There is something terribly wrong with me.

Yesterday was Chrisanne’s last day here in sunny La La. We’ve been laughing, giggling, acting ridiculous, and visiting and sleeping like we’ve been drugged by something out of Courtney Love’s personal stash. It’s been delicious. However, yesterday….yesterday was really the grand finish. It was one of the best endings to a visit I think we’ve ever had. Ever. On the planet of Ever.

We had to go out to the local Kinkos in Hollywood because my printer isn’t hooked up yet and we had to print out Chrisanne’s ticket so she could get back to Ice Central (Chicago). It took far less time than either of us assumed and we had about 3 hours to kill before her plane left. Now, instead of just going back home and lounging around, Chrisanne decided to go off exploring. Most every time she does this, we end up finding something really interesting. I am not a natural explorer. I LIKE to explore, but it’s not in my nature. Strangely enough, I yearn for the ordinary and the familiar. She, on the other hand, gets restless and bored easily, and if something isn’t new and shiny in front of her, she’ll toss her arms up in the air and throw up a little. Whenever we go on vacation, I unpack., and she vanishes in a puff of Wile E. Coyote smoke out the Hotel door. I know in an hour or two, she’ll be back with 15 maps, dozens of restaurants in mind, and perhaps the head of a deer strapped to the hood of the car. So, in view of all that, off we went. In the car. Exploring the unseen sights and various daylight hookers of Hollywood.

We crossed Hollywood Blvd., and I thought:

“If she wants to go down the Walk of Fame I’m going to shoot myself.”

Not that I don’t love the Walk of Fame, it’s just that on a weekend, after you’ve lived here for a while, it’s less about brushing over Marilyn Monroe, than it is about avoiding the various Asian Americans with large, swinging Kodaks. Pure annoyance.

Luckily, this was not her plan.

We stumbled on a Farmer’s Market planted oddly in the middle of Hollywood. It stretched out over 6 blocks and had musicians, sushi, gyros, fresh veggies, and the most fabulous corn on a stick you ever had in your life. We were in Heaven. The sun was out, there weren’t 9 million people milling about trying to fit there size 10’s in Cary Grant’s shoe prints, and we were gorging on corn with enough butter and salt to frighten the hell out of the entire medical community.

Heaven.

We finished our food, listened to some jazz trio do a fantastic version of “The Sunny Side of the Street”, and then, as we crossed Sunset, there it stood.

It stood like a beacon in the Heavens.

It stood staring at me, leering at me, and taunting me with its big, black doors stretching upward like two gigantic ladders.

It was The L. Ron Hubbard Museum.

That’s right; L. Ron Hubbard has his own museum.

Chrisanne looked at me. I was standing on the sidewalk panting.

“Do you want to go in?” she asked half smiling.

“Go in? Go in? Go in to the L. Ron Hubbard Museum?”

“Yeah. Do you wanna?” she asked again casually.

My heart was beating so fast I could feel it coming out of my chest.

“I……..I do.”

I was so excited, and so nervous, and so tense I honestly didn’t know what to do.

We walked into the museum, and in the foyer stood a woman with a very pretty face, long brown extremely curled hair, and a thick Russian accent.

“Vould you like to take De Tour?” she asked.

“Tour?” I was barely audible. “There’s a freaking tour?”

I was whispering. I had no idea why.

“Yes. Dere’s guided tour in 10 minutes.” She answered smiling really, really, really big. I think her teeth had been sandblasted.

“Yes. Yes. Yes, I want the tour.” I answered for Chrisanne, she now had no choice as to what she thought or what she wanted.

“You’ll have to get rid of de corn, please.”

“What corn?” I asked holding the corn in my hand.

She pointed.

“Yes. I’ll get rid of the corn.”

I was now a Stepford wife. And I got rid of the corn.

The building itself was beautiful. It was a rehabbed bank from the early days of Hollywood and it still maintained it’s majesty and it’s history. Big gorgeous white columns, ornate designs crowding the outside, and all done in golds and soft whites in the lobby. There were soft comfy couches to sit in, and much to read. About L. Ron.

This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. There we were, standing in the middle of the L. Ron Hubbard Museum, getting ready to have the guided tour by an actual Scientologist. I almost started crying. For some reason, I felt as if I were going on a job interview. I didn’t want to disappoint the Scientologist. I wanted the Scientologist to like me. My psychosis is tenfold. Chrisanne took the corn, threw it in the trash, and then proceeded to walk around the lobby reading the various testimonials from successful Scientologists. I could barely move. My hands were wet, my arms were shaking a little, and my legs were weak.

