothes for. In the end, you left her, you moved on with someone else. That means I don't have to feel sorry for you when she doesn't remember you. Seems like the universe helped her find her own way to move on.
Posted by: Erika at January 13, 2008 09:29 PM
i agree with rachel. it would be just as powerful, but maybe not enough "hits", so you drop some names, right?
the line is drawn when your motives are no longer pure, when they're selfish and harm another.
why did you drop the name on the internet bill?
want to stir things up? again?
Posted by: toni at January 14, 2008 03:08 AM
i agree with rachel. it would be just as powerful, but maybe not enough "hits", so you drop some names, right?
have you thought about whether or not this would harm her, or her child?
what were your lies? what were hers?
your "tell all's" tell nothing, but sure do make you look sweet.
you must be some catch!
Posted by: toni at January 14, 2008 03:16 AM
Bill,
I really enjoy your writing. This story, like the one about your daughter, is really touching and shows a great deal of talent. Thank you for sharing them.
Posted by: gfunk at January 14, 2008 03:21 AM
Dear Bill,
It comes across that you feel that you have been jilted in some way by Elisa, which is confusing since you clearly point out (probably for ego purposes) that you ended things with her after she admitted she was in love with you. Even the way you capitalized that first "ME" makes you appear passive aggressive. It is also obvious you are trying to gain publicity through your connection to her and her new popularity/fame. But trying to hurt her and scuff her character just makes you look very, very insecure and pathetic. Claiming she looked "excessively wrinkled" was mean and seemed unecessary. You seem as though you almost hope to get her in trouble by pointing out she didn't pay taxes for a while. You are unbelievably self absorbed to think she should feel your relationship with her was one of the most "intense experiences of her life " at this point.. Do you honestly think it's as intense as being hit by a car and almost dying?! (which you also slyly tried to point out is a common occurance to Americans in England and Elisa isn't that special for it.) You wreak of jealousy and a need to bring her down a notch. You are callous to label her "forgetful". She lost her memory! You make it seem like you wrote this so she will remember that she did, in fact, make clothes for you first. But it is clear you really just want US to know that.
Posted by: caja at January 14, 2008 05:17 AM
It is really sad that you are filtering out most negative comments on your page. It is also sad that you are probably the one who was the "anonymous" response to the comment that suggested you not post this on the internet, because the "possible" is capitalized and your writing style shows you do that quite often. Many, many more people are supporters/fans of Elisa than you due to the millions of people who watch Project Runway and it I have no doubt many of them would have posted a negative response to your "story". You filtering out those responses just makes you look even more ridiculous.
Posted by: caja at January 14, 2008 05:21 AM
People come into our lives for a reason. Some stick around longer than others. There are lessons to be learned from each one. Take what you have learned from Elisa, good and bad...and move on. Apply the good to current/future relationships. You will be a happier person for it - and be sure to let go of the bad. You will be less tormented over what could have been.
Good Luck!
Posted by: notjustanotherprettyface at January 14, 2008 02:27 PM
That was a crazy story. More than the story, I love the way you write. I probably will be reading your blog everyday now.
Posted by: DE at January 14, 2008 03:26 PM
"Where is the line? The line is just on the other side of "GOING ON TELEVISION AND BRINGING UP YOUR PERSONAL STORY YOURSELF.""
In all fairness, Ms. Jimenez went on reality television to showcase her design skills-- not to air her love life (which she never spoke of, apart from mentioning her current partner).
Posted by: H. at January 14, 2008 09:09 PM
Love you bro. Painfully beautiful.
Posted by: Wayland at January 14, 2008 10:44 PM
This is an astonishing story.
