A Fling with Carmen Electra

CARMEN SAYS.. "I love Popsicles. I can remember as a kid it would be so hot that I could never get enough of them. But a snowcone, well, I think they are overrated. They always look better than they really are. They just don't deliver Like a Popsicle."

THE SUN SHOOTS HUGE COLUMNS OF LIGHT across the room, directly into the eyes of Carmen Electra, and I am trying hard to get a look into them. We are knee to knee, on the floor, superclose. Our heads are almost touching. These are the warm, electric minutes before twilight in L. A. Her husband will be back from work soon. I want her to look into my eyes, too, to stare right back at me, but she won't. "Go," she says, pointing to the pile of cards. I linger, holding one finger on top of the pile and looking over the 'board. I am doing well. It must be annoying to have me slow-playa game of Sorry!, but I am kick­ing Carmen Electra's ass. I'm doing my best not to rub it in.

"Go, go, go," she says.

CARMEN SAYS.. "I like a man who takes care of himself. A manicure is nice, and always, always take care of the feet"

My next card says 4. Move backward 4. She humphs, glad to see my luck turn, before taking a card. In Sorry!, I've told her, there is always hope. She's been con­centrating as we play, but sometimes we pause so I can ask her about the various epochs in her much-traveled life. Every time she appears on television-as Prince's pop prodigy, as a bouncing Baywatch lifeguard, as (briefly) Dennis Rodman's wife, and more recently with husband Dave Navarro on 'Til Death Do Us Part- it seems to be a completely new incarna­tion. Not exactly model, not exactly actress, not exactly per­former. "I think I'm more of a personality," she gladly admits, as if that were as normal as a nickel. "That's what I wanted. I wanted to create this image. Of course, I evolve from year to year. But I take responsibility for" -she suddenly shoots her arm out, palm up, card in hand-"for this!"

"Twelve!" she says, sliding her pawn urgently forward, tight to the board so there is an audible smooth hiss, and finishing on a space formerly occupied by me. She nods with satisfac­tion as she flicks my piece off the board, flourishing the move with her very own sound effect.

"Sha-donk!" she says, laughing.

Sha-donk?

She squints and points her tiny finger at me, jabbing it lightly in my arm. "Pe-tat-tat! You know. Bam! I got you."

I look down at the board. She drums her fingernails on the coffee table and leans closer. She's slowed my momentum to be sure, but I still have two pawns home and another close. "I got you," I say. "I'm still good here."

CARMEN SAYS.. "The best summer date isn't the beach. The sand gets everywhere. There's no way to really get comfortable. I'd rather go to Magic Mountian. Besides, I'm not all that good a swimmer."

She reaches across the table for a piece of sashimi as I pull a card. She's wearing a jean jacket over a sleeveless top, even though it's plenty warm. She's got on three-inch heels, even though we're sitting on the floor. I can't tell if she doesn't know how to relax or if she just got too caught up in the game to change. Or maybe I just give her the creeps.

But she is warm and alive and right next to me, her tiny hand pressed to the floor next to my knee. I brought the board game. It was my idea. I didn't realize it would be this physical. I'm an idiot. At this late juncture, I realize I could have brought Twister. She dips the slice of salmon in the spicy mayonnaise and slips it between her lips delicately.

As she chews, she presses her chin forward and gestures toward my hand. Whachagot? Then I remember to look at my card: 3. Move forward 3.

"Sha-donk that," I say.

She squints and shakes her head. "You only go sha-donk when you do something, something real, when you're really hurting the other guy."

She flips a card: 7. Move forward 7 or split the move be­ tween two pawns.

She looks over the board and smiles, her most heartfelt smile yet, the face of a woman who can't help but feel good. "Like this," she says, clipping off four moves to trash another of my pawns, then moving another three spaces to land on the yellow triangle that lets her slide four more spaces for free.

"That," she says, "is a sha-donk."

I flip over my next card, another pedestrian 3. "You have to make up your own sounds," Carmen explains. ''You have to have your own language for how to lay it on." She hits another big card, presses another pawn closer to home.

I can see that I am suddenly doomed. In two swift moves, Carmen Electra has stolen the game. She runs her hands through her hair and shakes it out. "Come on," she says. "Play."

I reach for my own piece of sushi. The hell with her. "Don't worry, Electra. I'll beat you. I'll sha-donk you all night long."

She snorts. Preposterous. She taps the board, hurrying me to my demise. That's when I want to pause, to remind her what I told her earlier, that no matter what, there is always hope.

TOM CHIARELLA

speakcarmenese.com