Adventures in Nutland

Mortgage Mortification: Part One- The Con

2012-03-05T08:52:00.000-08:00

My boyfriend, Andy lost his job during the 2008 Thanksgiving weekend.One day we were full of thanks, the next not so much. Added to his sudden unemployment, the hourly rate at my job had also been reduced but at least that had been somewhat expected. Andy’s lay-off was not. Times were starting to get hard.

When HAMP or the Home Affordable Modification Program began, people got excited: home-owners who were having trouble with their mortgages, lenders and some unscrupulous rip-off artists looking to make a buck. Everyone wanted to believe that HAMP was the godsend that we were waiting for.

A number of my friends had jobs working for either real estate people or lawyers who were helping home-owners get their mortgages modified, helping them and helping themselves with a large service charge. The goal was for mortgagees to acquire a percentage and payment that they could handle and allegedly these “helpers” had the methods and the knowledge that could almost guarantee modification.

We had refinanced our house a number of times. I had used a large chunk of my inheritance as a down payment on my first house. When I sold it, I had made a bit of money on it and just transferred the funds over to the new house. Refinancing was different than modification. Refinancing was a whole new loan and loan modification adapted the one you had.

For awhile, refinancing was the cool hip thing to do and we would get approached to refinance and would think “why not?” There were always expenses like water heaters, tree trimming and vacations. Unfortunately we weren’t always practical with what we did with the money we took out. The more we refinanced the more subprime our loan became.

2009 found us with a subprime loan, Andy unemployed, and me under-employed. We had a home loan that we were struggling to pay. We appeared to be the perfect candidates for HAMP.

Some people may ask why we didn’t just go to our families for help but that was never an option. In fact at one point my mother literally said that she hoped we would lose our house so that we would be forced to move in with her. I found this to be so needlessly selfish, that I swore it would never happen.

Every time some friend would suggest that we try to get a loan mod, I would decline. I just felt that we really weren’t qualified and that it wouldn’t work out. It seemed like it was a waste of time and energy. They would persist and wear me down.When they would come back contrite and slightly embarrassed, saying that they had tried but unfortunately we weren’t qualified for this or that reason, I would try to not say I told you but I had indeed told them so.

Then my roommate Tony’s friend Marcel came along. Marcel is a very odd gentleman. I use this old-fashioned term “gentleman” on purpose for he appears to look like someone from another time as he is often dressed in a seersucker suit. How many modern men do you know who can rock a seersucker suit; none and frankly neither can Marcel. He has good manners but does everything in an aggravatingly slow manner. A know-it-all with a supercilious attitude, Marcel can be difficult to be around. One of his best or worst character traits, depending on who you ask, is that he can be extremely tenacious in a slow, tedious way.

Marcel was working for a law office that was getting people their loan modifications. Since he knew we were struggling to make our mortgage payments, he started working on me. Although I told him I wasn’t interested, he called and emailed me constantly. Convincing my roommate that he was only thinking of me, Marcel got Tony to talk to me.

Promising that the men he worked with had been able to get almost all their clients loan modifications, Marcel finally got my attention. When I told him that I couldn’t afford the law office fee of $2500.00, he went behind my back and worked it out with Tony.
Tony would pay his rent a year in advance. Marcel had removed all obstacles; all I needed to do was to agree. Did I agree in part just to get out of Marcel’s radar? Yes. He irritated me into taking action.

After checking out the law firm on the Better Business Bureau I agreed to meet with them in regards to them helping me achieve loan modification. Marcel assured me that they were legit. These lawyers were dedicated to helping people; their primary focus was immigration law.

After briefly meeting with the lawyer Francisco, he directed me to his colleague Steve who handled all the loan modifications. I knew almost the second that I met Steve that he wasn’t on the level but I desperately wanted to believe he could save our house. Steve was not a lawyer but Francisco trusted him with loan mod part of the business while Francisco worked more with illegal immigrants trying to not get deported.

Although Steve was not traditionally good looking (he had a lot of acne scarring on his face) he was appealing. Since he was very friendly, he made me feel at ease and because he was confident about what he would be able to do, I was assured that he would indeed be able to secure the modification for me.

After telling me that he was from St. Petersburg, Russia, Steve confided “I am here to live the American Dream and help others recover theirs.” It was a line he used over and over again. Steve saw himself as the Russian repo-man of the American Dream.

Steve told me of the many home-owners that he had been able to secure modifications for- people who were in much more dire circumstances than I. He had been able to help people who had second loans on their property, people with much worse credit and if worst came to worst; he had helped people declare bankruptcy which always worked. This would be the first time that Steve would talk about the magic of bankruptcy but not the last.

The only thing that alarmed Steve about our loan was that our loan holder was Bank of America and they were already dragging their feet (and that is the nicest way I can state the nightmare of dealing with B of A) about actually approving some loan modifications. But Steve had secured mortgage modifications from B of A and would do it again. Getting Bank of America to approve some of his clients for modifications were great accomplishments.

When Steve promised to refund most of his fee of $2500.00 if he was unable to get us a loan modification, I felt sure that I was doing the right thing by getting their help.

First thing that we needed to do was stop paying our mortgage. This seemed like an incredibly bad idea. Our loan was the only thing we had been consistently on time with. Our loan was the one shining star in our declining finances, stop paying it? Yes, Steve insisted, they will only accept your application if you are behind at least three months. And as someone who usually does what she is told, we stopped paying our mortgage.

For a few months, Steve actually seemed to be keeping up his end of the bargain. We filled out applications and made copies of bank statements and other necessary documents and he diligently got them to the bank people who needed to see them.

Not long after we signed our contract with Steve, Marcel stopped working with him and Francesco- something about not getting along together well. Marcel still believed that they were honest and hardworking and would ultimately help us with our loan modification goal.

When we started getting calls and letters from the bank, Steve had me refer them to him. He’d handle it as it was part of his job. We were doing everything right. Although we should have put the money that we weren’t using for our mortgage in the bank, we didn’t. We were using it to live on.

Steve became almost like a friend. We chat on the phone about all kinds of things. He wanted to introduce me to his girlfriend, whom he said was studying writing. They promised to come to one of my shows. He wouldn’t con a friend, would he?

Andy got another job but it was at a much lower salary than his previous job but still it was a step in getting out of the mess we were in.

Steve kept bringing up bankruptcy. It would cost another $4500.00 dollars but he believed it was a sure fire way to get the modification. I had some credit card debit but for some reason I just didn’t want to take that step plus $4500.00 is a lot of money. I had friends who had declared bankruptcy and it was the right thing for them to do but the eagerness that Steve was pushing it for me made me uneasy.

At some point, Steve started getting a lot harder to get a hold of. Supposedly he was working on some cases for clients in Northern Calif. When before he had always called back immediately, it now took some time for him to return a call or an email. Then he stopped responding at all.

Not knowing what was happening with my own loan and getting increasingly scary communications from Bank of America, propelled me to start to take matters into my own hands and make my own calls and fax my own paperwork.

I complained to Marcel that I couldn’t get a hold of Steve. He contacted Francisco who said he would pass on a message. Finally we had to start calling Francisco and leaving messages and eventually Steve returned our call.

Sounding just as friendly as ever, Steve said that he had been doing a lot of work up North and while he hadn’t stopped working on our case, it didn’t look good. Now if I would do a BK (his shorthand for bankruptcy) he would be able to secure the loan mod. I refused and asked him to honor his promise to return most of the fee. Steve said he would have only given a refund if he hadn’t done everything in his power to get me that loan modification and he had. If I read the contract I would see he had done everything right. He wished me good luck in getting my American Dream back.

I had been scammed but I was just starting the fight.

Two Nights After the Day the Music Died

2012-02-15T20:56:00.000-08:00

Standing before me was an angel, albeit a drunk, slightly disheveled angel but one nonetheless. I was sitting on an old ripped couch in the lounge. It was a linking lounge that connected the girl’s and boy’s dorms on our floor. Only the lounge was Co-Ed where both could hang out but up until the angel had appeared, I had been alone.

A party was happening on the boy’s side but I wasn’t dressed for a party. Wearing my girly, flannel pajamas, even though it wasn’t even 9:30pm yet, I wasn’t in a festive mood. And I wasn’t ready for bed, as I had just left it.

It was the night after the day the music died; the night after we learned John Lennon had been murdered. I wasn’t sick just heartbroken.

I had stayed in my room all day, not going to classes, not going to the dining hall, not going to the library, just weeping alone in my room.

I didn’t have a roommate. My roommate Felicia had lasted one day and had moved back to Whittier, a mere 30 minutes away. She hadn’t been able to stand being away from her family, even though she got to see them every weekend. It was my first time living away from home as well but I could wait until Thanksgiving to see my family.

I don’t know why I had finally ventured out of my room; perhaps I was looking for microwave popcorn as it was the mainstay of my diet or perhaps the grey walls had only helped to make me feel sadder.

All the lights were off in the lounge and I was sitting in the darkness looking out of the window. Hedrick Hall was the highest of the UCLA dorms. You had to walk past all the others on your way up; past Sproul Hall, past Rieber Hall and past Dykstra Hall. It was a haul getting past all those halls.

I sometimes felt a little lonely in my dorm room all by myself. Luckily a friend would switch rooms in the spring quarter. She and her assigned roommate weren’t a good match. I made quite a few friends on my floor and fortunately for me one I could room with. But rooming alone did make me feel isolated sometimes and forced me to socialize.

On this night I didn’t want to be around my friends. I didn’t want to party. I just wanted to grieve John Lennon. No that’s wrong, I didn’t want to grieve him but I had no choice but to grieve him. It was difficult to do anything else.

I had been a fan of The Beatles since I was very small. My brother would play their records and I would sit outside his door listening. Sometimes I would dance in the hall. Naturally since I was six, I argued with him that the Monkees were better. It was clear that The Monkees would last the test of time. Well I was just a kid and hey Davy Jones was really cute. I still enjoy listening to The Monkees so in a way they did last the test of time although obviously my argument that they were “better” than The Beatles was faulty to say the least.

I started really getting into The Beatles when I was about 11. When I say “getting into” I mean becoming a fervent fan. My ardor for The Beatles needed to be acknowledged by one and all. One of my earliest memories of my friendship with my dear friend Lauren is arguing with her on opposing volleyball sides on who was the bigger fan. I still say me.

While I cycled through who was my favorite Monkee, John was always my favorite Beatle. I liked George and Paul and Ringo a lot. I even saw George Harrison in concert but I preferred John. I will always prefer John.

If you get to meet any celebrity you want in Heaven, then I chose John. Can you see it? I’m walking in the white light. All my friends and family who’ve passed on are there on the sidelines. I’ll just keep walking until I get to John. Well I’ll be able see my dad anytime. This may be my only opportunity to hang out on a cloud with John.

I like John’s look: the glasses, the nose and his lanky frame. I like his wit, I like his tortured heart and I even like his random meanness. On more than one occasion I’ve crushed on someone because they bore a resemblance to John Lennon. He just works for me.

So on this night, after John had been so brutally murdered in the street in front of the Dakota, I mourned for him. I tried to picture my life going on as it had. His death seemed so personal and it touched me as few celebrity deaths do. John wasn’t only the soundtrack to my life, he was its framework.

As I was sitting there thinking of John and his life and my life, this completely tanked surfer guy stumbled into the lounge. He was stunningly beautiful with long blonde hair,
a gorgeous face and an obviously buff bod. I could tell his chest was perfect and hairless as he wasn’t wearing a shirt. He was a TLBTTM as we said in the day, spelled out he was a total lush babe to the max! His sheer beauty shook me from my sadness for an instant.

Now normally I’m not one to chat with drunk guys but this guy was so friendly. He plopped down beside me and offered me a sip of his beer. It was very hospitable of him but I declined his offer. I was too sad and even with my Austrian background had never developed a taste for beer.

He asked if I had been or was going to the party. Maybe he thought my pjs were party wear? I told him no, that I was just hanging out in the lounge. “Cool” he said nodding his head. He was the Zen Spicoli. We were sitting in an easy silence when he started talking about the sea and how one day we all would return to the sea. My surfer was a philosopher? What are the odds? His words and the lazy but somehow not drunk way he spoke comforted me. Although we did not speak of John Lennon, I felt better about his passing for some reason.

After about an hour or so, the surfer turned his face to mine and kissed me full on the lips. His kiss was salty and sweet and a little bit savory. Although it was surprising it was not unpleasant and for a moment, I was lost in that kiss. I forgot death and music and for that instant I was just a 19 year old kissing a pretty boy surfer in my pajamas.

Getting up he held out his hand and asked if I wanted to come to his room. I declined and he smiled wryly. “Are you going back to the party?” I had asked. He nodded his head no. “I think I’ll take a ride down to the beach” he said no longer drunk. “See you around” he said knowing that chances were he never would.” “ Sure” I said “see you” but I never did see my drunken angel again- the angel who helped me heal.

Day on the Green

2012-02-08T23:22:00.000-08:00

Before there was Coachella and Lollapalooza and even Live Aid, there was the Day on the Green. Day on the Green was a concert series presented by concert promoter Bill Graham at the Oakland Coliseum. Day on the Green was one of the best concert experiences I ever had but it would be a very different experience if I had it today.

It was 1977 and it was overcast. But it would be the first time I saw my favorite band “Fleetwood Mac” and the first time I’d get to see Stevie Nicks live. I loved her then and I still do. Come on, Gold Dust Woman? Sisters of the Moon? Sara? I may be a tad bit obsessed.

My main reason for going to SJSU was because Stevie Nicks went there and she didn’t even graduate. Well it was the late 1970s, and people didn’t choose their universities as carefully as they do now. I don’t think anyone actually toured a school before they went there. Picking a college was like a blind taste test, you couldn’t see what you were getting but hoped for the best. I guess I should be relieved that Stevie Nicks didn’t go to Princeton or Harvard or I might have had to apply myself and betray the rest of my fellow underachievers

But college was a long way away that cloudy day so long ago. I remember wearing the standard concert going outfit: jeans, platform shoes and a shirt with a hood on it. They weren’t called hoodies back then; they were called “shirts with hoods on them.”

Everybody in San Jose bought their jeans at People’s Pants on Lincoln. They bought Levis, and Lee Jeans and Wranglers. Sailor jeans with the two square pockets on the front were super popular at our school. They looked best if you had no butt as opposed to Dittos which looked best if you had did. Combs were kept in the back pocket and smokes were kept in your rolled up sleeve if you were a dude. Only guys were dudes back then as in “all the young dudes” or “any major dude will tell you.”

I have no recollection of how we got to and from the concert. I don’t remember The Doobie Brothers or Gary Wright but I remember Fleetwood Mac vividly.

The Doobie Brothers were known as a San Jose band, though I am unsure why. Fleetwood Mac was not known as a San Jose band but they did live there for a time. I was thrilled when I heard that Stevie Nicks wrote the song “Gypsy” about their San Jose time.

As it got closer and closer to the time Fleetwood Mac would take the stage, it got more and more crowded at the front of the stage. Punk hadn’t really caught on yet, so there was no mash pit. Generally, drunk girls would take their halter tops off and sit on their drunker and on the edge of obnoxious boyfriend’s shoulder’s to see. Exposed breasts always got VIP seating.

You didn’t playfully elbow someone out of the way, the way you could later for punk shows. I just prayed that some drunk guy wouldn’t fall on me or worse barf on me. Everybody was fairly good natured but solid. They would not move out of their spot.
To get up front, you had to pretend that with each new location you’d stand in that you had been there the whole time and that your neighbors hadn’t noticed-chameleon concert maneuvering.

I was doing my best to work my way to the front, kind of politely, weaving around people but still I was pretty far back. I had waited all day, I was exhausted and my energy was draining. But I had to see Stevie and I had to see her up close. Front row was not only my quest but my destiny.

People don’t understand the lack of music choice back then. There was metal, disco and rock. Disco was kind of embarrassing. I secretly liked Chic and KC and the Sunshine Band. If you liked Metal then you were bad-ass.

At the time rock music wasn’t exactly overloaded with female role-models. There were the Heart girls, Linda Ronstadt, Bonnie Raitt and the Fleetwood Mac chicks and that was it. Linda was really girly back then and Bonnie didn’t take sh*t from anyone. Stevie was sexy but not overtly so. Men and women admired her beauty equally. She dressed cool, she sounded cool and she was cool: a goddess of rock.

It didn’t look like I was going to have much of a view at all when it started to rain. Even though people were blitzed out of their minds, the rain started to wake them up. Although we lived in a place where it rained pretty frequently, it seemed like no-one wanted to stand in it, even for Fleetwood Mac. How lame is that? They couldn’t even handle a little bit of a downpour for the Mac? People started to leave and I got closer and closer to the front. Luckily I had worn the platform shoes which gave me some traction in the increasing mud.

Finally I was right in front as the rain poured down on my head but it didn’t bother me as Stevie and the rest of Fleetwood Mac came out and did an amazing show. They were far-out to use the vernacular of the day. She twirled and stomped and they all seemed to play their hearts out even while they also got rained on. When she’d change from one shawl to another or a black top hat to a white one, it was magical.

When the marathon show was finally over, I was drenched, muddy and deliriously happy. I knew I’d never get as close again and I never did. I guess concert goers got tougher. Audiences got better at standing for long periods of time and didn’t care if they got a little wet or a little dirty.

Sadly Bill Graham died in a helicopter crash and the great Days on the Green ended. But it was glorious to be young, sopping wet and to feel as if the legendary Stevie Nicks was singing right to me. I still have the cool programs from both the Days on the Green concerts I went to and looking at them always makes me happy.

If I went to a Day on the Green today, I’d insist on assigned seating. I would hate the opening act on principal. When the headliner finally arrived on the stage, I’d be completely spent. How I’d roll my eyes at the “spontaneous” encore and would want to leave before the show had ended to try to escape the traffic. Later I would complain about the horrible parking and how I wished I had bought a bootleg tee-shirt. I would know that no matter what the venue or the artist that nothing will ever top that Day on The Green.

Practice Your Practice

2012-01-31T21:51:00.000-08:00

I recently found her on the internet. Perhaps now I could make my amends and get closure. I knew forgiveness might be too much to expect but I thought at least she would respond. She’s a therapist now. Don’t therapists have to act in a way that’s healthy and healing for everyone involved?

On her website it says that she has 25 years of experience in creating a safe and healing environment. Surely she would help me heal. She would honor the friendship that we had once shared. In a way, she owed it to me to be what she was: a mental health professional. It was in her job description to show me some empathy and it was in the history of our relationship what I hoped would be a willingness to help me mend.

Carmen was two years older than me and cool. We had been friends since grade school. Our moms were friends/ business associates as they went thrift store shopping together. When they became sick of the bargains they bought, they held garage sales to earn more money to spend at thrift stores and auctions.

Carmen was slender, with brown hair and brown eyes. A smart cheerleader, she considered herself a feminist. She had a really beautiful boyfriend who was half Japanese, half German and kind of a loner. This illustrated how unique she was, she could have had any star football or basketball player on campus but she chose a thoughtful musician. She never made the obvious choice.

Since Carmen was wildly popular at school, it helped build up my popularity. I still managed to bring it down by being a drama geek but having Carmen coming up to me in the halls or at lunch, gave me a little cache’. It showed that I had at least one friend who wasn’t just popular but who actually recognized me in high school society.

I had a total girl crush on her, not in a lesbian kind of way (which would have been awesome if I was so inclined) but in an “I can’t believe this incredible girl is friends with me” kind of way. She was smart, talented and kind. I felt as if Carmen was accepting and non-judgmental of me. I knew in my heart she was a friend that I would have for my entire life- that we were like sisters.

We would go jogging two or three times a week. After running up to 6 miles, we’d go back to my house, pig-out on carob (we believed it to be a healthy alternative to chocolate) and watch “Charlie’s Angels.” In the 1970s you could do that- be a feminist and still enjoy a dopey, girl show.

Carmen had a sister, Chrissy. Chrissy was a lot younger and extremely dull. It seems impossible for a child to be a dullard but Chrissy was. She seemed to make everything around her as dim as she and she sucked the fun out of every room. I didn’t like Chrissy much but I tolerated her for Carmen’s sake. I can only assume if Carmen grew up to be a licensed psychologist then Chrissy must have made a career as an assistant, dental hygienist.

One day Carmen invited me to go shopping with her and Chrissy and this is when I made my big mistake. I admitted to Carmen that I didn’t especially like Chrissy and I preferred to not go to the mall with the two of them. That was all it took. I never heard from Carmen again, not even to find out that our friendship was over. When she didn’t return my calls or letters, I pieced it together that our jogging and fake chocolate nights were done.

When I tried to talk to her, she refused to speak to me. I went to the Good Earth Restaurant where she worked, hoping to find out what I had done. Drinking gallons of their signature, over- spiced, chunky tea and eating their awful, dirty- feet smelling cookies, I tried to get Carmen to explain but she’d just give our table to another waitress. Had I really done something that bad? I tried enlisting the help of my other friends to see if they could pry any information out of her but they too failed. How could I learn if I didn’t know for sure what I had done wrong? Even cornering her during a neighborhood food festival didn’t make her speak; she simply looked through me and cut a wide swath around me. I was devastated and while the friendship didn’t stand the test of time, the hurt she caused me has.

With my friendship break-up with Carmen, I lost the ability to trust. I have said over the years that no matter how heartbroken I may get over a guy, no-one has ever killed my heart like Carmen. She wasn’t the only person to simply stop speaking to me and to inexplicably stop being my friend nor was she the last but she set the standard of hurt.

I did learn a valuable lesson however- never, ever talk smack about someone’s family or family members even if they do. If in your family you have a murderer for an uncle or a felon for a sister , I will not say one bad word against them. I will even try to come up with a positive slant. Oh your mother committed hit and run, she must be an ace driver!

As time went on, I would do the occasional internet search for Carmen but never had any luck until recently. There she was- a hell of a lot older but still pretty, still slender and you could just tell, still cool. Why did she still have to be cool?

Carmen’s office is not only in the town where we grew up but in our old neighborhood. It seemed clear to me that I should write her. So write her I did. I apologized for saying that I didn’t like her sister. I don’t know for sure if that was the reason she stopped speaking to me but I haven’t a clue about what else I could have done. I told her how important she and her friendship had been to me and how I hoped she had a happy and fulfilling life. I wrote what I felt was a heartfelt, apologetic and friendly email.

She never wrote me back.

Aren’t therapists supposed to be good at inter-personal relationships? Shouldn’t they be a little better than the rest of us in dealing with human frailties, and shouldn’t they set an example? Carmen could have at least let me know she’d received my email. Maybe she doesn’t remember me, or maybe she had long ago lost any rancor regarding me and my blunder but to not respond in any way? I understand I’m not her patient but I would think as a therapist she should practice her practice.

I see now that I put therapists above the rest of us beings. Apparently shrinks are people too and occasionally hold just as many grudges and bad feelings as the rest of us.
Sometimes they can’t handle things or don’t even know how to handle things.

When I realized that Carmen was not going to give me the solace I desired, I knew I had to forgive myself and move on. It may not have been the closure I wanted and I’m not sure I will ever fully be able to trust anyone but I’m still glad I took a chance and wrote her. I made amends, even if they weren’t reciprocated. It has been over 30 years since she stopped speaking to me and it is time for me to let it go. I found Carmen on the internet but I found forgiveness in her silence.

Audio Books Made Me a Reader Again

2012-01-25T23:26:00.000-08:00

I spend a pretty sizable amount of time in my car. Since I avoid the freeway and take only surface streets, it makes my journey even longer. I try to leave extra early in the morning when the traffic is lighter. The “way there” drive usually takes just under an hour. However no matter how early in the afternoon I leave from work, the “way back” drive will take at least 70 minutes and longer if something major is going on, like visiting dignitaries or police pursuits.

I used to listen to month inspired mix CDs that I made myself with silly names like “November Turkey Tunes” or “Moving May Music” but they would quickly get scratched. I sometimes listen to the radio but I have found listening to books on CD much more satisfying.

Strangely I have never liked talk radio. I can’t stand the non-stop yammering. I do however love storytelling. I’ve been told of the many fine programs that I would probably enjoy if I could just get past the talk radio aspect of radio. To be fair, I don’t especially like television talk shows either. The celebrity guests seem to talk about the same stuff they always talk about and it usually is the same information I can get with US Magazine and I can read US Magazine in the bathroom.

Because of the talk radio quality that books on CDs have, I was hesitant to listen to them in the car. I also thought I would have to concentrate so much on the story I was listening to, it would affect my driving. Admittedly I choose to stories that aren’t extra rich in detail or ones where if you miss hearing one detail you are completely lost.

I loved the book “Memoirs of a Geisha” and enjoy all stories that are set in another time period. If women are the central figures of the story, I will enjoy it all the more. The first book that I listened to was “Snow Flower and the Secret Fan” by Lisa See. I loved it. It was especially good to hear the correct pronunciation of the Chinese words. I could visual that time in history and still be focused enough to make a tricky Y-turn.

Since I got a lot of these books on CDs from the library I got a different cross section of books that I might not ordinarily have read. I listened to everything from “Grammar Girls Guide to Quick and Dirty Tips for Better Writing” to the YA book “Fallen” to “Certain Girls” by Jennifer Weiner.

My favorites have been Rob Lowe reading his autobiography “Stories I only Tell My friends” a surprisingly funny, smart and illuminating book. I also loved “A Northern Light” by Jennifer Donnelly read by Hope Davis. This is a marvelous book with a secondary storyline based on that same murder scandal that was in “A Place in the Sun.” Hope Davis does an amazing job reading, really good. Steve Martin’s “Born Standing Up” was also fascinating and funny. It adds another element when the writer reads their own story. Ruth Reichl’s “ Garlic and Sapphires” about her days as a NY Times food critic was wonderful and surprising. I even listened to the interview with her afterwards.

Once I began to get so involved in the hearing of these stories, some totally fictional, some mostly non-fictional, I started reading more again. I finished a 500 page book in a day, something I used to do all the time, but rarely do now. I always read but I feel like I’ve become a reader again. I’m like an addict craving stories.

It may seem silly that something so simple has changed my life but it has. I feel as if my life has been enriched. I am often a storyteller but it is just as important to me to be one to whom the story is told.

My long and winding road is now one of stories, vivid characters and of amazing lives lived and my commute seems to fly by.

Grave Walking

2012-01-19T22:52:00.000-08:00

The bribe was a scoop of cherries jubilee ice cream in a sugar cone. I would not visit my grandparents’ grave with my father without the promise of ice cream. As a child, I could be stubborn, though easily assuaged with a sweet treat.

The journey from our house to the cemetery was long and wearisome. We had to take two buses and then had a long walk to the graveyard. My father always walked quickly but I tried to dawdle as much as possible. It wasn’t as if my grandparents were going anywhere. What was the hurry? Who rushes to the bone-yard anyway?

Mission City Memorial Park is situated next to a retirement home, which I guess is practical on one hand and kind of mean on the other. Does anyone want to live out their final days gazing on where they’re going to be for all eternity? Perhaps they feel comforted knowing exactly where they are going to be after they pass away. I’ll just be on the other side of the fence, under that elm tree, if anyone needs me.

My father often times went to the cemetery by himself. Even after his parents’ deaths, he was a dutiful son. He usually brought flowers from our garden: daisies, snapdragons and roses. All the flowers were carefully wrapped with a bit of tin foil at the stems.

The cemetery was large and it involved walking over graves for us to get to the final resting places of my grandparents. They were located in one of the inner quadrants from the road. My shoes squished on the always wet grass. No matter how hot the sun shone, it never seemed to dry the grass. I was so concerned with my sopping shoes that I didn’t pay attention to where my Omie and Opie were located. I just followed my father and trusted him that he would lead us to the right plots.

After carefully placing the flowers in the carved out hole in the granite headstone, my father would gaze for a moment upon it. Perhaps he was praying or just taking a moment of remembrance but I never knew exactly what it was he was doing.

After a few minutes, my father would take my hand and lead me out of the cemetery and
back onto Winchester Blvd. We would walk the opposite direction from the Winchester
Mystery House to a small ice cream store, a few blocks away. I was happy to leave the
cemetery and happy that we weren’t walking in front of the Winchester House, which
felt like walking over my own grave. The House didn’t need to do anything and was still
spookier than the cemetery. I was so happy when we finally got to the ice cream shop.

After trying small spoonfuls of something exotic like chocolate walnut or caramel
praline ice cream, I would choose either cherries jubilee or pistachio for my cone. My
father would always get a scoop of rocky road in a cup.

I can’t imagine my father walking down the street eating anything, let alone something
drippy and sticky, so we must have sat down in front of the shop and had our treat.
When we were finished with our cold delights and our hands and faces wiped off with the
small, thin paper napkins provided, we walked back past the cemetery, past the
retirement home to the bus stop.

Years later when my father was interned in the Garden Mausoleum at Mission Cemetery,
I went looking for my grandparents graves. I searched for over an hour but had no luck.
Fortunately it was a weekday and the office staff of the cemetery were working in their
office on the grounds. I asked them where the graves of George and Margaret
Schoenwald were located. After checking their files, they could find no record of them
being buried at Mission Cemetery at all. I knew I had visited them there many times
with my father and I asked the secretary to please check again but still she had no luck.

As I was leaving, I remembered that my grandparents had spelled Schoenwald differently
than my father had and went back into the office and asked the cemetery secretary to
check for “Shonwald.” She found the index card with their location information and
wrote it down on a map of the cemetery for me.

I was able to find my grandparents’ grave and spent a few moments gazing on their
headstone as my father had done so many years before.

There is space for me in my father’s niche. I guess it is comforting to know where I’ll be
for all eternity, along side my father. I wonder if there’s ice cream in the after- life?

I Hate Eggs!

2012-01-12T06:50:00.000-08:00

I hate eggs but I love mayonnaise. This contradiction fascinates my friends and at almost every social gathering that we have, somehow this topic gets raised time and time again. The mayonnaise argument is used first, then they bring up almost every edible egg occurrence I’ve ever had. Yes, I have eaten deviled eggs and mini-quiches but it was when there was no alternative. I didn’t seek them out nor did I choose them over some other non-egg choice.

I hate eggs and this does not make breakfast my favorite meal. My choices are limited to yogurt, a bread item or fruit. Pancakes are OK but they’re so heavy and sweet that eating them makes me feel faintly sick all day. Waffles are good if they aren’t overly light because obviously an abundance of eggs is what makes them so fluffy. Though scrambled eggs were the first things I ever learned to cook, I never learned to eat them. Breakfast really is a club and I’m not a member- those stupid eggs black-balled me.

Yes I eat cakes, cookies and the like but I recently came up a trick that allows me to bake (which I enjoy) and not indulge in the end results. I’ve been making baked items that call for a lot of eggs. Though the eggs change their “form” (my argument for liking cake and cookies generally) if I’ve seen what I consider to be a large ratio of the ingredients to be eggs, it puts me off from eating it. I can no longer look at madeleines with the same longing. I know their secret egg identity now and my heart has turned cold. Proust is welcome to them.

I have never eaten a meringue, an egg cream or sipped eggnog. I know that egg creams don’t really have eggs in them but you can tell they wish they did. Egg creams want to have that egg air about them or they would be called “chocolate soda drink.”

Egg salad may be the worst of the family of egg criminals. It is as if the eggs are holding a gun to the head of the noble mayonnaise. “Do as you’re told and no-one gets hurt.” Yes I know that one of the three main ingredients of mayonnaise is egg- hence the reason I wouldn’t try making my own homemade mayo. Let me have me have my mayonnaise illusions, I egg of you.

I’m a foodie but there is no way I’d ever eat a 100 year old egg or a quail’s egg. One of the best things my niece said that she ate recently was a raviolio that had an egg in it. How many times on Top Chef does someone make something that involves breaking the cooked egg so that the yoke gushes out over the dish- way too many! Eggs don’t make a dish, they break it.

I’ve heard how creamy and delicious eggs are. But that jiggle, that smell, I truly find them revolting. The worst is when in movies or TV, and you see people drinking raw eggs for their athleticism or as a hangover cure. Please do not seat me during the egg drinking sequence in any film.

Don’t you think I wish I liked eggs? People seem to get so much enjoyment out of them. When I first met my boyfriend one of the things he wanted to do for me was cook me an omelet. Aw how sweet, I turned him down flat.

Then there are the times when eggs don’t have to be there for something to be delicious and they are added anyway, ruining whatever they touch: like an egg wash or eggs in macaroni and cheese or the hidden eggs in a Caesar’s salad or that very showy egg on top of hash. I shudder to think about the egg contamination of some of my favorite foods that I’m not even aware of.

Bet you can guess who my least favorite arch villain is? You got it- Egghead. What is my least favorite holiday treat? Easter eggs! Still not convinced about the evil egg influence? What do nasty pranksters do to people or their property on Halloween? They egg them. Don’t forget about that nasty egg dealer, Sam I Am pushing his green eggs and ham on everybody.

What is the one thing I can be grateful for in my hatred of eggs? I know I’ll never have egg on my face. I better stop this rant before the egg coalition eggs-acts their revenge on me and leaves a hard-boiled egg on my pillow.

Suspension of Disbelief

2012-01-05T22:24:00.000-08:00

I’ve never learned the title of the movie, or who was in it or when it was made. All I know is that I was five years old and it affected me to my very core. The premise was simple; a vampire and a man, a mortal and a monster shared the same heart. They shared the same heart not because of a custody thing but because of a science experiment gone terribly, terribly wrong. You know how so many experiments went awry in the fifties and sixties, usually involving ants or spiders or space? Obviously highbrow this film was the highlight on that Saturday afternoons’ edition of “Creature Features.” My Dad was there reading the paper in one of our Danish Modern chairs- he didn’t have a recliner yet. I was oblivious to his presence however as I was transfixed on this masterpiece of modern day horror flickering on our black and white Zenith Television.

Back to the movie, the law men were unable to come up with a solution that would stop the vampire from his killing spree but not harm the human. The vampire was arrogant and he knew this man (we’ll call him Bob) was his afterlife insurance. But he was wrong, wrong as the evil often are. Sometimes one life must be sacrificed for the lives of many. As the police staked the vampire, they knew in their hearts (pun completely intended) they were also killing an innocent man. As the vampire started to die, the film cut dramatically to Bob also in the process of dying. Although no wooden stake stuck out from his breast, he was very clearly in horrible, awful pain. Bob was paying the price for crimes he hadn’t committed. He had shed no blood. Was there no justice? He had just had the misfortune to share a heart with a vampire- that could happen to anyone. I couldn’t take it. As if in a trance, I very deliberately clicked off the television, went into my bedroom, opened the window, pushed out the screen and threw up on the daisies beneath. Why I didn’t vomit in the bathroom , I don’t know but obviously I was very disturbed by what I had seen. Thus began a lifetime of getting a little too into movies. It’s almost as if I have no suspension of disbelief, that I believe everything I see on screen is real. I am Marnie and celluloid is my color red.

Years later at UCLA I went with my friend Gary to see a revival of “ Dressed to Kill” starring Michael Caine and Angie “ Everybody’s Dad loves me “ Dickinson . I had read the novel and knew that there was to be some gruesomeness coming my way so I shut my eyes. I should have shut my ears too, for my brain supplied the picture to the sound of hacking and bloodshed and I passed out onto the floor of Ackerman Grand Ballroom. A few people wondered what had happened or what I had had to drink but most continued to view the movie. They were college students and used to people passing out all around them. Gary moved me outside and went to find a friend with a car. As I lay on a bench, a visiting Australian tourist came up to me and started to question me about the nightlife in Westwood. Feeling that my job as a Los Angeles ambassador was more important than my concussion, I gave him some tips. I didn’t want to be rude as I fought the inky blackness of unconsciousness. Luckily my friends Gary and Juli got there before too long and whisked me away to the hospital. Shortly after this episode, it would be with Juli in one of the Westwood watering holes that I had recommended that a Mr. O.J. Simpson would buy us both a drink.

Another fainting incident happened when I blacked out during the opening moments of a film called “The Doctor”. I think it was the spurting blood during an operation scene that did it but I felt dizzy and left the theatre. I passed out by the refreshment stand. “A quarter more and you can get the larger sized popcorn,” I heard as I made my descent. Again since the employees were college students, they assumed I had had too much to drink and asked me to leave, rudely. Since I didn’t want to make my friends miss the movie and I was at Century City Mall. I made my way to the food court. As I was sitting at a table, nursing an ice tea, trying not to collapse again when a man came up and started to talk to me. This man was not a nice Australian tourist visiting Southern California. I’m fairly certain this man was a serial killer, as he kept trying to convince me I was fine and should go with him to the parking garage. He promised to drive me home which we all know is code for “cut me up into a million tiny pieces” and use my blood for ink. Luckily the movie ended and my friends rescued me from his bloodthirsty plans.
Now I am petrified I will faint at the movies again. Once you’ve found yourself on the floor of a filthy theatre with old popcorn and Raisinettes stuck to your face, you will do anything not to have it happen again. I question people about the violence quotient of most movies; what kind of violence, how much spatter and are animals involved.

My friend Kurt has played monsters in some major motion pictures and yet I have never seen them. I know the blood is fake. I know no-one really gets hurt but somehow my brain doesn’t. The phrase “It’s only a movie” never seems to work for me.
I loved all the Hunger Games and the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo books but I don’t think I can see either of those movies. I know story has violence, gore and in the Hunger Games, animal death which I also don’t enjoy. I can’t take a chance that I might pass out again.

The real irony is that the monsters I met outside of the movies were far more dangerous than the ones inside them.

Therapist's Hour of Snow

2011-12-28T06:44:00.000-08:00

Feb. 5, 1976 was a remarkable day. It snowed. Perhaps it snowed in Syracuse, NY or Sioux Falls, SD or even Winnemucca NV but what was extraordinary was that it snowed
in San Jose, CA. Living in San Jose, one had to travel to see snow. You went to the snow; the snow never came to you. The snow was an elusive, magical weather system that was like a Vanderbilt or a Rockefeller: rarely in your presence but damn cold when it was.

On Feb. 5 it snowed early that morning. I was 15 years old and had never seen snow falling. Running outside, dressed only in my cotton pajamas, I tried to do the cliché of catching a snow- flake on my tongue. It melted immediately. Neighbors were coming out of their houses and looking up to the sky. Was the snow melting away our sins? No but it sure was cool to see a very thin blanket of snow being created on our lawns and cars. The snow- throw was beautiful and made my suburban neighbor hood of Willow Glen, seem dazzling and enchanting.

Falling for less than an hour, about 50 minutes, we received a therapist’s hour of snow.
We would never know the joy of a snow day, the joy of not being able to go to school because of snow. We could only enjoy the superficial beauty of snowflakes.

Reluctantly I went back into the house, and got ready for school. I drank my fresh squeezed orange juice that my mother had made. We had oranges, lemons, apples, pomegranates, and pineapple guava plants growing in our backyard but we never had snow. We were deprived. Temperate weather is pleasant enough to live in but you can’t build snow forts in 70 degrees.

Driving to school with my neighbor Sandy, we fantasized of the snow things we would be able to do after school; snow- ball fights, building snowmen and sled riding. We saw kids trying to make snow angels. There wasn’t nearly enough snow to do anything, let alone make an angelic design. The children were flailing around on the ground as if they had caught on fire and were rolling to put it out. It was an odd sight to behold.

Getting to school, we noticed it was abnormally quiet. There was no car horn honking, no yelling or sound of fights. There was only the soft sound of” Peter Frampton Live” being played on eight track, even the Parking Lot Gang had reverence for the snow
By second period, all evidence of the snowfall had disappeared. When people talked about the snow “day” they said there had been 3 inches of snow. The official observation was that there had only been 0.5 inches of snow.

Sometime later I went with friends to Yosemite and brought home some snow in an Igloo cooler. We had our snow- ball fight. The snow was imported and transported but it allowed us to enjoy our snow hour once again.

Claused and Effect

2011-12-20T23:33:00.000-08:00

Suddenly there wasn’t a sound. All movement had stopped. This was remarkable as the room was filled with grade school children and their teachers. The kids were too stunned to even fidget. No-one could believe their ears. Had Lina Mercuna just said what they thought she said? It was a scandal of epic elementary school proportions.

We were all assembled there in the cafetorium (a room used as both a cafeteria and an auditorium) for our annual Christmas assembly. We got out of class for it. It was a big deal.

Each teacher would pick a boy and a girl from their class to go up onstage and sit on visiting Santa’s lap. One at a time the class proxy would tell Santa Claus what they wanted for Christmas and then get a box of candy canes to share with their class. There was only one box per pair, it was festive not extravagant. Usually it was a big honor to be chosen and our class reps took their roles seriously…most of the time.

That year my second grade teacher, Miss Rothenbucher had chosen Lina Mercuna and Richard Paradise. These were odd choices. Richard, a big boy of 7, was boisterous and a player of pranks. Lina, also a bit chubby, was a brat with sass. I recently heard from a friend that Lina was mean and would often scratch new cars just for the heck of it. I liked her OK. She was a troublemaker but she was entertaining. It seemed as if she had no fear and she was daring in a way I couldn’t even dream of.

Our teacher Miss Rothenbucher seemed like she didn’t really like children but I think in actuality she was just humorless. Perhaps she had a fracture in her funny bone after many years of fake burping and arm farts. She would have had no appreciation of Richard’s pranks or Lina’s troublemaking. So why had she chosen them to represent the class? I’m fairly certain that after this historic Santa sitting at Lincoln Glen Elementary School, she wondered why too.

After the kindergarteners and the first graders did their Santa duty, it was time for Richard and Lina. Richard ran onto the stage and tried to pull at Santa’s beard but stopped when he noticed the scowling body-elf on guard. He confided in Santa that he wanted a bike or a baseball bat or something innocuous and then dismounted from the lap of honor and stood to the side. He followed Mrs. Rothenbucher’s instructions almost to the letter.

Once Richard was done, Lina got on Santa’s lap. Though not overly pretty child, she had her hair in dark curls and had a red bow over each ear and looked perky and full of holiday joy. She also seemed to be in an obedient mood. Soon her job would be done and it would be the next classes turn. Our class was anxious to get our fair share of candy canes.

Santa turned to Lina and asked “What would you like for Christmas?” Instead of saying a doll or roller skates as expected, Lina said in a loud and clear voice “a new teacher!”

Obviously neither Santa nor any of his staff had been trained on how to handle such a disrespectful answer. Everyone on the stage, everyone gathered around Santa’s make-shift Christmas Chalet, stood frozen and silent, everyone except Lina who asked “Can I have our candy canes now?” Lina had thrown protocol right into the garbage-can along with the leftover pronto pups.

For a moment it seemed as if Miss Rothenbutcher’s class would be deprived of our class gift but Santa handed box over to Lina and unceremoniously pushed her from his lap. Santa was done with her.

Instead of walking directly back to where our class was sitting, Lina paused, ignoring everything that Miss Rothenbutcher had drummed into her, took a cane from the box unwrapped it and stuck it into her mouth! Then she took a second one and did the same thing. She did it again and again until her mouth was stuffed with candy canes. Then with a giggle, she spit them out like bullets at the kids sitting on the aisle as she walked back to her seat.

Everybody was stunned. No-one had ever pulled such a stunt at the Christmas assembly before and no-one ever would again. Miss Rothenbutcher grabbed Lina before she got to her seat and pulled her out of the cafetorium. We never found out what Miss Rothenbutcher had said to Lina. By the time we got back from the assembly, Lina was already in her seat looking just as contrite as can be.

Of course the real tragedy that day was that our class never did get our box of candy canes. Since there was no longer enough to go around Miss Rothenbutcher made the decision that no-one would get any. Sure Lina it is all very well and fine to pull a stunt like you did with Santa but when you make us lose our allotted candy, then it becomes war!

Immediately when I got home from school that day, I told my mother what had happened. She seemed minimally surprised but not especially shocked as Lina did have a reputation as being a pint sized bad girl.

I then asked my mother a completely unexpected question, how would Santa give Lina what she asked for? If you asked he was required to deliver, wasn’t he? My mother explained that just because you asked Santa for something you didn’t always necessarily get it. Did I remember when I asked for the Easy Bake Oven and didn’t get that? “Yes,” I countered “but that was only because there had been a problem in production over at Santa’s workshop.”

Since removal of Miss Rotchenbutcher wasn’t a physical item, it couldn’t run out. I believed that it was Santa’s duty to supply a child’s wish no matter how politically incorrect.

Upon further contemplation, I then asked how Santa could have taken the day off from his job of supervising toy making at the North Pole to come to our school. For that matter, how was he also at the Department store in the mall? I didn’t want to cast aspersions but it looked as if Santa was running himself ragged with all his part time jobs.

Perhaps my mother wanted to clear Santa’s good name or she had just became annoyed with me but she suddenly said that Santa didn’t exist per se- it was the Christmas spirit that caused all the magic to happen.

A Christmas spirit not Santa that brought all the presents? Not exactly, my mother explained further. There was a little bit of Christmas spirit in everybody, so everybody could give gifts or make wishes come true.

Since Lina wasn’t sincere in her Christmas wish and was just being a smart aleck, no-one needed to make sure she got what she had asked for. My mother was pretty sure that Lina had gotten something; at the very least she had been given a Christmas scolding.

I felt completely deflated. There was no Santa Claus and that Christmas spirit theory was sketchy at best. I had always made sure to be on the nice list and for what: a Christmas spirit who may or may not get you what you want? The Christmas Spirit was a bigger fake than Santa Claus and in the end being “good” didn’t count for squat. I had Lina to thank for getting me to the truth.

The Certain Death of CDs

2011-12-14T22:13:00.000-08:00

I used to have this fantasy; I had won 10 minutes unlimited shopping at my local record/CD store. As I had been going to Tower Records in Campbell since it opened and then later to the Sunset Blvd store, Tower Records was the logical location to set my dream prize. In my fantasy, it is always the Campbell store with its slight nod to Spanish architecture and its otherwise dreary façade that I chose. But like a burglar, I would need to be very familiar with its floor plan.

The minute the clock starts to tick, I seize a big shopping cart (which I don’t remember them having but for the purposes of my fantasy they do) and head directly to the box sets. I grab everything I can get my hands on from the Rolling Stones to Peggy Lee. What I didn’t like I will sell back later. Then after emptying that section into my cart, I go to the Top Ten selling CDs, figuring they have the next highest resale value.

After my ten minutes has ended, I am congratulated on how much merchandise I have collected for free and I’m praised for my ingenuity and planning. How clever to go for the box sets and not to just randomly roam the store and grab.

They would have to discontinue the contest that they never had because I had outsmarted them. But can you imagine it, all the CDs you could grab? I don’t like “all you can eat” places but I would love all you can grab music. This dream really is my happy place. I’m smiling just thinking about it.

Once, one of my bank customers gave me a $100.00 gift certificate to a “Music and More” store. “Music and More” was kind of lame as the “more” part of it was vitamins. You could get the latest release from the Smiths and Co-enzyme Q10. I almost had trouble finding a hundred dollars worth of CDs- almost. However the lack of stock, did allow me to expand my collection to some artists I may not have listened to before. This gift certificate was the closest I came to having my fantasy come true and now that all the music stores have closed it never will. Fie on you progress, and your dashing of my cartload of CD dreams!

Although Tower closed sometime ago, industry insiders are now saying that compact discs will no longer be manufactured in 2012. I am barely over all the record stores closing and the non-manufacturing of vinyl, how will I manage to go on without CDs?

Admittedly Tower was overpriced and the staff was unhelpful on a good day. I will never forget the agonies of trying to return something, buying tickets to a concert or trying to get information. I remember my friend asking a clerk if he could tell us what the name of the song was that had the phrase “I’m special” in it. You know that “special” song? He looked at us blankly, shrugged and never did come up with “Brass in Pocket” by the Pretenders.

Oh but the selection was amazing; I could spend hours looking at records and then later Compact Discs. I also spent a fair amount of time and money in used music stores.

Losing cassettes and 8 tracks was no problem for me. I never had an 8 track and almost always the tape in the cassettes would jam up in the player and have to be ripped out making it unplayable. I didn’t have the patience for tapes. But losing vinyl was very difficult and losing CDs may be unbearable. It is as if I am losing my youth all over again.

I still have at least six crates of vinyl records in my house. I finally got rid of my record player on Sat. Yes just this last Saturday and that was only because I was doing a mad clean and Andy was going to the Electronic Recycling. My turntable hadn’t worked for years but there was always the possibility that someday it might.

Every now and then I would have a garage sale and some sharp shooter collector type person would talk me into selling them a Blondie picture disc or a rare Beatles single for a dollar. I only seem to have gotten rid of the good stuff, the rest of my record collection is warped and scratched and I get anxiety thinking about getting rid of it. Who would take it anyway?

Vinyl wasn’t just for listening to; it could be swapped, collected and sold. When downtown San Jose was a haven for the homeless and a mess and not cool at all but kind of scary there was Underground Records.

Underground Records was run and possibly owned by this mean hippie chick (callously defying all stereotypes) and a lazy pre-op transsexual. He/she was lazy because of her/his wardrobe choice of always wearing low- cut tee shirts and continuing to sport a hairy chest. It seemed indecisive. The hippie chick was extremely decisive and I can still hear her disdainful “I’ll pass on these” as I tried to sell her some of my old albums for money to buy new albums.

There was nothing like the anticipation of waiting for a new release from an artist you liked, running to the store on the day it dropped (a modern term for an old time activity) and ripping off the plastic covering which you had to do immediately even if you were far from home and a playing device.

The point was to read every word of the liner notes, every lyric, every thank-you and every dedication. After everything was read you could study the art work, looking for clues to what kind of magic journey the music would be taking you on. You can’t get those feelings on a MP3 or downloads.

When the transition from vinyl to CDs came, there was the weighty decision on which albums I would want duplicated for my collection.

CDs promised to last longer and withstand more wear and tear but ultimately I don’t think they do. Of course vinyl records became recreated as a type of music maker when DJs would deliberately scratch them to get a new sound.

One of the fun things about the ending of vinyl that I don’t think we’re going to get with the discontinuing of compact discs is the repurposing. I’ve seen album covers changed into gift boxes and wall art. I bought a purse made out of two albums stitched together. Yes it ended up being awkward to lug around and kind of geeky but it was creative and quirky. What are we going to make CDs and CD boxes into? I know I can put the CDs I burn into old CD boxes. That’s all I got, as far as creative uses for old CDs goes.

Without CDS, tapes and records, how will up and coming bands get their sounds out? If it was difficult and near to impossible to get a music executive to listen to your promo CD, then I’m guessing they aren’t going to be any more eager to download anything by an unknown.

In the end, I believe that the remarkable thing about records, CDs and music stores were that they were tangible and intangible at the same time. You could hold something in your hand, you could listen and you could dream and you just can’t do all that with a download.

These Boots Were Made for Hiding

2011-12-07T22:38:00.000-08:00

I wanted a pair of black, patent-leather go-go boots. I was very specific on my list to Santa regarding said boots. They had to be black, knee length with a flat heel. I was six and all I wanted for Christmas was a pair of kinky boots. While it was true white boots were far-out, I really desired something a bit more sophisticated. Any stylish kindergartner could tell you back then that black boots would go better with any kind of outfit, whether it was day or evening wear. Shiny, black boots were fun yet dangerous. Look at Emma Peel in the Avengers. She only wore black boots and there has never been a woman cooler than Emma Peel.

Loraine Frankel in my class had some brown boots which were nice. But I had accidently told her that she looked like a monkey and her brother Frank had gotten really mad at me. I had to watch what I said and did around her or he might beat me up. It seemed like a good idea to get a different color boot than she had, to go for homage rather than an imitation.

At six I was already a performer and a know- it- all especially when it came to the Twist. My mother would ask me “Is this how you do it” while doing an awkward turn of her hips.
“No!” I’d respond vehemently and proceed to show her how the twist was done with a full side to side hip shake and elbow extension. I knew in my heart that she was a hopeless twister.

The twist was not my only performance piece. The first song I ever sang was “These Boots Were Made for Walkin.” It may have been alarming to hear me sing the words “You keep playing where you shouldn’t be playing. You keep thinking that you’ll never get burnt. (Hah) Well I’ve just found me a brand new box of matches (Yeah)” Yep these boots are made for walking alright, right down to Juvenile Detention.

But I didn’t want the boots to be a go-go dancer though go-go dancers were cool- I wanted them because I wanted them. I didn’t have a good reason, I was a kid.

Go-go dancing was the precursor to pole dancing. Although it also involved pretty girls in skimpy outfits, it wasn’t frowned upon. Go-go dancing just made everything better; every TV variety show, every nightclub and every movie. Go-go dancing was the butter of entertainment in the 1960s.

I know pole dancing is good exercise and helps you get in touch with your sensuality and all that but in go-go dancing you often got your own cage to dance in! Sure the girls go-go dancing were ogled and admired but they weren’t touched. They didn’t do lap dances. They were above it-literally!

Everyone knew if you were a go-go dancer you didn’t have to wear pants. You could wear an oversized sweater, tights and boots and you had an acceptable outfit. I wanted go-go boots for Christmas but I’d still wear pants.

When I saw the square box appear under our Christmas tree I just knew it was a pair of go-go boots. It had to be. My whole life at Lincoln Glen Elementary School depended on it. Oh the agony if I was forced to wait until Christmas to find out. Even at a young age I didn’t care for surprises much nor did I have an ounce of patience. I decided to take matters into my own nail bitten hands and do a little detective work.

After examining the present from every angle, I determined that it was perfectly square box. Chances were good that the box contained a pair of boots. I tried shaking it but heard no sound. Clearly my investigation was getting me nowhere.

I waited until I was certain my mother was in the kitchen and then carefully unwrapped the present. Well it was addressed to me, so I figured it was ok for me to open it early. Joy- it was a pair of black patent leather boots!

I hesitated not knowing if I had time to try them on and try them out with a pony step or two. Deciding I couldn’t chance it, I rewrapped the present using the same tape and paper that had covered it before. It was definitely a sloppier wrapping job than it had been originally but who notices those things?

I placed the gift back in the same exact spot and walked casually away. I knew that this piece of investigation would never be discovered. I had achieved the crime of the century or I had rightly claimed what was mine in the first place.

I don’t know what gave me away if it was the paper falling off the box, the rips and holes in the wrapping or the way the present was tossed under the tree, but my mother knew immediately that the gift had been tampered with.

I was tried and convicted without a jury of my peers. My punishment was that I might not be receiving my boots after all. The judge or my mother toyed with the idea of giving my boots to charity, perhaps some more deserving child would benefit from go-go boots. Fortunately there were no Boots for Tots organizations that I was aware of.

Though I begged, pleaded, and said I was sorry my mother remained firm. It was very likely I would not be getting the boots for Christmas. She had no problem giving my stuff away anyway.

Instead of placing the disgraced present back under the tree, she took it and hid it in a new place. She hid in such a masterful hiding place that I would not discover what it was until years later when I was a teenager snooping for birthday presents. Well I didn’t say I learned my lesson.

What was my mother’s genius hiding place? She hid all presents in the inside of our Grandfather clock that had never worked. Because of my impatience she became a mastermind at hiding things.

When the go-go boots Christmas finally arrived, I did receive the boots after all. Opening the box, knowing what was inside I could barely whip up any enthusiasm. I had spoiled my own surprise, my parent’s joy in the giving of the boots and any magic the boots could have held. I had ruined Christmas.

I don’t think I ever wore the boots. By the time I could look at them without feeling guilty they were out of style and didn’t fit right anyway. I would never be as cool as Emma Peel. I would never dance to my own beat in my own cage and I still had to fear Frank Frankel’s wrath.

Health-Careless

2011-11-29T21:06:00.000-08:00

Has healthcare gotten so screwed-up that now healthcare professionals are trying to talk us out of having preventative procedures? Do we have to haggle for our health? I understand that we must be our own advocates. But shouldn’t we also be allowed to have some faith that our medical practitioners are looking out for our best interests? Is it dangerous to believe that they will advise us to have the tests we need and recommend preventative measures? Are we all just flying solo as far as healthcare goes?

If I have the choice between having a pelvic exam and not having a pelvic exam, I’m going to choose not having the pelvic exam. Clearly, I am not alone in this stance regarding uncomfortable and intimate diagnostic methods. Many men feel the same way with their prostate exams. Although it is an elective procedure you don’t do it because it is a good time; you do it so that if something is amiss it can be treated early. Nobody is saying “I can’t get to the bars any time soon, a trip to the doctor would be the next best thing.” Admittedly if you have ever had a trans-vaginal ultrasound the technician does seem to attempt to make it a fun substitute for intimacy when they lower the lights and put a condom and gel on a probe. But they can try to disguise it all they want and it still won’t be something I’d do if I didn’t have to.

I recently had an appointment with a nurse practitioner. I’m making an effort to be the kind of person who is responsible about their health care. I don’t know how much longer I’m going to have health insurance. I’m trying to get every exam, test and procedure I can. Eye exam- sounds good! Sleep clinic- alright. How are my bones doing? Let’s get an ex-ray! Having a pelvic exam was something I had put off doing, so I went ahead and made an appointment.

Finally the big day arrives and I make my way to the medical center and find street parking - a sign that everything will go smoothly. After waiting for a long time, so long in fact that I am up to date on some nameless soap opera that a woman was explaining in painstakingly boring detail to whoever was on the other end of her cell phone. “He has enough children already” she sighed. Obviously the soap opera character should have been begging his healthcare professional for storyline vasectomy.

Finally my name is called; I gather my things and follow the nurse right around the corner to a chair. “Oh we are under construction “she says apropos of nothing. Is she warning me that when I’m strapped down, construction workers will be coming in and out of the room with power tools and two by fours? This sounds more like a porno than a procedure. “Ok “I say, though it is so not O.K.” I’m not comfortable with this anyway and now you are telling me the examination room is a thoroughfare? I can get a pap smear and a catcall all at the same time? The nurse goes on to explain to me that I had a pelvic exam in Dec. 2009 and that it’s recommended that I get one every 3 years or so. On this day, I’m not due for one. Am I having any problems or anything? I am not. I’m just trying to thrive the way my HMO keeps saying it wants me to. Then she turns to me and says “Did you just want to have a pelvic exam for the hell of it?” No she doesn’t say the hell of it part but that was the inflection as if I’m there for kicks and giggles. The nurse continues “most women if they don’t have to have an exam then they won’t. I’m prepared to give you one even though you don’t need it.” The nurse is talking me out of the procedure. While pelvic exams are a rollicking good time, I’m going to have to pass on that awesome offer. The nurse has convinced me to go without getting what I came for.

When I was 16 and going away to camp, my orthodontist asked if I wanted my braces off then and have less than perfect teeth or wait and get them off in the fall and have a smile he could be proud of. I chose right then. He was an ass and did not know how to deal with teenagers. But what 16 year old is mature enough to say “Oh yes let’s wait. I would miss having the braces cut the inside of my lips. It is all about your glory, Dr. Ball.”

Was refusing the pelvic exam like getting my braces off early? Don’t offer me a choice and expect me to make a mature decision if it involves pain or discomfort. I decided to not have the pelvic exam feeling like I was being responsible and somehow still getting away with something. Oh I’m so sly, I’m walking out of here paying $30.00 and getting nothing done! Go me! As I was leaving, I began to think about how if this is the state of insurance and medicine then our healthcare is in some very sorry shape. Are they required to spend time convincing people to not get procedures they probably should have? What a great way of saving money- filibuster people out of being smart with their health. Do you really want to have MRI or those stitches? Obviously given enough time, your finger or spine will heal on their own or not. Whatever. Are you gambler? It might be nothing. It might be something. Take a chance with your life. Come on, don’t be a wimp, tough it out with that infection. Instead of having an expensive test, why don’t we just wish really hard that it goes away?

A couple of weeks after my appointment, I received a letter from the Dr’s office saying I was due for a pelvic exam. The nurse hadn’t talked me out of it to save money,she was just inept. But I realized that I should have stood my ground and insisted I have that exam right then and there. The construction workers could have held the light. I learned my lesson and now medical center will become like a used car lot for me. I am prepared to barter and cajole my way to better health.

Christmas Tree Transit

2011-11-23T16:00:00.000-08:00

He must have looked like quite a sight; a balding, stubby man with a mottled complexion carrying a Christmas tree on a city bus. It wasn’t decorated but it remained awkward. Since my father didn’t drive, he needed to get the tree home somehow. Buses have bike racks and wheel chair lifts but they are sadly lacking in tree holders.

I wonder if he sat on the bus with the tree placed in front of him or if he had to stand with one hand on the tree and one hand gripping the grab pole? If the bus took a sharp turn did he lean forward onto the tree as if it was an upright safety net? What if the bus was crowded, how did he maneuver around the other passengers to get to the exit? He had good manners but sometimes when you are carrying bulky cargo you have to push your way through the throng the best way you can. “Excuse me, madam but I must get past you with this tree. I wouldn’t want the needles to stab you as I pass.” Most likely it was wrapped up tightly with twine and there was no real danger to the other riders.

Then he had the long haul from the bus stop to our house. Did he put the tree over one shoulder for a while and then switch it or did he carry it close to his heart? I never once asked for the details of his Christmas tree journey or the logistics, I just knew that my father would always deliver.

I had my specifications. The tree needed to be at least as tall as I was, easier to do when I was a child, but never that difficult as I’m pretty short of stature. It had to be fluffy with no gaps. Douglas Firs were out. We had a “no flocking” policy at our house since we had cats and wouldn’t want them to mistakenly eat that fake snow.

As a child I didn’t understand the kitsch value of pink snow or of those four- colored light things that changed the color of a tree on rotation. Nope, I wanted our Christmas tree to look and smell real.

We never even considered having an artificial tree. Yes, a real fir tree can be complicated: the needles drop, the water in the stand sometimes leaks and most cats love nothing better than to fling themselves at it, breaking as many ornaments as possible. But we weren’t going to sacrifice that piney smell and the dream of the forest.

There would also never be any dragging up a cardboard box “full o tree” from the basement and assembling it-that would have been too easy. Part of the specialness of the tree was the effort my father had to make to get it.

He told tales of being a child in Austria and not getting to see the Christmas tree until Christmas Eve. He spoke of the wonder of a door opening and seeing a candle-lit tree. He couldn’t give me that, there are fire laws in suburbia.

Although my father was half Jewish, he had been raised Catholic. By the time he married my mother, he no longer practiced any kind of religion. My mother was agnostic. Needles to say, we celebrated Christmas in very low key way at our house. A Christmas tree sometimes was as Christmassy as we got.

My father was never the most demonstrative of parents but with this one act, I knew he loved me. I pictured him haggling a bit at the tree lot. He usually waited until close to the last minute, sizing up the lot-people and figuring which one would be the most desperate to get rid of some of the overstock. Getting a bargain on the tree, would have made it all that much sweeter for my dad.

I think it is in the novel “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn” that there is a bit about the acquiring of a Christmas tree. It takes place on Christmas Eve. As it starts to get late, the tree sealers literally throw whatever remaining trees they still have at the poor men who are hovering expectantly nearby. If a man could catch a tree without falling down then he could keep it. I imagine the characters walking down the street lugging their prize tree. The tree winners would be bundled up against the cold but warm knowing they were bringing to their families some Christmas magic just like my father always did for me.

15 Minutes of Family Fame

2011-11-15T22:54:00.000-08:00

Living in Los Angeles you meet a lot of people who are related to famous people. Some of them are celebrated in their own right. While others who could be famous steer clear of the fame mobile. Then there are those who use their hand-me-down fame for their own advantage and don’t care if they are worthy of adoration or not.

Unluckily for me, there aren’t any definitively famous people in my family. Perhaps this means I’m going to have to blaze the fame trail for myself. I do have a few notable people that I am kind of related to. Supposedly there were a number of famous Schoenwalds in the German vaudeville but I haven’t been able to confirm or deny that information yet. I would guess that is where I get some of my humor from and my love of pickled red cabbage.

But here I’m going to stick to the three people I know were somewhat well-known for one reason or another. You may have heard of them but chances are that you haven’t. Let me introduce you to Helga, Victor and Roy.

Helga Papouschek- yes that Helga Papousschek, darling of the Austrian operetta music scene. It looks like Helga has been working steadily since the 1960s. She has done countless operettas both live on stage and on television. Looking at her credits she seems to have made a career of playing sassy maids, starry-eyed heroines and girls masquerading as boys though I’m not sure that those aren’t the roles that anyone who has had a long career in operettas hasn’t had to played as well. She was somehow related to my father as kind of a niece, which I’m not sure how that worked since he was an only child. He had some of her LPs in his record collection along with “The Essential Art Tatum” and records of German Oom-pah music. He often spoke of knowing her when she was a child and he was going to the University of Austria. After his death, I found what looked like school photos of her, not headshots that the Helga Papouschek Fan Club would have given out but evidence that he actually knew her. She was a very pretty blonde woman which answers the burning question on why she was cast so often as a “soubrette” and yes I had to look up that word too. It means an actress playing a maidservant or lady’s maid in a play or opera, especially a maid that displays coquetry, pertness and one who engages in intrigue. Helga, you are such a scamp! I admire her for having a life long career in show business and never waiving from her dream.

My next kind of famous, sort related to me person is Victor Von Hagen. Victor was married to my mother’s half-sister, thereby my half Aunt Christine. He was an American explorer, archaeologist and writer. In the early 1950s, he undertook a two-year research journey in the footsteps of the ancient Inca streets of Peru and discovered the only surviving suspension bridge in this way. Between 1940 and 1965 he wrote a number of books on the American Inca, Maya and Aztec peoples. It was pretty cool in sixth grade when we were studying the Inca, Maya and Aztecs and building huge paper-mache’ statues of them, that we referred to some of Victor’s books. He had long since been divorced from my aunt by then. I think he was a great influence on my mother and she spoke of him fondly, which honestly doesn’t happen that often.

The last of the fame finders is the actually infamous Roy Riegels aka “Wrong Way Riegels” Roy Riegels earned his moniker by nearly making a touchdown for the other team. He had to be tackled by his own teammates on Jan.1, 1929 in the Rose Bowl. There is something inspiring about Roy’s story. The tale goes that after half time when the team went to go finish the game, Roy did not want to go. Supposedly he looked up, with tears in his eyes and said to his Coach, “Coach, I can’t do it. I’ve ruined you. I’ve ruined the University of California. I’ve ruined myself. I couldn’t face that crowd in the stadium if my life depended on it.” Coach Price reached out, put his hand on Roy’s shoulder and said, “Roy, get up and go on back. The game is only half over.” Roy Riegels went back into the game. Everybody who saw it said he played the greatest game in his entire life in that second half. His story is often used by motivational speakers to illustrate over coming setbacks. Why has no-one written a script based on this story? I can even see a title “Righting the Wrong Way.” Roy was briefly married to my other half–aunt Josephine. They were long divorced by the time I came along but the legend of Roy was often spoken of.

Since I never met these relatives and only heard stories about them and their accomplishments, they seem like characters in a book too me or like characters in the Clue game. I say “Wrong Way Riegels in the conservatory with a revolver.” I wonder how they felt about their fame or their infamy, if it was a burden or a curse. They are all admirable in their stick-to-itiveness and resolve. They did want they wanted to do and achieved in their own small way greatness. Yep I’m kind of related to them.

Obsessive Compulsive Spartanism

2011-11-07T22:14:00.000-08:00

My mother had completely lost it. She was marking down prices as if it was Black Friday and she was a bouncing yellow smiley face. Only problem was she didn’t look happy at all with her clenched teeth and her grimacing face.

This rummage sale wasn’t about making friends or earning extra cash, it was about getting rid of crap, eliminating clutter and reclaiming the garage.

Although the prices were already slashed, if a customer reconsidered and put an item back on the folding tale, she gave it to them for free. “Just get it out of here” I heard her say.

Among the junk there were some real finds and if any collectors had come to that yard sale, they would have left elated.

But it was when she sold my bed, the bed I was still sleeping in that I realized she was spiraling out of control. Imagine how unsettling it would be to witness your mother having nervous breakdown and a garage sale on the very same day.

Years before my mother had enjoyed going to yard sales, estate sales and secondhand shops. She and her friends would hunt for treasure in the local Goodwill or Salvation Armies. We even had fully furnished rooms back then, it was a golden time.

At some point that all changed and suddenly rather than collecting objects, my mother was all about getting rid of them. Junk or treasure, she wanted it gone. She became the opposite of a hoarder and turned in to a “possession- purger” and remains so to this day.

People who have OCS or Obsessive Compulsive Spartanism (and yes I was thrilled to discover that there’s an actual clinical name for this syndrome) don’t think they are suffering from anything. One with OCS believes that everything should be dispensable yet functional and it is people with an over-abundance of belongings who have a problem.

To my mother having more than three bowls or an easy chair is an over-abundance of belongings. For example, when there’s the occasional big family dinner at her house, we have to bring our own place settings, pans to cook in and of course the dinner.

Her house is sparsely furnished in mid-century lawn furniture. Everything is portable and can be easily removed. Since there isn’t very much furniture, she has many empty rooms that echo. The concept of “guest comfort” doesn’t figure into her design plan.

Even though she barely has any possessions, she still will not let anyone leave her home without taking something with them. Also there’s always a bag for the Golden Rule Thrift Store waiting to be filled up.

If when you were growing up your mother gave your favorite dress to a neighbor across the street or threw a perfectly good comforter in the trash, you might develop a few pack rat tendencies yourself. I own too many books and if my mother saw them on the overly crowded book-shelves she would go into anaphylactic shock.

Sometimes when I want to torture my mother I describe a scenario to her where she is forced to live at my house. Unfortunately there isn’t any extra space and her room would also have to serve as a store room. She’ll have to share a tiny room with all the junk and knick knacks I’ve been collecting for years. Surrounding her on all sides will be boxes upon boxes- her worst nightmare. On the plus side, I think her fear of this becoming a reality keeps her healthy!

On the day of her “eliminate it all sale,” she had just returned to our family home after living in Rhode Island for a time. Since she and my father had separated and moved out, I had rented the extra rooms to my fellow theatre students. Can you picture it, a house full of collegiate drama students? Oh the drama and oh the clutter of props and costumes. If we had needed to throw a show together we could have done it at a moments notice.

Because most of my roomies were also in our student organization “Players,” it was decided that we would hold a fund raising yard sale at the house. We put all the donated items in the garage. On the day of the sale it rained, so the sale was delayed. Then the next time it was scheduled, something happened and it was postponed again.

Since we were theatre students not business majors, we soon lost interest in actually making any money for our club. The garage remained full with the donated drama crap. Since some of it had gotten rained on, many of the clothes/wardrobe were rotting and moldy, so not only did it look like sh*t in there, it smelled like it too!

One of my roommates was an embarrassingly untalented girl named Clara. Although she wasn’t talented, she wasn’t pretty or nice either. She had very little going for her besides a tremendous amount of drive and arrogance. If only there had been Reality TV back then, having no talent wouldn’t have been such a hindrance.

As she couldn’t act and therefore didn’t get cast in any roles at our school, she decided to go where she would be recognized for the star she was. Working her way down from our Theatre Dept., to a Junior college drama dept to finally a truly awful community theater group, she finally found her niche.

Clara’s parents supported her in her theatrical endeavors but they desperately wanted her to move back home. Since Clara had so many belongings she decided to continue to use what had been my mother’s bedroom as her own personal storage unit. My mother’s nightmare had materialized.

Although the house was filled with college students, it was still my brother’s home base. Every now and then he would have a manic episode and come home with four professional mixers, three busted radios and a home brewery kit that he had picked up somewhere. He’d then store everything in the garage.

My mother returned home to find a “full of stuff garage” and a “full of people house” but it was her bedroom/storage room that really set her off. She tried to keep it together as she called Clara’s parents and told them to come immediately and collect Clara’s boxes. Then she started dragging everything out of the garage and putting all of it up for sale. As the day progressed she got more frantic until finally she practically imploded.

Trying to force garage sale items on customer’s who didn’t want them or nearly crying upon learning that the charity truck couldn’t pick the unsold goods until Monday isn’t sane behavior. As far as I know having excess stuff isn’t life threatening.

Although my mother almost had a breakdown (her words,) she wasn’t hospitalized or anything. I believe that by the end of the day, with half the junk gone, she felt much calmer. For my mother getting rid of stuff acts like Valium, she becomes peaceful and much more relaxed.

Now whenever I sense that air of possession nervousness surrounding my mother, I try to steer clear of her and not aggravate the situation. If I am visiting I try not to bring too much stuff but going to her house is like camping with less luxuries. You can’t assume she has anything or if she had it before, she still has it. I bet you can always find what you need with a hoarder.

That sale was her last sale and she got no enjoyment out it. Luckily she doesn’t have enough merchandise for another one. I’m always a little worried that when my mother runs out of stuff to get rid of, she’ll switch to getting rid of her relatives and I know the first item on that list will be her daughter.

That Which You Call a Writer

2011-11-01T23:46:00.000-07:00

Why can’t I call myself a writer? Why is writing for me, the Voldemort of second careers and must always remain unsaid? Is the word so powerful a label that I fear I must supply evidence of having earned it? Should the proof of profession be in the form of payments or accolades? Who dictates that the creation of written pages is not enough to validate the title of writer? Although I don’t feel justified in calling myself a writer, I’m here once again writing.

If a writer writes her novel in the forest and no one reads it, then should she have self-published it in the first place? Is a self-published work as valid as a work published by a respected publishing house?

When my mercurial doctor asked me what it was that I did, I couldn’t answer right away. The pause, the quiet, the tension of the moment seemed to go on and on. It shouldn’t be that difficult of a question but it was a challenging one for me to answer.

He wasn’t asking so that he could measure the honesty of my response, nor was he asking so that he could come up with a sound rebuttal. He merely wanted to know in relation to exercise, what was my work? Would I be able to incorporate more movement in my day? But I heard his question as a life investigation. If I called myself a writer and I have never made any money from it, would he think of me as a fraud?

If one can call working at a video store as production account manager for twenty years a career then that is my first one. I have never described myself as a clerk, or as a bookkeeper or as a bill collector although my job does encompass all those roles. These are the tasks I perform to earn my paycheck.

I am very grateful to have a job at all. I am appreciative that I enjoy what I do, that my co-workers are mostly nice and that my schedule is pretty flexible. But charging extra day fees, writing friendly balance reminder letters and ordering new DVDs doesn’t exactly feed my soul or give me purpose.

On the day that my very nice bosses took me to lunch to celebrate my twenty years, a woman I know was celebrating not only selling a screenplay but also her first novel. She is very talented and deserves to be called a writer. By selling her work and the acknowledgement that it brings, I felt as if she was the real writer. At best, I am just a hobbyist writer.

I used to be acquainted with a wildly successful writer. He has succeeded in every genre of writing: novels, TV, theatre and film. On paper, he is the model of an established writer but he never writes from his heart or about the truths in his life. All one needs to do is look at his credits, his best sellers and his hits to know he is a professional writer. But is he an artist? Does he love what he does or is it all about the paycheck? Is writing merely his video store job?

Is the success equation simply that a writer must write and must get paid for it? Right or write-I don’t know what makes a writer a writer. Since we are all constantly texting and emailing doesn’t that make everyone a writer?

I come from the underachieving late 1970s. In school, if someone asked how I did on a test, even if I scored an “A”, I would say I did “just OK.” Not wanting to be labeled a brain or an overachiever, I kept my achievements to myself, to be savored privately. But there is nothing wrong with believing yourself to be spectacular and in believing in your talents. I was frightened to do so at the time and am terrified to do so now.

Perhaps I need to come out as a writer. Stand straight, head high and say the words “Yes I am a writer.” I write. Actors have said my words. I have been published. I have written a young adult novel and am almost finished with a collection of essays. No, I do not have a literary agent but I have opened up my heart and I have written my truth. I have emotionally exposed myself when necessary and have written small quiet truths when that was required. I write all the time and sometimes when I am writing it seems as if I am doing what I’m supposed to be doing. If you need evidence, I got it, and yes, Doctor, I really should be writing while sitting on an exercise ball.

My Imaginary Arch Rival

2011-10-25T01:17:00.000-07:00

Lots of kids have imaginary friends but I had something much more devastating. I had an imaginary arch-rival. Her name was Prunella Smith and she was perfect. Everything about Prunella far exceeded expectations. She got good grades, excelled at sports and even won a junior beauty pageant or two. Impossibly, she never did anything wrong and didn’t even know how to fail. Oh how I loathed her.

Usually with imaginary friends or imaginary enemies for that matter, it’s the child who is the creator. Imaginary friends can be a beneficial coping device. But in my case, it was my father who made-up Prunella and she wasn’t helping me at all.

Clearly, if I had created this frenemy I would have come up with a much better name like Savannah Baudelaire -Longhouse or Harpsichord Jones. She would have been sophisticated and cool like Emma Peel, not an ordinary schoolgirl. If I was going to have an arch-enemy, I wanted them to be a bad-ass.

I don’t know what my father’s motivation for creating Prunella was or for telling me stories about her. Perhaps he wanted to illustrate what an ideal child was like or maybe it was Brady Bunch style reverse psychology. Was he thinking that if I got irritated enough by hearing about Prunella that perhaps my competitive nature would take over and I would out achieve her? It unfortunately didn’t work that way. I usually just ended up feeling defeated before I even began. Why bother doing anything, when Prunella would always do it better, and with seemingly less effort? I couldn’t compete with Miss Perfect.

Since neither of my parents drove, we spent a lot of time walking. The time passed quickly as my father was a wonderful storyteller. Oddly my father rarely told tales about his own life. The only one I can recall was when at the age of 9, he became very ill with some kind of kidney ailment and was bedridden for almost a year. Not only wasn’t he allowed to move, he was forced to stay on a very bland diet. When he finally got well he gorged himself on pickled herring- yes an odd choice of a pig-out item but he was Austrian after all. Pickled herring was probably the equivalent of Buffalo wings back then.

I was about eight when my father started telling me the Prunella stories. Prunella was a fictitious child about my age whose family closely resembled mine. At first, I loved the “alternative universe” aspect to these tales. Her family was like mine only not. While my brother was called “Fritz,” Prunella’s brother was called “Ritz.” Isn’t that funny? She had a somewhat vain mother too but hers was much nicer. What were the chances? Her Dad worked for Kole Pineapple, not Dole Pineapple and her Dad drove. What would it be like to be part of the Smith family, I wondered? Another of the differences between my family and Prunella’s family was that they were Mormon. I guess my Dad thought that gave them color, made them seem more real and made it understandable that Prunella would be such an obedient child. Could Prunella be related to Joseph Smith and that’s why she was so driven to succeed?

In every way that Prunella was flawless, I was flawed. When Prunella’s parents went to her teacher conferences, her teachers fell over themselves praising her. She never got called out for talking in class and she certainly never wet her pants in first grade and had to go stand in front of the radiator in the nurse’s office to dry out. Prunella probably never even had to pee at all.

At first I had enjoyed hearing about Prunella but then I began to despise her. She was so freakin perfect, she never did anything wrong and was so sanctimonious about it. I could tell her attitude was one of “hey I can’t help it if I’m sublime.” Prunella made me want to be bad. If my Dad was using these stories as a teaching tool, it was backfiring. Prunella wasn’t a friend I wanted to emulate; she was an arch rival that I wanted to destroy.

I hated Prunella but had no way to obliterate her without hurting my father’s feelings. How do you put a hit out on an imaginary enemy? Perhaps I could get my fallen guardian angel to intimidate Prunella? He could stop her from popping up from time to time, and get her and her stupid family to move out of my father’s head.

The stories continued for years. Every now and then I’d hear how Prunella got a scholarship to Brigham Young University, how she had won awards in communications and track. Prunella kept raising the bar to impossible heights. I get it Dad, I’m a disappointment. I still can’t type, I still eat too quickly and I still haven’t won a Pulitzer.

I’m sure if my father was still alive, I’d be getting Prunella updates at Thanksgiving or Christmas. Unfortunately he isn’t around anymore, so that leaves me to continue the oral tradition of the life Prunella. Sadly for her, things haven’t gone as well as expected.

While in college, Prunella suffered a bad break-up. Her boyfriend Lars dumped her for a Ukrainian slug dancer. After she lost an eye in a bar fight, Prunella turned to crystal meth to help dull the pain. You’d think being a drug addict, she’d be able to stay slim but she now weighs close to 400 pounds and can only wear dresses made from terry cloth bath sheets. Luckily she can wear what she wants at her job at Percy’s Pest Control.

I hope one day Prunella can turn her life around. I would be happy to help her. I imagine that is what friends and former arch-rivals are for.

The Artful Forger

2011-10-18T23:08:00.000-07:00

If you don’t count suicide, I may be the only person I know who has committed a crime against themselves. I am a mastermind when it comes to forgery, con-games and general thievery -- when I am not only the victim but the perpetrator.

My father was on his way to sign papers for a trust that he had set up for me and my brother, when he collapsed and died in a sporting goods store. Since obviously it was my father’s intent that my inheritance be locked up in a trust with a trustee overlooking it, I honored his wishes. The trust was considered valid.

Since my mother has no talent for accounting or investing at all, a work friend of my father’s, Annabelle, was made trustee. Annabelle was tough and took her responsibilities of trustee very seriously. I think her plan was that I should leave the money in the trust forever, never touching it and letting it grow for perpetuity. Clearly she didn’t know me at all.

For some reason I had the reputation of not being very responsible with money. I had grown up middle class but not wealthy. I received an allowance but I had always had jobs like babysitting, cooking and then much department store clerking. I used my money to buy clothes, records and make-up; you know, the necessities of female life.

My father was always a 'soft touch,' as he called it. After I moved to Los Angeles, I would call my father, let the phone ring and hang up. He would call me back as he didn’t want me to have to pay for the call. If I needed money for school, or life, he would pretend to be grudging about it but he didn’t really mind helping me out. He always sent me a check, he always saved me. I assumed my father would always be there to bail me out of any tough financial situation.

While not as generous as my father, my mother certainly has her giving moments. One time they both came through for me. I was living with my boyfriend Edgar and one night he didn’t come home. He had been working at a hipster coffee house and had struck up a friendship with a boyish, heroin addict girl named Bette. Frantically searching for some clue of his whereabouts, I found a letter that she had written to him in his overcoat hanging by our front door. In the 10-page letter, she explained in great detail how she would be a much better girlfriend than me. One example she used was that he would never sleep on the couch with the f*cking cats, if they lived together.

I was a mess and spent the whole night crying. At one point I dramatically packed all his belongings in an old dusty blue Samsonite suitcase and put it next to the door. As far as I was concerned, we were over.

When the morning came, I called my father. I don’t remember how much of the story I told him. I’m fairly certain I left out the heroin addict detail. Wanting to make me feel better, he sent me a check for $1000.00. Then I immediately called my mother (they were divorced by this time) and she sent me a check for $1000.00 -- it was my most profitable heartbreak ever! When Edgar came home, I wasn’t even there. Our friend Evan had been in the area visiting and I was having a wonderful time with him. When I got home, I wasn’t even angry with Edgar anymore and listened without much malice to his explanation of why he had spent the night away from home.

Supposedly, Edgar and Bette had not slept together. She had merely passed out on a nod and he had fallen asleep on her couch (ha!). Edgar and I did not break up at that time but I now had money for a down payment when I finally did decide to move out.

Once my father was gone, I no longer had a superhero to leap tall buildings with his checkbook. I had to survive like every other adult on their own but I had a cash cushion.

Since I had received a fairly large amount from my father’s life insurance, I decided to focus on my acting career. Although I don’t have a thick skin, or amazing schmoozing techniques, I thought I could make it as an actress. Sometimes I don’t know me at all. Of course my focus was comedy and I took a lot of improv classes. It is amazingly easy to fill up your days with classes, lunches and appointments. You know those people who say they couldn’t not work, that they’d be too bored? Well I’m not one of them. I am never bored. I can fill up many hours by deciding what I want for dinner, shopping for the ingredients and cooking. Cat care is also another time sucker. Throw in some therapy and your days are full.

While I was studying at The Groundlings, I went to the doctor, only to find that I had a huge cyst that needed to be removed. We did two shows in our Advanced class that were separated by a month. How you did in the shows determined if you would go on to the prestigious Sunday Show. Not wanting to miss out, I had my surgery between the two shows. I went on to perform in the second show, weeks after my surgery, and still wasn’t moved on to the Sunday Show! I’m sure I was hilarious, too. Not getting into the Groundlings Sunday Show hurt me more than my surgery, and the pain lasted longer. I still have the scars from both. Comedy truly is pain.

The Trust naturally paid for all my medical expenses. Because of the surgery, the doctor discovered that I had endometriosis, a disease of the endometrial tissue in the uterus. Two years after the first surgery, I had my right ovary removed. The surgeries were just the first of many treatments that I had for the endometriosis and every time the Trust paid all the medical expenses for them.

Not working, classes and other expenses made me blow through my insurance money pretty quickly. Ironically, I got a job at a bank. When I asked Annabelle for money for anything besides medical expenses, she would not pay. I grew increasingly frustrated as it was my money. This frustration is what led to my life of crime.

Our system for medical expense reimbursement was I would send Annabelle a copy of the bill and she would send me a check from my trust. She never paid the bill directly.

I began to submit bills twice, changing the date on the copies. I was forging doctor’s bills. When I had to get very expensive Lupron shots for my treatment, I lied and said that my medical insurance didn’t cover it. I was on the shots long after I was no longer on the shots.

I had become a liar, a forger and a con-artist. I believed it was OK because ultimately it was my money and it shouldn’t have been that difficult to get to. I was only taking what was mine.

Eventually between me and my sister-in-law constantly requesting trust money from Annabelle, we were able to wear her down. She just got sick of having to deal with us. She received a small stipend yearly to be the trustee but all the irritation wasn’t worth it.

By the time I approached Annabelle to get my money to put it down on a house, she was all for it. I would be investing in property and she would never have to have anything to do with me again. I took my money, bought my first house and I haven’t spoken to her since. Once my trust was dissolved my criminal activity ended.

My father would not be proud of the way I deceived and conned Annabelle. He would not be happy that I couldn’t trust his trust in her or that I no longer have any of that money left. But I think he would be happy knowing that I did finally learn my lesson many years later and am much more responsible and careful with my money. I have a great house that I had to work hard to keep but that is another story. My checkbook is balanced and I always know my bank balance to the penny. I am still a little shaky on the concept of savings but I’m getting better.

Respect the Page

2011-10-10T23:28:00.000-07:00

I have committed a crime of epic proportions. I dog-eared some pages in a book I sent to a stranger. I am a ne’er- do-well, a scoundrel and a consecrator. I can’t even look at myself in the mirror and not see the effects of my wrong- doing weighing heavily on my face, at least that’s what James R of Texas thinks. To quote him from his message to me “Dog-eared pages are nothing like normal wear. When a person folds down a page, that page is damaged. The insult lies in the fact that this damage is not accidental, but intentional, not due to the loving wear of an interested reader, but to the uncaring, unthinking act of a vandal.” Let me mention that I sent him this novel for free as part of an used, book swap club online.

I made the mistake of sending him this dog-eared copy of “A Visit from the Goon Squad” and he electronically read me the riot act. Hmm, someone seriously has too much time on his hands, time he probably could be spending, reading.

After recently joining said book swap, I had felt giddy with delight at the thought that I could get rid of some of my books and get other free books in return. The only rules were that the front and back covers had to be intact, that there shouldn’t be any markings in the book and that it had to be wrapped twice before sending. Done and done! I even sent it UPS so that there would be no extra damage in the mail. I am an exemplary book swapper.

Earlier this year I had thinned out my book herd. I was merciless in my “I don’t need to read this again “and tossing the book in the banker’s box. My local library accepted books for its monthly book sale then, so I could feel doubly good about getting rid of some of my collection. My book obsession was helping the library to survive.

Unfortunately the library stopped having their sale and now I have a room full of book boxes waiting to go to the Goodwill.

I’ve always been an avid reader. Now I read a little slower and don’t seem to consume books the way I used to but I still read quite a bit. The fact that I sometimes get embarrassed about my lack of speed does hamper my enjoyment of sharing on Good Reads. I should be posting more. I only two finished books this month! Belinda posted that she had read 14! Luckily I started listening to books on CD in the car and my book numbers are up!

In Sixth grade, I was such an advanced reader, that I didn’t have reading with the rest of the class. I got to go off by myself and read whatever I wanted. Not having to read what the class was reading started a bad precedent as I would always read whatever I wanted even when I had assignments to read other things. I would read both but gave priority to the books I wanted to read.

In college, my father had agreed to buy my books. I took him at his word and would go crazy in the college book store buying not only text books but books of classic literature and regular novels-whatever I could get my hands on!

Clearly I love buying books. I can’t go into a book store and not buy anything. I love the smell of new books. I love the smell of old books. I enjoy the feel of a book in my hand. Mostly I love the excitement that soon I will be thrust into a brand new world. I am an admitted book nerd.

Because of my book fetish I enjoy libraries as well. As a child, I’d ride my bike to the beautiful stone library by my house. Sitting in a chair, thumbing through books in that peaceful setting, I felt happy. Naturally that library has since been torn down and a horrible building that looks like a ramshackle, metal grain silo put up in its place.

James R of Texas seems to prefer used books as he mentioned this in his missive to me “ Reading worn books can be pleasurable; with every turned page you feel the life of the book, you feel the hands, the eyes, the minds of those who have read it before you. The signs of wear are testimony to the respect and interest of those readers.”

Although I have a Kindle, it somehow seems like cheating to me. Yes I’m reading but I can’t seem to trust it is a real book. When I am reading a Kindle, I wonder if to the books that surround me in my bedroom, it feels like a betrayal.

I say this to make a point. I respect and enjoy books and for the most part, I treat them well. I don’t use them for coasters, or to write down the lyrics of Katy Perry songs nor do I use books as fire-starters for roaring fires in which to sit in front of.

So you can imagine my surprise when James R of Texas receives the book he requested of mine and then marks it as intentionally “dog eared” and one week later writes me a long message and says things like “So reading a dog-eared book is for me much less than a pleasure, every fold a reminder that some former reader couldn't care less.. I don't care if you were the person who dog-eared this book, in fact I don't want to know. But I would like you to know that there is at least one reader for whom reading dog-eared pages is like being slapped, and I don't like being slapped.”

Is it me or is he taking this way too seriously? I sent him a pretty new novel with a couple of pages turned down and he sends me a dissertation on the sins of the folder.

I only hope that he didn’t save the paper that had my return address on it. I can imagine him stoning me with remainder books, lobbing copies of Snooki’s book at my head or perhaps he would merely break the tips of my folding fingers off, preventing me from dog-earing forever.

The Bully Inside

2011-10-04T09:39:00.000-07:00

It happened just the way I knew it would. I could see her mass friending people from our high school. I knew it would be a matter of time before she friended me. I don’t think she knew who I was, just that I was from our class. In order to complete the set she would have to friend me.

But I remembered her. Oh yes, I remembered her vividly. She was the only person who had threatened to beat me up in junior high and in high school. She scared the bejeezus out of me. I don’t even remember what I did. Perhaps I looked at her funny or maybe mistakenly looked sideways at her friend Selena. Selena was very pretty and very lethal. I’m not positive she didn’t grow up to be a Mexican Mafia assassin- a Latina Mata Hari. Selena may have threatened me as but it wasn’t personal- it was part of her persona. Pam’s threats were more select, singular and frequent. There wasn’t anyone I feared as much as Pam Boland aka the She-Bully.

Pam would stand in the street that ran between the high school and the junior high. Closed to the public it was a no- man’s land, not claimed by either the jocks or the heads and Pam made it her harassment headquarters. Pam would stand there defiantly with her girlfriends around her. They couldn’t have been smoking as it was on school property but they all had their smokes at the ready. Each one of Pam’s mean girl gang was loud, obnoxious and tough.

Pam was pretty in that totally seventies girl way; layered long brown hair, lots of make-up and a bitchin bod. You could tell she thought she was super cool because she dressed in pantsuits made of weirdly see through materials. One of the fashions at the time was wrap around pants, almost guaranteed to provide a wardrobe malfunction. Pam didn’t care if her pants loosened in such a way you could see her panties. Her philosophy was if you got it, you gotta flaunt it! Perched on top of her hugely high platform shoes, she screeched her way through lunch. Her complaints usually centering on her latest no good boyfriend, greeting potential new boyfriends and making mean comments about any girls that weren’t in her circle and sometimes the ones that were. I think they switched off on who was the alpha in that group.

I don’t know what other misbehaviors Pam committed besides threatening people. I assume a lot of underage drinking, lots of weed smoking, some slutty behavior (she had to keep up her bad girl rep) and the occasional ass kicking. She probably didn’t enjoy beating girls up but one does need to follow through on threats now and then or no one will truly fear you.

When my leather purse with the embossed flowers on it was stolen from my locker in 7th grade, I assumed it was Pam’s sticky fingers. I had no proof that Pam was a thief it just made a kind of sense.

People are often astounded my amazing memory especially the things I can recall about high school, so it is no surprise that I remembered Pam so vividly. I didn’t remember the details of her calling me out but I recall being terrified of her all through junior high and high school. My number one goal at school was to avoid her at all costs. If Pam was at her locker, I might decide to go another way to my 3rd period class. Oh look Pam and her crew is going into the bathroom, I can hold it.
Because of Pam’s verbal bullying and physical threats to me, I developed a grudge against her that lasted for over thirty years. It did not seem to lessen with time.

At one of my high school reunions, Pam and I ended up at the same table. I couldn’t have been ruder to her but she was too drunk to notice or since she didn’t know me, she didn’t know how awful I was being. What is the point to being mean if the object of my meanness is oblivious to it?

When I used to do sketch-comedy, I performed a character based on Pam. Instead of wearing feathered tresses like Pam had, I wore a Bo Derek wig. It was a funnier visual. I set the scene in the parking lot of our high school. The entire monologue was just of Pam calling people out, her demanding that the eight tracks be louder and her finally being exposed for the coward I was sure she was. Later when I did a show of all my character monologues, another actress performed the Pam character. She was tougher than my version but also sexier in her dance moves to classic songs from Boston and Lynard Skynard. The show was recorded a few times. I am often tempted to share Vanessa performing the Pam monologue- it really is awesome. Unlike in this piece I did not change any of the names in the Pam sketch. I secretly wanted someone to tell her about the piece. I wanted her to know I hadn’t forgotten her meanness. Her bullying was immortalized, at least in my world.