Posted by: WendyB at January 14, 2008 11:54 PM
wow, interesting comments. in particular, i want to respond to the negative comments.
first of all, i would never post a comment anonymously. that is not my style. if i wanted to call 'caja' a 'cunt' i would do it in the space between my inhale and exhale. although your sherlock holmes logic is funny, caja, you are 100 percent wrong.
here's the deal: i wrote this blog after it happened on myspace. after tucker started publishing me, it lay dormant and we kept trying to figure out when to post. i was tied up with my iraq story so we decided to wait after that. then the project runway thing happened.
first of all, i'm not mad about her saying the comment about having never made clothes for another man (which she DID say, so make sure you have the facts before you come in guns ablazing) at all. i thought it was just an interesting way into a story about lovers and memory loss.
second of all, Elisa did look excessively worn coming out of a coma. Shocker! Should I lie to pway nice? I don't think this story portrays her in a negative light at all. Quite the contrary, she looks like a creative, passionate, sexual, eccentric beauty and I look like a scared nerd and typical male.
I think the truth of the matter is that the women who are responding this way can't stand the fact that I wrote this story and I'm the one that dumped her. If I had been dumped, the amount of boohoo, poor Bill sympathy from damaged women like yourself would be overwhelming and you know it.
That being said, I get it. I'm not proud of the fact that I treated Elisa unfairly and wasn't man enough to handle my life in a clean manner.
But these comments about 'my ego' getting in the way? Are you fucking serious? Did you see the picture? Where in the story do I make myself out to be anything but scared and overwhelmed?
As for the exceptionally retarded comment about how I'm trying to make Elisa not feel 'special' by stating that that type of accident was a common thing to happen to Americans abroad... Well, that's threefold:
1. It's true.
2. I don't want it to look like she was being neglectful and irresponsible walking her daughter across the street, you dizzy twat.
3. It's a set-up for the comment made by my friend Garret, which makes no sense otherwise. It's called humor, you gash.
So you see, caja, you were wrong about everything.
No comments were deleted, I didn't post anonymously, Elisa did make the comment about making no clothes for men, I didn't included the English traffic patterns to belittle Elisa, and, in the future, know what the fuck you are talking about, you cuuuuuuuuuuuuuunt.
Posted by: billdawes at January 15, 2008 04:43 PM
Next.
Name dropping?
Seriously?
Is that even worth commenting on?
You tell me, how do you tell the full story anonymously?
I love how people get all self-righteous about 'honesty' and then, in the same breath, want you to lie.
hilarious.
Posted by: billdawes at January 15, 2008 04:46 PM
Wow man, that is one of the best stories I've ever read. Amazing.
Posted by: Mike at January 15, 2008 05:50 PM
it's been days. cowards.
nothing?
i wanted more of a fight.
Posted by: bill dawes at January 17, 2008 02:01 PM
I love your other stories man, they are very funny and well written. You are always willing to put yourself out there and talk about how nervous you are before going on stage. People identify with you when let down your guard like that, I like it.
Having said that, I'm not very impressed with this story. It is well written but your are trying to hard to make it into a tortured heart breaker and it shows. And honestly, I don't believe a word of it. How convenient that she got amnesia and forgot about you. Stick with what's real.
Posted by: billybobob at January 19, 2008 03:40 PM
'hey, nice writing, but you're a liar!'
nothing pisses me off more than being called a liar... particularly on those rare occasions when I'm not lying.
why the fuck would i LIE about this? seriously... i have no idea.
here's the deal: it's proven that elisa had an accident, went into a coma, and memory loss was incurred. there are pictures of the two of us together in magazines, books, and online. we have two years worth of friends, publicists, and industry people who knew we were together.
the ONLY thing that could be remotely questionable is whether or not she actually forgot who i was. the rest is heavily and easily documented in numerous places.
so what the fuck do YOU think i'm lying about, asshole? tell me. i don't really give a fuck whether you believe me or not, but i am afraid that retards like you are gonna breed, and then my order at macdonalds will get fucked even more by your retarded children, so i'm doing MY part by trying to educate you out of a perpetual state of willful ignorance.
okay?
Posted by: bill dawes at January 20, 2008 07:30 PM
Man, I kinda wish I hadn't already said that I liked the story, because I can tell you would be REALLY fun to get in a flame war with. Maybe I should change my username and start some shit.
