Barbra Streisand Has FaceTime


Beach Burns

“Oh my GOD, my BURNING FLESH!!!” The sand was so fucking hot. Like, unbelievably hot. I tried to make it across the never-ending beach to the water, but it came to the point where I had to take to my butt and hold my blistering feet in the air like a bug that can’t flip itself over. I was trying very hard to not let any of this scorching sand get into my lady parts as my shorts were, well… short. I need to do more core work. The last thing I need is third degree burns on my labia because I can’t successfully balance myself on my sitz bones. Adam and Emily were trying to high-step it down to the water like Paul Rudd-looking idiots, but the hot sand got to them too. They were about 20 paces ahead of me and they went down like gazelles that had just been shot. For a fleeting moment I thought that humans should have hooves. What a grand idea- is there an app for that? But then I realized we call them shoes.

Now all three of us were laughing, crying, and trying to decide our fate with our legs up, steam rising from our poor toes. Would we actually make it down to the water? Or would we burn to a crisp right here, halfway to our destination? Passersby, on this very sand, seemed to be unscathed and unamused by our pathetic show of incompetence. Were they martians?!?! Do THEY have hooves? Cause I sure as hell do not see them wearing shoes.

It took us about 20 minutes, but we made it down to the beach near the Santa Monica Pier with a little less skin on our feet than what we had intended for the day. We found a spot to lay our ugly beach towels, actually Emily’s was kinda cool. Had a big yellow hibiscus on it. Adam and I had ratty ones that were probably Wal-Mart specials in 1996 that he grabbed from his closet. I didn’t know Emily smoked, but I see some American Spirits in her bag- the yellow pack. She has a yellow car too. And a yellow personality. Eh, I don’t know much about her anyway seeing as how I just met her 2 hours ago at brunch in Sherman Oaks. But I was still surprised to see her with smokes. I guess this is what actors do on Wednesday afternoons. Back in NY, I would be working my 10-6. Probably on the phone with Anna, our agent’s assistant. She calls like 8 times a day. But it’s my birthday week, so I am taking advantage of my vacation bennies. Note to self, listen to Jim Croce in a dedicated way.

Adam flipped off his flops after about 5 mins of us laying on our backs looking up at the very bright California sky. He took my hand and whisked me down to the Pacific. I didn’t have a suit on because ew. I’m 30. Swimming suits are for babies and whores. I got fully wet anyway. It’s not like I have to be anywhere later.

Bubba Gump Sounds Like A Good Idea

The only thing better than spending time on the beach is going to get day drunk at Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. on the Pier. I want to shake the hand of the person who decided to put it there. A goddamn genius. We said BYE to our spot on the beach, gathered all our shit and said HEY GIRL HEY to the best establishment ever. I would never set foot in the Bubba Gump in Times Square because I’m a lady, but the one on the Santa Monica Pier seemed legit. Like, if you are gonna buckle down and do this, do it here. No judgements.

People who work at Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. are really happy to be working at Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. I know this because our bartender for this fateful afternoon, Jimmy, told us so. Actually, he sung it so. We took our spots at the bar alongside two older gentlemen who clearly call this home. We drank the CoronaRitas like they were mother’s milk and generally enjoyed each other’s company, talking in fake accents and telling Jimmy our Amazon Prime passwords so he could watch “Transparent.” We didn’t cure cancer during this time, but I did have another great idea. As we sat at the bar, we had a clear view of Santa Monica beach which, if you follow it long enough, brings you to Malibu. Malibu makes me think of one thing only: Barbra Streisand. She lives there on a cliff with James Brolin like the Queen she is. On a cliff. With James. James Brolin. Cliff.

Barbra Streisand Has FaceTime

My best friend in NY works for Hoda Kotb and gave me Barbra Streisand’s cell phone number from Hoda’s rolodex last year for my birthday. I’ve had this number under “BSTREIS” for one whole year and have never used it. Although, it is the number I write down for my “in case of emergency.”

Whilst looking longingly towards Malibu with the straw from my CoronaRita hanging from my mouth I proclaimed my goal for the afternoon. “You guys. I have Barbra Streisand’s cell phone number. And it looks like she has FaceTime. ERGO, WE MUST FACETIME BARBRA STREISAND.”

We paid for our vats of CoronaRitas and staggered back down to the spot on the beach that we had before. I had to poop. I was so nervous. Why didn’t I poop before we left Bubba’s? What if she answers? What if she doesn’t? What if James answers? Do I ask for her? Why am I calling? Who am I? Can she have me arrested? Do people do that? CAN she do that? Can SHE do that? I’m scared.

I pull up her contact info on my phone. BSTREIS. This is happening. I am ashamed and excited at the same time. Adam, Emily and I are holding hands in a circle. Emily is using one hand to smoke though. I hold my phone in the middle of our drunken beach circle. I say a little prayer.

“Heads down you guys. Dear Barbra. This is Dana, Adam, and Emily. We are sitting on Santa Monica Beach and we do not mean to be disrespectful, but we have your number and saw that you have FaceTime. All we want to do is see you and your Fanny Brice face and say hi. And that’s it. Just hi. Ok, amen.”

Slowly and calmly I press the FaceTime camera for Barbra.

It rings. And rings. We can see our reflection in the phone as we wait.

It’s ANSWERED. As it tries to connect us better, a mid-30s girl appears on the other side like magic. She looks confused. As she should be. Oh my God, this is not Barbra’s number. I’m so embarrassed. “Hello? Who is this?,” she says.

“Hi, uh- is Sue there?,” I ask her. I have no idea where that came from but I did not want to ask for Barbra. Who do I think I am??

“Who are you trying to reach?,” she asks. Then from behind, Barbra looks over her shoulder. Draped in an off the shoulder house frock, California earth mother type thing. “Who is it? What is that? Who are you talking to Gina?” Barbra asks.

“HELLO GORGEOUS!!!” I shriek. Adam, Emily and I start laughing- I immediately press “hang up” and we threw our heads back into the sand. I throw my phone as if it was covered in bees and try to comprehend what just happened. My body is tingly and I finally let out my breath that I’ve been holding. My hair has sand in it now but I don’t care. I just FaceTimed with Barbra Streisand.

Written by: Dana Craig

TV Production/ Culture Vulture/ Dick Cavett enthusiast

One comment

  1. Annette

    Wow, I cried because I laughed so hard! This blog post is funny as hell! The hot sand, the burnt feet, the hooves… So relatable… Everything, down to the fact that Malibu also makes me think of one thing only: Barbra. James. And that cliff. I have one burning question left: Can you give me THAT number? 😉

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: