Like Anna Nicole Smith. I got a flurry of calls seconds after the news of her demise hit the internet. It made sense: I'm the only person in my circle of friends who met her. I was filmed during her notorious show. Her top opened in front of me. Sugar Pie nipped my leg. I didn't react in either instance and was quickly placed on the cutting room floor.
But yesterday's death was the third one to impact me in recent days, and as my mom says, "These things always happen in threes." Mom, it seems, is correct.
A couple weeks ago, trainer Doug from the Bravo TV show Workout died. It happened at the end of January, and it's kind of a sad moment. I'd met Doug years ago, when I first moved to LA, and he was such a sweet guy. Evidently it will be a part of the upcoming season in some capacity.
This, of course, isn't what's wrecking me inside. I feel bad but I only "Hollywood knew" him-- we'd met, I knew people who knew him, and the only reason to make an issue of his death would be if I wanted to get some attention from it.
Very self-important. Very entertainment industry. Very much what I did with the Anna Nicole story, above.
My issue, ya see, is that I'm death obsessed. It began after my father's passing and continues to this day. When Steve and I first moved in together, there were many days when he'd run late from work and I'd have to talk myself down from thinking he'd gotten in a terrible car accident. (Steve doesn't own a cell phone.)
Anyway, these sort of detatched-deaths happen often-- a friend of a friend or an assoiate dies. Then two weeks ago something much closer to home hit. Allow me to present this picture...
That's me on the far right during my pre-mullet years. I was in House Reitterwald, which was part of the Society for Creative Anachronism-- The SCA. We really were a family during my high school years. They were there for me when I came out, when my father died, and when I left for Los Angeles.
Now one of our group has died.
Steven Zamiara, on the right in this picture with his then-girlfriend Amy, was the sort of big bodybuilder guy that you could picture stepping out of a Japanese anime film. He would give huge, crushing hugs, laugh at all my jokes, and on many drunken nights promised to kick anyone's ass if they messed with his little gay bro. That would be me.
Years passed, Steven and Amy broke up and eventually everyone in the whole household went their own way. Some are still friends, and for the most part I've kept in touch with everyone. So it was no surprise when Phil, Steven's best friend, called and asked me to pass the news on to everyone else.
Steven was married to a beautiful woman named Elize and the couple just had a baby, Tasia, who is four months old. He got a blood clot in his leg and it traveled to his heart, killing him.
So this Saturday, I'll be driving to San Diego to attend the funeral. (Ironically, the service is being presided over by my ex-boyfriend, Kevin. Kevin and I dated while I was in the household, though he never met them. Until now.) My Steve will be staying here in LA with Daisy-- he didn't know Steven and I kind of want to go alone so I can spend some quiet time with my own thoughts.
Having a friend like Steven Zamiara die has been surreal. We were very close at one time, not so much now, and yet I feel like I should have a much stronger reaction. Perhaps that will come on Saturday. I'll let you know how it goes.