I never forgot Pam or as I saw it- her crimes. I would see some of my friends suddenly friends with her on Facebook and it irritated me. I was somewhat Ok with it until my very good friend Felicity accepted Pam’s friend request. I was livid. My Pam grudge was inflamed like an abscess and it was ready to pop. Could Felicity betray me in any greater way? It wasn’t as if she was unaware of how I still felt about Pam. How could Felicity be so complacent about Pam’s unforgivable acts? After three days in which I fumed, I finally confronted Felicity regarding her felonious friending. Was I over-reacting? Yes. Did I know it? Uh huh. Was I gripping on to past hurts and destructive feelings? Yes but I couldn’t let go of my hatred of Pam. The score had not been settled.

When I told Felicity how I felt a torrent of negative emotion, she was a bit perplexed. Pam didn’t matter to her and a Facebook friendship wasn’t important. She deleted her. Felicity didn’t say the obvious, which was I was ultimately being extremely childish and somewhat unreasonable and hey why not let go of something that happened over thirty years ago? Yeah why not or maybe just let it fester and take up way more energy than avoiding Pam in the halls ever did.

Then the day came and I got the friend request from Pam. I immediately thought to ignore the request, thinking that she would really suffer. In actuality she probably wouldn’t have even noticed. Concerned, another friend Sarah, begged me to let that anger go. All that negative energy was only hurting me; Pam had no idea how I was still seething after all these years.

I realized that I had become the bully. Maybe Pam didn’t know it but I was emotionally bullying her. I was certainly bullying Felicity and I was bullying myself. I was a worse bully than Pam. I was a mature woman and I certainly knew better.

How much energy had I wasted on something so petty? Yes she had threatened me, and yes I had been scared but it was over 30 years ago. Hopefully I had grown-up and probably so had Pam. I wanted to be a bigger person. I wanted to forgive so I accepted her Facebook friendship.

Pam was now a grandmother who seemed to love her children and her grandchild. She seemed pretty nice and active. She even did charity work. It appeared as if she was just a woman not the ogre I thought of all these years.

I knew I had to say something to her about my feelings but in a non-confrontational way. I agonized over what to say, even writing a few versions out.

With Pam, I spoke of school being a challenging time for us all. I then mentioned in a non-confrontational way that she had threatened me a few times. Pam didn’t remember ever having a problem with me. She did admit wanting to kick some ass but it wasn’t mine but other people’s behinds. She made it seem as if there had been quite a few beat downs.

As much as it hurt my ego, I had to come to the conclusion that not only didn’t Pam remember making my life hell; she probably didn’t remember me at all. My battle all these years had been one sided. All the hate and anger I had was all mine. I had emotionally terrorized my friends and myself over incidents that should have been long forgotten.

So Pam is one of my “ friends” but I wouldn’t say we interact much. We don’t have much in common except for our age, our background and the fact that we survived each other and we survived ourselves.

Everyone Knows a Field Person and a Drama Geek Must Never Date

2011-09-20T23:15:00.000-07:00

Robert Robertson( not his real name at all) was my second gay boyfriend, but the only one I wrote poems for.
Mercifully for you, I didn’t save any of these poems but I do remember one line “ the elevator came but I had already been brought down.” I was so deep! I met Mitchell( an even faker name)"Robert" Robertson when we were both cast in the “ Male Animal.” I played the part of the ingénue “ Patricia Stanley” and he played the part of “Newspaper Reporter” for Wed. and Friday performances. He was tall, blonde and sarcastic - a deadly combination for me. Thank Robert Robertson( or maybe his name was Jim Jimerson or Paul Paulson) for starting my blonde Roberts(the blonde part is true) obsession. I was a year older than he was and in high school that practically makes you doomed from the start, and then there’s the fact that he was gay. Since I had already decided that my life's ambition was to be Elton John's cover wife, I had no problem with Robert being gay. It was the fact that he was a field person that really was problematic. Field people were like hippies but with an attitude. They always ate lunch out on the field; so even then they could be close to grass. Robert came from a hipster family, the Robertsons, the same Robertsons who owned Robertson’s Music. I know- impressive but not only that, Robert’s father, Mitchell Robertson Senior had once been in the 60s rock band Toad’s Apple( the name I am substituting for the real band name) not to be confused with the Strawberry Alarm Clock or Tangerine Dream( real band names.) Well at least that is what he told me and that was what I always believed. Here’s the thing though, I just googled "Toad’s Apple"( or the equally acid induced lame-o name) and I found no member by the name of Mitchell Robertson or Mitchell or Robertson or Mitch, or Mitchey or anything. Robert went by the wickedly imaginative nickname Robert but I have no evidence that his Dad had any kind of pseudonym. If you’re going to lie and say that your Dad is in a rock band wouldn’t you say something good like The Rolling Stones or even Iron Butterfly? "Toad’s Apple" ( insert actual dopey band name here ) seriously who gives crap? The pressures of being a rock star must have been too much for Mitchell senior and he gave it up to run Robertson Music. Since Robert’s Dad had been in a rock band (allegedly) that made him duty bound to give Robert and all his field people friends pot brownies. While I was serving my friends French onion soup and prize winning lemonade as an after school snack, over at the Robertsons they were getting stoned on medicinal brownies (which by they way they weren’t back then.) I had already done most of my experimenting with drugs in junior high when I stole some hash out of my brother’s room. My troubled friend Katie and I tried to smoke it- unsuccessfully. Did you know you can’t just smear some hash on a de-constructed cigarette and get high? Who knew? Once I got over the” experimental phase,” I started the” completely freaked out about drugs phase. “ During this time I called Janey LaRosa( also fake but kind of a pretty name) during the commercial break of the cautionary tale “ Go Ask Alice “and begged her to give up drugs. I don’t know if she ever did, I do know that she became a major costume designer and has many well-known movies and TV shows among her credits. Being a burnt out loadie, didn’t seem to do Janey any harm, so kids do as many drugs as you can. Kidding. Getting back to Robert, we had a slow courtship that mostly involved hanging out at rehearsals and talking smack about our fellow actors. One day my friend Belinda and I gave Robert a ride home. I walked him to the door- very progressive back then. He was wearing a flannel shirt and an orange, sleeveless down vest and he looked like a total fox. Of course now, I would recognize that as standard issue lesbian but then he looked really cool. As we were standing at the door, he hugged me and gave me my first kiss. Hold on, I’m going to have to stop myself here. To be completely honest, I’m not sure he did kiss me. I think it’s what my 16-year-old self wants to remember- I’m having a wishful memorizing moment. He may not have kissed me but he definitely gave me a warm hug. I was in love. Sadly our story was as tragic as Romeo and Juliet, for every one knows that the love between field person and a drama geek can never last. When he continued to go out to the field for lunch, I begged him to have lunch with me in the quad but he refused. When he invited me to join him and the field people for a grass party -I couldn’t do it. Finally it was closing night of the show and I had the cast party at my house. I was on a natural high when I read what Robert had written on my program. I have it here now and will share it with you. It is a little intense and syrupy but bear with me, we were obviously soul mates.
“Chris, It was great meeting you. I like you a lot (crossed out) a lot. I’ll give you a buzz. Arrow to top of paragraph “Take it Easy. Nice party, love
Robert. “ Wow, he said he likes me but he signed it love Robert. Obviously he couldn’t control his deep emotions. We were going to be together forever. Hey wait a minute, is he flirting with Carrie McCall? No she’s still going out with that guy we’ll call “ washed up on shore” because he looks like a dead sea monster. Robert wouldn’t be flirting with her. Why is he touching her arm? What the heck! After the touch I couldn’t take it, I blew up and had a complete meltdown. Unfortunately I remember that correctly and man it wasn’t pretty. My behavior caused Robert to cool quite a bit. He may have cooled but I sure didn’t. Not having Robert made me want him all the more. We had Geometry together and I remember trying to win him back with my jokstering, you know how that always works. I bet my sense of humor would have made big points with Elton John!

A couple years later I would take the bus to college. Often times while waiting at the number 64 bus stop at the corner of Lincoln and Minnesota, Robert would come by in his red Volkswagen Sirocco and give me a ride. The best time of my life was the day we didn’t make it to our classes and just spent the day together. Goofing around in a playground, having lunch and browsing for records at Underground Records, it was the montage of a perfect date day. He bought me the single of Joe Jackson’s “Stepping Out" which I still own. When he dropped me back at the bus stop, I didn’t know that would be the last time I would ever see him. A few years after that, my friend Denise ran into him and his husband in San Francisco, and the not very mystery was solved. I was happy that he didn't need me to be his beard any longer.

Skip skip skip so after years of searching classmates.com, mylife.com and myspace, finally I find Robert Robertson on Facebook. I send him a brief message saying "Hello." He responds with an even briefer message saying how he was living in SF and working as a kindergarten teacher. I respond asking if he’ll be my friend? I explain how I just want to know that he is happy and having a good life. I mention how Denise told me she had run into him and his husband one afternoon in the Haight. I try to subtly convey how down with that I am. His homosexuality was never the problem, his field person status was. With love still in my heart for Robert I send him a friend request, which he with apparently no love in his heart, ignores.

The elevator came but I had already been brought down.

Didn't Need To Know

2011-09-13T23:19:00.000-07:00

I was sitting on the floor just inside the doorway of the TV room of my family’s house. The long phone cord was stretched as far as it could go. This was the position I had often been in when chatting with my friends as a teenager. But I wasn’t 16 this time, gossiping about a cute boy or a mean girl. I was listening to my mother sob about the man she had an affair with. The conversation made me feel uncomfortable. It was so inappropriate. She shouldn’t be telling me about Charles and their love affair. We weren’t that close. My mother was never especially loving or affectionate and we never spoke about anything intimate. I longed for the conversation to be over. Since I tried to be a good daughter, I listened and attempted to make comforting noises. Like the phone cord, my patience was stretched as far as it could go.

At this point I was living in the house and my parents had moved out. My father lived in Palo Alto and my mother in Newport, Rhode Island. I had gone for one year to UCLA and that was when my parents had decided to separate. I was now back in the family home, living with school friends like an emotional squatter. I would hang on to the house so that when my parents realized their mistakes, the house would be waiting for them. It was a futile gesture- their marriage was over before I was even born.

My parents met when my father came to a party at my mother’s apartment a day early. Always savvy with her money, my mother slept on the couch of the apartment and rented out the other two bedrooms. She didn’t mind not having a bedroom to herself. When friends visited they slept on the couch and my mother slept on the floor. On this day, my mother was in a post guest cleaning frenzy as her friend Janet, who had been visiting had just left. My mother was getting the apartment presentable again.

Once my parents cleared up the misunderstanding about the correct time of the party and even though my mother wasn’t exactly date ready, they decided to go and have a drink. I should say that my mother was quite beautiful: tall, blonde and slender. She had even modeled twice! She wanted to be an actress and if someone had discovered her at a drugstore or department store, she might have been. Since even in the 1950s you needed to put out a little more effort than just studying voice with Mrs. Munson, my mother would never be an actress though she would always be dramatic.

My father was quite good looking in his own right. Not especially tall but with a handsome European face, a lot of black hair and a charming smile. He did OK with the ladies. Seeing my mother, with a dust mop in hand, he thought her one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen and knew he wanted to marry her. My mother on the other hand, thought he was funny and cute and well everybody around her was getting married, so why not? Her true love Charles had gone to the war, survived, returned home to Chicago and didn’t seem to be coming back.

They were married in Reno. I guess it was as popular for marriages as it was for divorces. It was a simple affair that they probably could have done at City Hall. They settled in San Francisco where their Russian landlord Paul would regale them with stories about when he danced the Troika in big Hollywood movies. My brother was born and eight years later I was born. I don’t think having children brought them together especially but it did give them something to talk about.

My father got a job in San Jose and they moved to the suburbs. By the time I came along the honeymoon period was long since over. My mother was cold to my father on a good day and exceedingly indifferent on a bad one. It was obvious to everyone that my father irritated the heck out of my mother and yet he still worshipped her. It was kind of pathetic. This was my example of a relationship. I unconsciously used their marriage model for my own relationships until I realized that mutual love and understanding actually works a lot better than one-sided adoration.

They had separate bedrooms but no real explanation to why. It just was how it was done.
It is a practice I follow to this day. I find it very difficult to sleep with people. The only person I ever was able to sleep with successfully was my first boyfriend. He slept so soundly, so still and so coolly, it was almost like sleeping alone.

One day when I was about 14, I asked my mother who she was talking to on the phone?
She told me she was talking to her friend Margaret, the woman she went to all the estate sales and garage sales with. I asked for the phone, as I wanted to speak with Margaret’s daughter Gina. She wouldn’t give me the phone and I gave up. I didn’t really think anything of it.

A couple of weeks later she decided she wanted to go to Chicago because she hadn’t ever been there before. She went off to see Chicago and was gone for about ten days. Although my mother had never done this before it didn’t seem out of character. She came back and life went on as it had. I learned later that she had gone to Chicago to meet up with her former boyfriend Charles. It was Charles she had been on the phone with and Charles who she was having an affair with.

One of the ways that I earned my ten dollars a week allowance was by washing and ironing my father’s shirts. I was taking the shirts out of the washer to hang them up and air-dry them when I found a strange object among the wet shirts. I have blocked out if I showed it to my mother as I did when I found a Penthouse magazine in my father’s drawer but somehow I knew it was an unwrapped condom, possibly used but now freshly laundered. It may have inspired the un- detailed “facts of life” conversation I had with my mother.

I don’t know if my father had been cheating on my mother, it somehow doesn’t seem likely but she was definitely cheating on him. But I wouldn’t put the pieces together until the day my mother would call me crying. Did she have no other friends she could confide in or maybe she just had to get it out, even if it was to her only daughter.

From what I understand, Charles was a staunch Catholic and refused to ever leave his wife. My mother had moved to Newport to be closer to him- maybe he lived in Providence at the time? I don’t know. I had listened to her on the phone but I hadn’t let any of it sink in. I guess at some point my mother gave up but he was the only man she ever truly loved.

I am a former cheater. When I have cheated, I felt no remorse until years after the cheating occurred. Her affair, my father’s indiscretion are no excuse for my bad behavior but they were my relationship prototypes.

My father has been dead for over twenty years. My mother is old and old fashioned and would never have a computer. When I go to visit her and bring mine, she makes me do a google search for Charles. I’m Internet stalking by proxy. It again makes me feel uncomfortable and as if I am not being loyal to my father or his memory. I hope in some ways he had been having his own affair, with someone who actually loved him back, someone who was kind to him and cuddled with him in bed. Perhaps it was because of learning about my mother’s secret life, I became a more loving partner, a better girlfriend.

My First Visit to NY Was Ten Days After 9/11

2011-09-06T23:49:00.000-07:00

Ten days after 9/11 I took my first trip to New York City. I’m fearful of many things: driving on the freeway, free standing escalators and expired milk but I was oddly not afraid to fly to New York City so soon after the attacks. I refused in this one instance to let fear get the best of me.

For a long time I was resentful of New York for bewitching my friend Helen and enticing her to move there. New York was like Helen’s new BFF and I felt left out in the cold. It reminded me a lot of high school. Sure New York was popular and dressed really well but could New York make her laugh like I could? I doubted it but I knew if I didn’t want to lose Helen, I needed to make friends with New York. Vowing that New York City would no longer be New York Shitty to me, I started to make plans to visit.

As it got closer to my departure date I became more and more excited about my trip. There would be so many things to see and do: Broadway, Harlem, The Statue of Liberty and Central Park to name just a few. I had seen New York so many times in movies and TV. I couldn’t wait to visit those iconic spots and get to know New York for myself.