Posted by: Captain Canada at January 21, 2008 04:47 AM
"All I know is for some reason my heart is beating really fast right now."
Great Story! I am not a regular reader of this blog, but this is the best story I have ever read here.
The line I quoted really hit me. It reminded me of the writing of Oliver Sacks. Dr. Sacks works with hospital patients who have developed cognitive deficiencies (amnesia, aphasia, etc.) as a result of injury or illness. He has noted the ability of severely amnesic patients to form emotional relationships with doctors they see regularly yet are unable to remember. Sacks speculates that emotional memories are often preserved in the brain even in patients with severe amnesia. Thus it is possible for amnesics to maintain old and form new emotional relationships. I think that Elisa's increased heart rate is a testament to this phenomenon!
Again, great story.
Posted by: Ade at January 21, 2008 06:27 PM
For a comic who tells dick jokes, you sure are one hell of a writer.
Great story.
And I'm addicted to Project Runway.
Posted by: BeckEye at January 22, 2008 08:44 PM
I'm surprised at you Bill! Resorting to personal attacks and insults doesn't suit you. It could even make YOU look like the asshole.
And why respond to me? I mean, if you really didn't care whether or not I believe your little story this should just roll right off you. Your semi-coherent response makes me doubt you even write these stories yourself, most likely they are professionally edited.
Perhaps parts of this are true. Perhaps. Are you going to offer up any links or just make these wild claims? Even if everything is true, your main problem would then be that the story doesn't seem believable at all. Maybe you should take some writing lessons and work on that.
And don't take just my word for it- here are some more people that found this story lacking-
http://forums.televisionwithoutpity.com/index.php?showtopic=3161056&st=225
Just stop. You're making me lose the little respect I have left for you.
Posted by: billybobob at January 24, 2008 12:40 AM
WOW! how well I remember all of this... ALL OF IT! From your first meeting her, our very long and hysterical over night slumber party at MTV with Elisa, Courtney Love, Molly Ringwald (and people think Elisa was weird... ha!)... and all these other totally Random Celebrities.... all the way to the crazy break up. How wild it is to think about because of all the madness I was going through at the time.
elisa was wonderful... eyes like colorful diamonds that twinkled from green to blue in the sunlight. She was a good person. She was so wonderful to me... welcoming MY frail frame everywhere you all would go (seeing as I too lived on that very same street).
I miss you so much. I'm proud, like a brother should be!
-me
PS for all those others that read this... the crazy flickering pics of Bill in that photo booth at MTV... you can see MTV on the wall behind if you look closely... this pics are from that very night I just spoke about. I know because I have them too... Mine are on my myspace site. Memories are the oddest of things. I am grateful for them!
Posted by: Cory at January 24, 2008 09:57 PM
you call me a LIAR and I'M the asshole for saying i'm not and calling you an idiot for senselessly and pointlessly denouncing me?
hey billybob or whatever your gay-ass tag is: you think i give a fuck whether or not you have respect for me? i could give less of a shit. as a matter of fact, i would prefer douchebags like you go to another site. read shit that makes perfect sense to you so your isolated asperger's world pov doesn't shatter in a million little pieces.
first of all, dick, read the numerous response from people, like cory, who know me and elisa as a couple. second of all, what the fuck is that picture from 'paper' magazine at the end of the story? what does that show? at the very least, it shows that she made clothes for me while saying on the show that she never made clothes for another man other than her current partner. so... either she DOESN'T REMEMBER or she is lying. you get it, Kenneth Tynan?
do you need a pie chart and a box of crayolas to make it clearer for you, you insipid mouth-breather?
oooooooooooh, your 'proof is that other people also find it not believable! is that what you're telling me? And? So what? i'm the only person in the world who has had a story or set of facts that the mass of retards on the planet won't or wouldn't believe, apparently.
what do you want me to do? LIE... just so your don't get your lacy panties in a twist because of the uncomfortable truths and bizarre synchronicities in the story? do you have ANY concept of how completely ignorant and, even worse, Republican, you sound?
as for my 'semi-coherent' response: i was being funny you waste of flesh, but NOW you pissed me off. i can outthink you, outwrite you, outfight you, and outfuck you. you want to get in a pissing contest with me about ANY of these things, come find me... i'm easy to find. however, i'm SURE you can demolish me in World of Warcraft, as i have no doubt you have achieved superior warlock status.
i also love how you lambast my writing while simultaneously saying i must have a professional editor.
people like you are what's wrong with the world. well, you and arabs.
Posted by: billdawes at January 26, 2008 03:40 PM
I found your response HILARIOUS! The more pissed off you get, the more mentally handicapped you become. Obviously, you lack the intelligence to understand my earlier post. Equally as obvious, you really do care what I think. I could almost hear your tears hitting the keyboard as you sobbed and tried to think of new ways to insult me.
Having your butt-buddies agree with you on this story is hardly evidence. Where are the online links you said you have? One picture is pretty sad evidence. I'm waiting.
I've whooped your ass on every point and you got nothing but personal insults in response. Get a more intelligent friend or a better professional editor than the one you already have to help you write a response to me, you need the help.
Posted by: billybobob at January 27, 2008 12:57 PM
Dear Bill,
I guess there are people in the world that have never had strange poignant things happen to them. It seems its hard for some of these people to believe a story like yours. Try not to let them get to you too much. It seems to me that the crux for you is that Elisa doesn't remember what was once such a huge part of her life -- you. For what its worth, she seems to be a person that lives almost solely in a place of instinct and feeling. And on those levels she still knows you and will always know you. I may be way off the mark here, but just thought, if I'm right, it may help you feel better.
Posted by: concerned citizen at January 27, 2008 03:11 PM
Wow. Great story.
Posted by: Jones at January 27, 2008 08:14 PM
Prententious writing style.
Posted by: monica at January 27, 2008 08:35 PM
hey monica, thanks!
personally, i think nothing is more pretentious than calling something 'pretentious.' that's just my opinion. however, this i know for a fact: you're fat. probably ugly. but DEFINITELY got some stubborn lipid deposits. also you don't even know what the fuck you mean by 'pretentious writing style.' it's something you read when you were online eating haagen daz.
and billiebobybo,
what is your big issue with a 'professional editor?' when you were a child, did a 'professional editor' rape you? clearly you're from a family of divorce; did one of your mommy's boyfriends tickle your asshole with a sharpie, hence poisoning the well forever for you for all things corrective?
patrick macmullan has a famous coffee table book called 'KISS.' in it, there is a delicious picture of me making out with elisa. go to barnes and noble. page 31. if you think it's just a little peck, don't worry -- there's juicy tongue, like a 'i love new york' reunion show or something. is that enough for you, david caruso?
and, on second thought, keep coming back to the site. i get a nickel every time you do. that's because i'm a 'professional writer' with a 'professional editor.'
i am slingblade. i always win.
Posted by: bill dawes at January 28, 2008 03:02 AM
Wow. I'm glad Elisa is no longer with you. It must have been horrible for her, no wonder her mother said you were some sort of karmic debt. And from the way her friends protected her from you, you must really be the person they say you are. And it shows how much you care and respect others from the way you responded to her friends. Bitter much?
You've proved what a jerk you are with your intelligent and respectful comments to your readers. If you want to be respected as a professional writer and as a human being, you should refrain from calling your readers offensive names.
Posted by: T at January 28, 2008 01:21 PM
That was a pretty cogent comment for a gaping cunt.
Posted by: bill dawes at January 28, 2008 05:01 PM
Great story. You glossed over it though (just vague references to some lying), other than breaking up with her what did you actually do to her during the relationship that was so bad? (how bad could it have been, given that she ended up wanting to marry you).