Can I also just say that in the 6 months that I’ve lived here, and the 5 years I’ve been obsessed with Scientology, and all the research, and websites and people I’ve talked to about this thing, never once did I ever hear of a museum, dedicated to L. Ron Freaking Hubbard. Not once. Chrisanne could find Amelia Earhart in the Red Sea.

A few minutes later, a man with a very blue suit and a very thick French accent approached us. Apparently, Scientologists are very eclectic. I had no idea.

He also looked exactly like Gerard Depardieu.

“You are here for ze tour?” he asked smiling.

“Yes. The tour. We want the tour. The whole damn tour.” I said practically tearing up.

We entered around a small corner, and there before us was L. Ron Hubbard as a little boy. There, behind some very polished glass were pictures of his childhood, his “military service” (that killed me), and in the center, on a long, brown pedestal, was his Boy Scout badge.

“He was the youngest Eagle Scout ever, in ze history of ze scouts.” Gerry said. Smiling. At us.

“He must’ve been very proud. Very proud.” I answered back.

Chrisanne turned away. I knew she couldn’t face me. Any minute if either of us looked at each other, we would have burst out into such hysterical laughter I’m sure several guards would have come running. All smiling and all with different accents.

We then pressed on, with Gerry and his accent in close pursuit, giving us information about Hubbard’s upbringing, his many, many, many accomplishments, which included…well…uh…..so many they are too numerous to mention. The thing that shocked me the most was not necessarily the way the museum WAS, but more to the point, the FACT of it. The fact that it was there, that it was real, and that these people were proud and able, and somewhat intelligent, and ready to share every inch of knowledge imparted to them by their late, great Guru. It was so much more than I had ever expected.

We then approached an exhibit that had actual Disney-like automatons in it. They were live working movable figures of two of the characters out of Hubbard’s Sci Fi novels. Then they proceeded to move, and talk, and do bad 1950’s movie dialogue that consisted of Ron’s blubbering’s from his “Hollywood” days. They tout Hubbard as a very successful Hollywood writer. In fact, Ron was laughed out of Hollywood and called a “hack” by Louis B Mayer.

That was delicious. Like the corn. Buttery and dripping off my chin.

We then passed by many more awards, more Sci Fi books and then we came upon Dianetics, the self help book that gave L. Ron the type of notoriety he had been searching for his entire life. Gerry went on and on and on about this book.

“Have you ever heard of Dianetics?” he asked, you know…..smiling.

“Dia…..hm…” I stammered, finger to the chin, “….is that a kind of diet or something?”

Chrisanne turned away, and practically walked down the hall.

Gerry guffawed.

“Oh no, no, no. Eet eez a…….”

AAAAAaaaand we were OFF!

I zoned out somewhere between 1970 and his marriage and two kids. I kept my eyes open, but my brain was lying on a hammock somewhere in the Bahamas.

“…..zo, you zee now?” he asked.

“Ah. Yes. I see perfectly. As a matter of fact, I can see clearly now.”

Gerry didn’t get it. That’s okay. Chrisanne did.

We then went through scene after scene, hallway after hallway, row after row and diatribe after diatribe of dribble, and testimonials, and talking mannequins, and curtains, and shelves, and all kinds of things that made Hubbard look more important than Jesus Christ. My eyes widened, as I was not only astonished at the complexity of the museum itself but also the verve and vigor to which Gerry was redefining who he was and at the same time, attempting to draw both Chrisanne and I into the fold. Words, poetry, more awards. More books, more testimonials, more Dianetics, and then, finally, on the upper level, after watching a 3 minute film on the evils of drug addiction, we came to the uterus of the tour.

The Mother Load.

The Promised Land.

The E Meter.







If you’re into Scientology at all, you’ve seen pictures of this thing. It’s a metal-like contraption designed by L Ron Hubbard, and built by:

“….zome zientist….” …..according to Gerry.

(At first I thought he said “Some Zionist”, but I knew that couldn’t be right.)

Gerry explained that the E Meter is a scientifically proven method that measures the amount of negativity by way of electrical charges running through your Thetans. When Gerry mentioned Thetans (which he pronounced THEY-tans) I thought I’d died. I’d never heard anyone connected with Scientology actually say the word “Thetan” before. And then we got some of the story……

“You zee, everybody is NOT just their body. Eef you zay you are your body and zat’s all you are, you are limiting yourself. You zee? You are MORE zan just your body. You are what some call a spirit. A zoul. Zomesing else besides just a physical being. We call zis a Thetan. Zat is what L. Ron Hubbard called it: Thetans.”

