When I first got to LA, I thought, for an all too un-brief moment, that it might serve me to be part of ‘The Scene.’ I got an AFFLICTION t-shirt, a spiky-combed-forward-to-cover-the-slightly-receding-hairline coif, and I even committed the cardinal sin for tortured, poor, New York theatre artists – I went to a tanning salon.

Now, I had never been to a tanning salon before but, since my arrival in LA, I had a lot of “let me tell you what you need to make it” types (they usually come with a Bluetooth and over-sized veneers) tell me I should get a tan so I look ‘healthier.’ I thought I was fair-skinned, but apparently in LA that translates to ‘corpse-like.’

Well, that was enough for me – I Googled ‘TANNING SALON’ and found the nearest one to me, ready to be a more effervescent, less cadaverous me.

I was immediately bombarded when I walked into HOLLYWOOD TANS. It smelled like an amalgam of Clorox and beach. Clorox beach, if you will. The music was lively and bumping, and it juxtaposed oddly with the still orange people sitting behind the desks. They all looked like they had been holding their breath for 4 minutes and just exhaled before I walked in. It looked like they went into the tanning bed and set the dial to ‘OOMPA LOOMPA.’ (And, of course, I mean the old-school Gene Wilder henchmen color schemata). It looked like they were taking carrot enemas 5 times a day. These kids even made Bill ‘Beta Carotene’ Clinton look like a sepia toned photo.

One guy behind the register clearly had been Irish at some point, like me, but had, through his employee discount at Hollywood Tans, slowly metastasized his freckles until he was Mexican.

I skipped him and went to the guy with the Ed Hardy tribal tattoos with the least amount of fluorescent glow on his facial area.

“Hey man, I’m going to Cancun and I’m looking to get a base tan. Can you help me with that? Thanks.”

Although the going to Cancun part was true, the translation of the sentence in truthtalk is: “Hey man, I’m trying to book a TV job based on a nice bronze complexion instead of any discernible talent – can you walk me through this process so I don’t feel completely shallow? Thanks.”

Armande pulled out a laminated sheet that showed all the packages, insisting that I need a ‘package,’ that I would never see results if not for a ‘package’ and oh how much we all love a good ‘package.’

There were two types of beds, one that was mostly UVA rays, which were healthier and less intense rays, and UVB rays, which cooks your sperm into a molten broth of retarded one-eyed Cyclops after 3 minutes. I chose UVA rays.

He then proceeded to tell me for the low, low price of $19.95, I could have a special ‘high-pressure’ situation with UVA rays if I only bought a package of 3,000 tanning sessions. I might be mistaken in the quantity but it was a lot. I told him I just needed a ‘one-off.’ I just needed a hint of sun kiss so people weren’t expecting me to ask for “braaaaains” when I walked down Sunset Boulevard.

I bought ONE for $40 and walked into a mini Fortress of Solitude. It was basically a bunch of 8 foot long vertical light bulbs with a latticed steel cylinder fashioned around it. The subject stands in the square center of the bajillion bulbs at full blast for 8 minutes and then fervently prays he can still have children that don’t ride the short bus and go apeshit over a bowl of Jolly Ranchers.

I wanted an even tan so I took off my tube sock and fashioned it over my junk as best I could. I smiled at how impressive I looked with a size 11 tube sock with red stripes on it. I was glad, in this instance, that horizontal stripes make things look fat. Unfortunately, I looked behind me and my butt looked ancient Greek alabaster at best, 10 day CSI morgue victim at worst. I put on a pair of Michael Phelps swimming goggles and I walked into the chamber.

QUICK CAVEAT: I think it’s important to note that the guy asked me how many ‘minutes’ I wanted to be inside the machine. I asked what the range was and he said ‘between 5 and 8 minutes.’ Well, I was spending $40, so I wanted my money’s worth.

“I guess leave me in for 8 minutes.”

“That’s the max. It’s high pressure so it’s pretty intense.”

“Oh yeah, high pressure,” I reiterated, having no clue what the bejesus that could possibly mean. “Um, you’re right about the high pressure, I’ll do 7 minutes.”

He looked at me with a smirky smile or a smily smirk that seemed to say, “Wow, you’re brave,” or quite possibly, “Stupid people deserve skin cancer.”

I took my towel, goggles, bronzer/tanning lotion, sock, and stepped into the center of the cylinder. Now what? I fumbled blindly for a switch outside, found a little blue button, hit start, and the GE’s came to life with a grinding yaw, instantly and ironically sending chills down my naked spine and shaking my sock to and fro.

I stood there and closed my eyes as the current of wind and heat buzzed and whirred around and about me. I took a little peeksie through the blinding lights to see that there were subway-style hand straps for me to grab onto. I reached up and held on to the straps, slightly dumbfounded as to why I needed straps. Does this thing move? Finally, I decided that, obviously, it was important to have golden armpits. I couldn’t help but muse that it seems that I’m always getting ripped off whenever I’m holding my hands up on subway straps.

The same thumping music was on but muted, barely audible through the torrential wind machine. I settled into my straps and mini-fortress and decided to use ‘The Secret’ in this brief moment of respite, contemplating on how many cars and how many Mexican landscapers I would need with my new found fame, fame created solely by the mere deliciousness of my movie star skin.

At 4 minutes, I heard a sharp pop and realized I had farted. Damn you UV rays!

At 5 minutes, my nipples got way too hard and my scalp starting tingling like a bad Selsun Blue commercial. I was starting to wonder if maybe I should get out.

At 6 minutes, I instantaneously started feeling my skin tighten up and redden around my neck and shoulders, my left testicle retreated into a mysterious pocket inside my pelvic bone. I wanted out… but the timer was set to 7 right? What’s one more minute?

I got out at 7 and knew, right away, that life on Earth was now different. Heat was emanating off of me in waves. I felt light-headed. I was also keenly aware that my body was, right then, in the process of cooking. When all of the electrons had settled down from my buzz, there would be some serious issues.

I walked out trying to act like I was a Golden God, smiling from ear to ear, while surreptitiously checking that my thin strands of blonde hair at the top of my skull hadn’t curled into flaky Hiroshima ash.

The sun poisoning set in after about 3 hours. I laid up in bed taking pain medication and Nyquil and cursing ‘Hollywood Tans’ for their awful, evil existence. My friends only showed up to play that game where you touch the red to see how contrastingly white the imprint from a poking finger is. “Wow, you look like a lobster, dude!!!”

I couldn’t wait for the peeling to begin so I could start anew. LA = 2, BD = 0.

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