Posted by: GeorgeX at January 28, 2008 06:41 PM
It's senseless provoking The Dawes...
...when he's got the sharpest claws!
Rrreeeeaaaow!!!
Posted by: IRISH N BRITISH at January 28, 2008 07:57 PM
I stopped reading your blog a long time ago because I thought you became boring but I was totally wrong! Forgive me! This was an awesome post and it actually motivates me to go see one of your shows. Nice work.
Posted by: Nancy at January 28, 2008 11:11 PM
i cheated. didn't want to make it too obvious.
Posted by: bill dawes at January 28, 2008 11:42 PM
Bill - I want to give you the benefit of the doubt and believe that your outrageous response to criticism is simply you cultivating a take-no-prisoners-bad-boy writer image. The story was brilliant and yes, some of the criticisms silly and unwarranted.
But it comes with the territory! Hiding behind a mask to throw darts at people who are brave enough or foolish enough to post their stories or opinions on the Internet is the new favorite pasttime.
In my line of work, I'm also a target of these driveby anonymous critics. I dont understand the appeal, but engaging people who criticize you is a waste of your time and talent.
Though I still admire the skill and sensitivity displayed in the story, it doesnt shine near as brightly for me now.
Posted by: Cameron at January 29, 2008 12:59 PM
fair enough, cameron.
keep in mind that i'm a COMIC, so my responses to these people aren't measured out and tortured. they are scribbled out from a keyboard, off the cuff, and flippant. for me, it's just a different type of training, like doing the sunday times crossword.
it shouldn't diminish the truth and effect of the story for you. i'm sorry it did and i appreciate your comment.
Posted by: bill dawes at January 29, 2008 05:23 PM
I commented (can't remember if it was on BPR or Bravo) when Elisa was eliminated how I recognized right away from episode 1 that she was a brain injury survivor. It's a shame more people don't understand the complex and haphazard ways in which this type of injury affects a person and their personality. The shame is that her brain does not allow her to remember the good times of your relationship while her "friends" and family most likely make sure she is aware of the worst parts.
Posted by: Lisa at January 29, 2008 05:29 PM
thank you lisa.
there were lots of good times. i'm a pretty good bf. i am mellow and funny and a genius in bed.
Posted by: bill dawes at January 30, 2008 11:43 AM
Bill,
It is interesting how you have ended very gripping your story: "she is forgetful"...yet you seem haunted by the memory and the course of events. (Yes, I know you didn not mean it to be read this way). I would like to suggest a book about the beginning of brain research: Phineas Cage: the gruesome but true story about brain science. Its very readable & presents the story of a man named Phineas Gage, who like Elisa, lived through a very traumatic event that altered his brain leaving him permanently changed.
As far as the karmic debt, Elisa has paid - very dearly. Perhaps it is time to reflect on how you have changed and what you have or will become.
With respect,
Cheryl
Posted by: Cheryl at January 30, 2008 01:51 PM
Bill, you are a self-absorbed Peter Pan who refused to grow up. It's for her own good that Elisa forgot about you. Writing this junk (and those "flippant" responses to reader comments) is just another proof of your immaturity.
Posted by: Leave her alone at January 31, 2008 01:55 AM
You might want to read the book 'the sociopath next door.' In your case though, the title 'the sociopath in the mirror' might be more apt.
Posted by: Blah Blah Blah at January 31, 2008 03:32 AM
It was a blessing for her, that she forgot you. Why try so hard to remind her?
Posted by: christina at January 31, 2008 09:47 PM
I have not read your blogs in awhile. This one was quite intriuging
I guess all love affairs have those epic and romantic moments;we all have that one
I can't imagine something in your memory still passing you by literally and the irony is she lost that memory---though I don't think she did in my opinion..
I wonder if her memory was lost of you or if she intenionally blocked it not to face it because you were that strong too her---but I am not Dr.Phil,Ruth or Drew..
I watched the show
I liked her actually if you dont mind me saying..