Funny how Gerry always pronounced the word “Thetan” in perfect English. I thought that was odd.

I remember grabbing Chrisanne’s hand and shaking a bit.

I had to just say it:

“Thetans?” I asked.

“Zat’s right!”

Hee. I said “Thetans”. Hee.

Then he directed us toward the E Meter.

It was a large silver machine with two cylinder-like handles attached by two wires. There was a gauge and a needle on the face of the machine, and a small dial right next to it. Gerry handed me the cylinder shaped handles. He put one in each hand, and then directed me to think of something sad.

I thought of my brother.

The needle moved.

I was all like: “WOW! My Thetan! My Thetan! IT LIVES!”

My insides were like jelly on a small platter.

“Now,” he continued, “..sink of somesing else zat is sad.”

I thought of a red balloon with the face of Eyore on it.

The needle jiggled again. That was sad? That wasn’t sad! Hey! Wait! Gerry! My Thetan! What happened to my Thetan??! Damn.

Then he handed it to Chrisanne and she did the same thing. She thought of something sad. Chrisanne was holding the E Meter. I have to say, the sight of Chrisanne, standing in the L. Ron Hubbard museum, having her Thetan levels read by Gerry the French Scientologist was really more than I could handle. I almost hailed a cab. He kept pointing out to us that when we thought of something sad or negative the needle would go berserk. He mentioned to us we could use a “clearing”. He said we could use someone helping us through our life journey because obviously our Thetans were out of whack and we were being stopped from accepting all our happiness and all the success we deserved. Chrisanne’s eyes rolled, she looked up at Gerry, and said very simply to him:

“Huh.”

She mentioned to me later as we left the building that Gerry had his finger on the dial next to the needle, and every time he would ask us something he would move the dial up and down. This caused the needle to move. Kinda like a magician. Well, a bad magician.

One of my favorite moments came right before the end of the tour. Gerry was explaining one of Hubbard’s many books he’d written for people with learning disabilities.

“You are familiar with Tom Cruise?” he asked staring straight at me, and puffing out his chest just a bit.

Again, I used the finger to the chin gesture. Gerry seemed to like this one.

“Cruise. Cruise…hey! Wasn’t he in Top Gun?”

Chrisanne spit up a little.

“Yes! He was! Do you know else? He was also dyslexic. Well….he WAS dyslexic, until L. Ron Hubbard’s books cured him. Zey completely cured him!”

“Zey did?”

“Zey DID!”

Chrisanne and I were practically clutching each other. I have to say the rest of the day, in the car, on the street, on the way to the airport was spent checking our Thetans.

“Hey, don’t yell at my Thetan.”

“Okay, you’re really stepping all over my Thetan.”

“My Thetan is thirsty.”

…and my personal favorite:

“A happy Thetan is a clear Thetan.”

The end of the tour consisted of the bottom floor, where a large white drape covered half the wall. As the drape began to open, music played from some bad speakers hung from the ceiling, and a chorus of men and women began to Ooh and Aah to Yanni’s latest hit. The curtains parted, and revealed door after door after door filled to the brim with awards L. Ron Hubbard has won over his life time. The funny thing was, that each door would disappear before we had time to really study what the awards were for. Chrisanne noticed that many were from Tennessee, Arkansas, and Wisconsin. Not that there’s anything wrong with any of those places, but if you’re going to do a tribute to someone and pipe in muzak, and part a cream curtain with a bad bust of someone, they should have at least won an award from Yale. Or the local YMCA.

We left.

We felt as if we had been privy to the coolest, most excellent, unbelievably bizarre side show in the history of American entertainment.

Gerry waved goodbye to us, the Russian lady flipped her hair and smiled, and we grabbed a pamphlet. I intend to have this thing bronzed.

My heart was still racing and I was a little out of breath.

It was an adventure.

I met a Scientologist who spoke French, said the word “Thetan”, and hooked me up to the e meter. As we waked out of the museum, Chrisanne looked at me, and chuckled a little.

“Did you have fun, sweetie?” she said.

“I…..I got to use the e meter.” I said barely crossing the street. “That was most exciting day of my life.”

“Really? What about our wedding?”

I swallowed.

“Can I get back to you?”

God Bless America.