She seems mysterious but deeper than what she gave..
I enjoyed the story and am not sure why female friends would react the way they did ?
The story seems like it came from another planet itself and earthlings are sometimes scared of that.
I think this story maybe even your love ---
I dunno I wasn't there!;I think even her, all of it is an out of worldly tale filled with karma,fate and the cosmos....
it is all a bitch sometimes as they say
but we can say love itself is like being on another planet
but it's worth walking accross this earth for anyway...right?
I liked your words and stories on this one...
I think you had written about her long ago and felt the words of your story then..
Posted by: Natacha at January 31, 2008 10:38 PM
love love love the comments.
'blah blah blah' and 'leave her alone.'
hmmmm... where do i start? first of all, i wish you had the balls to post shit with your real name.
clearly, both of you are cowards who don't know SHIT about my relationship with elisa. all you know about my relationship with elisa is what i wrote in this blog; and now you lord your second-hand knowledge like you have actual information. do you realize how utterly absurd that is? i didn't write about the relationship. i only mentioned we fell in love and it ended badly and, with this information, you call me a 'sociopath' and 'peter pan.'
neither of you know me or know my relationship with elisa. why? i don't hang out with losers like you two clearly are. i would never let judgmental riff-raff like you close enough to know anything. right, phalana, you stupid whore?
that's right, i know all.
oh, and i'm a 'psychopath', not a 'sociopath'; i would rip your heart out but it would elevate my blood pressure.
Posted by: bill dawes at February 2, 2008 03:05 PM
Wow. I'm glad she doesn't remember you. I'd probably give myself amnesia if I had to go through you as a partner. Christ, what an overwrought and generally craptastic piece of blog.
Posted by: What. at February 2, 2008 08:02 PM
same stupid cunt making the same stupid comment over and over again. keep changing the fictional url and fictional email address to disguise the fact it's the same bitter flesh wound making the exact same comment.
news flash: you're obsessed with me. get a life or kill yourself. although i would feel bad for the paramedics having to cart your fat body out of your bedroom full of cats.
have the ovaries to say who you are, you lousy cunt, and thanks for the nickel each time you comment.
Posted by: bill dawes at February 3, 2008 04:07 AM
Your definition of amnesia is all wrong. In amnesia, you can remember everything from your past, but can't learn anything new. She just has a TBI. This was a great post Bill, thanks for posting it, not trying to feel cool or superior or anything, just trying to clear a common misconception. Looking forward to new posts.
Posted by: Ben at February 5, 2008 01:39 PM
thanks for the comment Ben, but YOU are wrong.
there are more types of amnesia than there are types of Asians.
this is an example of retrograde amnesia. you are referring to anterograde amnesia as the type of amnesia where you can't learn anything new.
i don't know what TBI is, but it sounds like an STD. in that case, I'M the one who probably has that!
Posted by: bill dawes at February 5, 2008 02:18 PM
kidding of course.
amnesia is a possible symptom of a TBI.
not to be a scientologist, but it is very important to know what you are writing when you write it.
some dumb fuck surely told you the wrong information and then you are stuck with it, and end up sharing wrong information.
that happens to me all the time. luckily, NOW i am addicted to wikipedia and bone doctors.
Posted by: bill dawes at February 5, 2008 02:23 PM
i didn't go through all the responses but i can say that i don't get people who read something and call the person a liar. anyway, i know elisa was with bill dawes because i dated calliope's father for one year and knew that calliope's mom was dating an actor, i remember when the three of them went out to California. i know elisa called calliope's dad once to share how heart-broken she was when they broke up.
as for bill being an asshole-- i don't know-- i've heard pretty horrible stories about elisa through calliope's dad (i know i was just getting one side of the story) but i also know her friends were freakishly protective of her against calliope's dad as well. they seemed to be a freakish bunch.
what i don't understand is how elisa could forget bill but not forget other things that happened when she was with him-- callipe's starting grade school, etc. can a person become entirely filtered out of a greater scenario. i saw 'eternal sunshine...' too but-- come on, it's a movie.
anyway bill, i feel for you. i met elisa a few times and know what it feels like when she pays attention to you......
Posted by: cb at February 7, 2008 07:12 PM
i'm not clear what that last comment was about. are you saying i'm lying or what?
i don't know elisa's baby daddy, but he's a dick and i will fight him.
Posted by: bill dawes at February 8, 2008 03:53 PM
Bill, this is an absolutely amazing story. Please don't ever stop sharing, you're an unbelievably inspirational storyteller.
Posted by: Derek at February 28, 2008 05:06 PM
A ) Loved the story. You are a helluva storyteller man. Lookin forward to a lot more.
B ) I don't see how anyone could possibly think her memory loss was a "blessing" in any sense of the word. Imagine yourself waking up to be told suddenly you are missing a great chunk of your life. You meet a guy, decent looking, polite, who then tells you he and you were involved. Curiosity at the least ensues. Who is he? What does he know about me? And later when you are told by your friends and relatives how horrible he was, the questions you likely have. Why was I with him? If he is such a bad person, why wasn't he a dick to me when we met? So many questions because you can't remember anything about him. Maddening. Infuriating. Do you let it go and trust your family and friends to make the right decision for you or do you instead pursue it, find out what you lost if even a little of it? It's a curse I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, the loss of life involved in the act of forgetting. Sorrow and pain are simply a contrast for happiness and joy, steal one and the other no longer makes sense.
C ) Love watching you tear into people man. I really need to catch your act sometime, I'm definitely missing out!
Posted by: Doesn't Matter at March 14, 2008 04:16 AM
That was a great, moving, well crafted story. I hope you write more.
Here's a nickel's worth of advice: No matter what you do or say in life, no matter how creative or how good a person you are, someone's always going to be there waiting to shit on you. It's their modi vivendi; their way of life. They want to shit on you because it's how they cope with the reality that their lives didn't turn out the way they thought it would; that they never rose above mediocrity and ordinariness. They know they're ordinary and they hate that fact about themselves. So, to shit on other people makes them feel good about themselves. It makes me feel superior. Snap! Got ya! So, you can't possibly explain enough to get them to change their point of views.
Keep writing!
Posted by: Lori J. at March 20, 2008 05:00 PM
It makes them feel superior.
*laughs* geez, self-edit much?
Posted by: Lori at March 21, 2008 09:09 AM
Jesus christ, these commenters are retarded. You did not lie, Bill.
Posted by: Donika at April 27, 2008 09:16 PM
I saw you on an episode of Sex and the City...thought you were cute...Googled you...and found out you are an amazingly funny guy (saw the videos)...and can tell a beautifully haunting story...full of love and loss. Amazing. Let's see...you're hot as hell...AND funny...AND can open his heart. I like what I see...rock it for all it's worth, Bill!
Posted by: Ava at June 10, 2008 07:20 PM
I've been meaning to comment on here for a while. I've read this story several times over the past few months, and it never fails to inspire and cheer me up.
On an unrelated note, what the fuck is wrong with all these e-critics? Jesus, people, this man is a comedian, not a grocery store fabio-on-the-cover romance novelist. I thought the 'forgetful' ending was perfect and quirky, not in any way an insult. And the person who called him pretentious? Buy yourself a fucking dictionary, 'cause you sound retarded. Then look up 'pretentious', and then look at the picture Bill put up at the end of this post.
Keep it up Mr. Dawes, and next time your in Chicago (hopefully not schaumburg, though) I'll most certainly attend...with complimentary admission, I assume, from all this brown nosing.
Posted by: yuri at August 25, 2008 12:18 AM
you're one hell of a comic and a great story teller Bill crass and sassy and a man of compelling integrity. not to mention a sexy muthafucker.
how could anyone ever forget you?
(*Y*)
Posted by: Rose at November 25, 2008 12:56 AM
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