When the attacks happened I was devastated like everyone else. After making sure that all my friends in New York were O.K., my resolve in taking this trip intensified. It is funny that I actually never wavered in my determination to visit. My friend May who was supposed to go with me, canceled because she was scared. May’s nervousness about flying just made me feel more like a bad-ass. I was confronting fear and making it my bitch. The expression that everyone was saying was always a derivative of “ … and the terrorists will win.” If I didn’t take that trip the terrorists would win and everybody knows I hate to lose.

On the day of the trip, security was incredibly tight. They wouldn’t even let people be dropped off at the actual airport. Adam had to take me to Parking Lot C and there I was picked up by a Shuttle and taken to my terminal.

Of course at this time, we were still wearing shoes going through security but my driver’s license, ticket and boarding pass were checked at least three times. I remember one person looking at me askance and asking,” You're going to New York?” His head shake was implied but I got his underlining meaning,” You’re going to risk it?”

Not only did the flight attendants greet the passengers as we got on the plane but the pilots did too. They seemed very grateful to us. Direct appreciation was something I would experience over and over again with my first visit to New York City.

The plane was half full which frankly was great. I got to stretch out and really enjoy the ride. I have to say I never once thought anything bad would happen. Maybe that was naive of me but even if something awful had occurred it would have been far worse if I had been focusing on it for hours and hours. I couldn't wait to see my new friend.

I had an amazing time in New York. I saw my first Broadway show “ The Puppetry of the Penis” and while “ The Producers” might have been a more appropriate choice it was amusing. Many of the theaters were dark and many shows temporarily closed. I had tickets to see my favorite “Kid in the Hall” Scott Thompson perform in his one- man show but he had canceled it himself. He would admit later in another show that he was scared of terrorist retaliation.

Every time that a New Yorker would hear that I was visiting for the first time, they would personally thank me like I was helping to keep the tourist trade alive. It would be my second trip to New York that I would experience the clichéd pushy New Yorker, the insensitive New Yorker and even the cruel New Yorker. But this trip, it really was my friend New York. I understood why one its monikers is “ The City of Friendly People.”

One day when we were walking around just enjoying the day, we suddenly found ourselves near Ground Zero. It was sobering to say the least and we felt like instead of air we were breathing pain and sadness. I stayed back and my friends, the true New Yorkers went to take a closer look. When they returned, ashen and somber, we did not speak as we started to walk away from the site. A true friend is there even when times are bad and sad.

It would be in subsequent visits where I would experience the horrible humidity of an August New York or the constant smell of urine and garbage when I walked from the subway to the theater where a show I had helped direct was being performed in the New York Fringe Festival. But this visit, ten days after 9/11, the weather was cool and the people were grateful. I was glad I had refused to let the terrorists ruin my friendship with New York.

Von Trapped

2011-08-22T22:25:00.000-07:00

When I grew up I didn’t want to be a nurse or a ballerina, I wanted to be Chinese.
I loved all things Asian: dolls, art and especially the food. Once I got older I realized that while I’d never be Chinese, I could certainly enjoy their culture, along with many other cultures. And I still do to this day. My love of French movies, dim sum and klezmer music are only the beginnings of my appreciation. You could say I practice multiculturalism.

In truth I love every culture but my own. I am Austrian American. My father was from Vienna. But I am the furthest thing from a proud Austrian; I think I may even have Austrian shame.

It is difficult to have Austrian pride when the Austrian role models are Arnold Schwarzenegger, Hitler and the guy who fought to wear a colander on his head for his driver’s license picture. In other words, this rogue’s gallery of famous Austrians includes a philander, a psycho and a pastafarian. It is no wonder that Freud founded the discipline of psychoanalysis. His fellow Austrian citizens must have been lining up around the block to get some answers about their crazy behavior. In speaking of despicable Austrians, I shouldn’t forget to mention the man who imprisoned his daughter in their basement for 24 years and fathered seven children with her. Yay I’m so proud to be an Austrian- yippee!

But wait, you say, there are many famous Austrians who did good things. Pause, pause, pause, yes I slowly admit, yes there is Mozart, the poet Rainer Maria Rilke and the inventor of Pez candy. I feel so much better. I guess I’ll take a walk down to the Austrian Cultural Festival, but wait there isn’t any. I know, I’ll have dinner at my favorite Austrian restaurant- Little Taste of Salzburg but there is no Little Taste of Salzburg, there are no Austrian eateries at all. Thank God for Wolfgang Puck, because if it weren’t for him, it would seem like the Austrians never do anything good or normal.

It has been said that the Austrians are skilled at denying the war and the holocaust but it has also been said that people from Austria are morbid and negative. In fact I read that morbid and negative comment in a “Travel to Austria” brochure. They sure aren’t trying to paint a pretty picture. But doesn’t it stand to reason that the Austrians have a lot of guilt for their part in all that horror and that’s what’s making them depressed?

As a cultured people, we seemed to peak in the 1800s and since then we’ve kind of kept our culture to ourselves. There is no Austrian day, or an Austrian pride parade and I bet kids don’t study Austria in school. Well why really when there is a Germany? Wouldn’t it be easier to just say we aren’t Austrians but Germany lite? Is Austria the Canada of Europe but with a bad history and a bad reputation? Instead of Hosers are Austrians the Lederhosers? Sorry I know that is a bad pun but it made me laugh. Ok so the Austrians aren’t known for their sophisticated humor either.

There is only one Austrian Pride Group on Facebook. After I made sure it wasn’t a fascist organization or anything like that I joined. I’m member number 65. There are over 30 German Pride Groups on Facebook with over 1500 members. Obviously there is a lot more German pride than Austrian pride.

The biggest difference between Germans and Austrians seems to be in language. Although both speak German, they have some different words for the same things, have different pronunciations of the same words and use different pitches and melodies when speaking those words. I guess that’s why I did so poorly in college German. I was probably speaking it with an Austrian accent, either that or despite my German last name, I had no gift for that language. Though I can still sing “ She Loves You" in German.

Germans tend to usually be blonde and Austrians tend to have darker hair.
As an American I’m not really sensitive to what makes a German distinct from an Austrian. But as Austrian is the only culture I have I’m going to have to do something to whip up some pride. Luckily I know something that is guaranteed to make me feel good about being an Austrian and that is watching “ The Sound of Music.” “ The Sound of Music” is so popular and so good that it makes even Germans wish they were part of the Von Trapp family.

Serving Sleep Time

2011-08-16T09:56:00.000-07:00

“Is everything alright?” the voice over the loud speaker penetrates the darkness. No everything is not all right it is not O.K. Over 25 different wires are hooked up to my head, my chest, and my legs. There are two big black belts encasing my torso, a monitor taped to my back and a camera posed directly at me. I was there for a sleep study but it seemed more like I was an unwilling participant in a prison experiment. I had committed the crime of trying to steal some zzzzs.

I am not someone who does things because they are good for me. I find it difficult to choose to do something that I know will not be fun will possibly be painful or uncomfortable but will ultimately help me. Yet here I was having voluntarily signed up for this torture.

Getting good nights sleep is something that most people take for granted. I haven’t had good sleep in years. After a take home sleep test, I was diagnosed with sleep apnea. I have one of those CPAP machines like Mike has on the “ Mike and Molly” sitcom. I’m supposed to wear a face mask that is attached to the CPAP by a tube while it shoots air up my nose. Whenever I wear it, I remove the mask at some point in the night, just like I used to do with my night guard. Unfortunately when I wore my night guard I would take it out in my sleep and throw it across the room. Luckily the CPAP machine is too heavy and bulky to do that.

I may be in sleep prison but it is the sleep apnea that should be serving the time, as it is the perp in this crime. Arrest the apnea for stealing from me my rest and for slowly trying to kill me. However apnea is a clever and patient criminal and doesn’t care how long it takes to destroy me. It is lazy in getting rid of its witnesses though as my extremely loud snoring seems to be screaming about it nightly.

Since I know I have sleep apnea, doing this sleep study is a little like changing my sheets after I’ve already gone to bed. But my doctor is mean and a jerk. One night I had fiddled around with the dials on my CPAP and messed everything up. At my appointment I admitted what I had done and had asked my doctor to restore the settings on my machine. Even though this procedure was something that he had done before, that would have taken him about 3 minutes he peevishly refused, saying he had asked me to do a sleep study many times but I had been unwilling and had declined. Doctor payback is a bastard. So I agreed to do this one, just to shut him up. I was being responsible out of spite mostly.

What I want instead of a CPAP is an oral device that fits into your mouth called a Mandibular Advancement Device or a MAD. MAD looks kind of like a sports mouth guard and I bet you feel kind of badass wearing it. I hear it is almost impossible to yank out while you are sleeping. This dental appliance is very expensive and my health care provider wants to exhaust every cheaper method first, before they will sign off on something that costs around $4000.00. I dream of the good sleep I may someday get, well if I would dream of it, if I could sleep well enough to dream.

Jose, my tech, as he called himself, had said I could sleep in any position I wanted and yet I can’t sleep in any position. After spending an hour hooking me up, he had gone to the observation room and over the loud speaker had asked me to blink my eyes, move them right and left and to count out loud to five. I knew he could see and hear everything. I prayed I wouldn’t fart or say something wildly inappropriate in my sleep.

The instructions that I had received in the mail had been very clear- no moisturizers of any kind. Feeling as if my dry skin was dehydrating rapidly and tightening like the belts around my abdomen just adds to this agonizing night.

It must have taken me an hour to finally get to sleep. I wasn’t sleeping long when Jose awakened me and so it would go through out the night. It wasn’t a sleep study at all; it was a no sleep study. It was sleep torment study.

When I am released at 5:30 a.m. I head home exhausted, not refreshed and not well rested. I feel smug that I served my time in personal responsibility jail and that I did something that while thoroughly unpleasant may lead to that elusive good sleep. Maybe things will be all right, maybe they will be OK and maybe that sleep offender, apnea will finally be caught, tried and given life without parole.

Give It Away Now!

2011-08-09T15:31:00.000-07:00

To everybody watching it appeared to be an amazingly selfless and generous gesture for an eleven year-old to make. I had given away the bike I won only moments before to my poor wheel-less friend Karen Kenworth. In actuality I didn’t want that bike. It was a baby bike. I already had a ten- speed. But did I take my moment of glory up there on the Garden Theater stage? Oh you can bet I did! And do I usually tell this story as if I’m the Mother Teresa of the two-wheeler? Yes I do!

When I was growing up in Willow Glen, everybody went to the Garden Theater on Lincoln Ave. Lincoln was and is the main street of Willow Glen, a neighborhood of San Jose, CA. While it didn’t have a post office or an all-night diner, it did have a beauty shop, a bakery, a pharmacy and a health food store. Willow Glen was our small town in our rapidly growing big city.

The focal point on Lincoln Ave. was the Garden Theater. It opened its doors in 1948 complete with 1100 rocking seats, a smoking section and one large screen. Outside the building huge neon letters spelled out the name “ Garden “ vertically for all passerbys to see.

It wasn’t exactly a movie palace more like a movie time-share especially as it got on in years but for a time it was loved. People had their family movie nights there, their first dates there and their” drop the kids off and get a few hours of peace” there. Everybody seemed to go often to the Garden Theater.

San Jose has always had a lot of movie theaters. In fact it used to be the premier place for movies to have their sneak screenings. I guess the San Jose audience is a good gauge of whether a film is going to be a hit or a flop, either that or there really isn’t that much to do at night besides going to a movie.

I don’t remember if the Garden had any premieres or preview screenings, I’m not even sure they showed first run movies very much. What I do remember is the Saturday movie marathons. I was enjoying a “Planet of the Apes” marathon the day they pulled my number out of a fishbowl and I became a winner.

The entire collection of” Planet of the Apes” movies hadn’t been created yet but still there was enough for a marathon. On the bill that day was “ Planet of the Apes,” “Beneath the Planet of the Apes,” “ Escape from the Planet of the Apes,” and “ Conquest of the Planet of the Apes.” So many apes and escapes and I couldn’t tell you the plot lines of any of them.

Since it was a marathon, I was equipped with everything I’d need: an icy soda, popcorn, Raisinettes and most probably some extra candy for emergency. You need a bunch of sugar to get through all those ape hijinx.

I’d say it was a pretty good marathon as movie marathons go. The Beatles movie marathon was better and the Billy Jack movie marathon worse. But you never felt cheated with these all day movie feasts. Even if the movies stunk, you still got your money’s worth.

The big bike giveaway must have been later in the day. The marathon was over for me but would continue into the night. There was some other not nearly as exciting prizes like a gift certificate to the pizza place on Willow St. or a cartoon of cigarettes. Obviously the bike was the prize that everybody coveted.

There was a host on stage, perhaps from a local radio station. I heard my name called, jumped out of my seat and made the long walk down the aisle onto the stage. Who knows if I was supposed to go onto the stage but I wasn’t going to miss that opportunity.

The bike was barely a bike; it was whatever is between a tricycle and a ten-speed. It practically had training wheels on it. I had been riding a bike for years and in fact I had ridden my bike to the theater. I knew this wasn’t about the prize but about me getting some good publicity. As the audience was applauding my big win, I beamed. Then the host asked me how I felt about winning such a major prize? I told him I was happy but that I was going to give the bike away. Everyone was stunned. It was as if I was turning down an Academy Award.

The audience clapped harder and everyone was impressed by my gesture. I made Karen come up on stage with me and I dramatically presented her with the bike. Suddenly it was my show. We both walked off the stage with the bike between us and down the aisle to thunderous applause and cheering. No one had ever given away his or her prize before at the Garden Theater. Unfortunately it wasn’t the media blitz that I had hoped for. No one interviewed me for the San Jose Mercury News, I wasn’t a special interest story on the local TV news and the incident was pretty much forgotten by the end credits of the final movie. In fact since my good deed had happened during the summer, I couldn’t even dine off it in the cafeteria back at school. I did not become famous as the self –sacrificing girl who gave her prize away to her needy friend and would continue being someone under the popularity radar. As Dr. Zaius said in the original Planet of the Apes “ Don’t look for it Taylor. You may not like what you find.”

But honestly I didn’t want that bike. I wouldn’t have been caught dead riding it. A month later when Karen moved to Texas and took it with her, I couldn't have cared less. But I spun the story in my mind so often; I almost believed my motives had been pure. Everybody likes to be thought of as magnanimous sometimes. I still gave it to her. I could have sold it.

The Garden Theater is no longer a theater, closing its doors in 1988. The shell of the building and the sign still remain. The neon of the sign continues to shines with its empty promise not unlike the gesture of my bike give-away.

Slot to Trot

2011-08-02T12:17:00.000-07:00

I am an addict but I have never been to a Gamblers Anonymous meeting. It is convenient that the town I live in is not convenient for gambling. I’m fortunate in that I have developed a fear of driving on the highway so that I can’t get to a casino on my own power. Realizing that online gaming is for people who can easily afford to throw money away, I’m cognizant enough to not go on those sites. At some point I had to make a conscience decision to not gamble, to quit trying to seek it out and to let go of that high.

You don’t have to smoke, you don’t have to drink alcohol and you don’t have to eat badly but don’t we have to have fun? Don’t we need fun and pleasure to help us get through the painful, the difficult and the distressing?

When you see gamblers in movies or TV they usually are playing card games like poker, 21 or dice games like craps. You rarely hear the story of the slot machine addict losing everything and having to pawn their Rolex watches to pay their debt. Would the average Slotter even have a watch, let alone a Rolex? Slot machines seem like easy, safe, time wasting devices that retirees with portable oxygen tanks can enjoy. No one ever gets hurt with the slot machine; no one ever destroys his or her life because of one or do they?

My slot machine obsession was so great that I nearly lost my first house over it. It was so consuming that I dated a man merely so I could have a gambling buddy: a gamer enabler. The possibility of winning was so engrossing that I could play for hours and hours skipping bathroom breaks, meals and sleep. Gambling was my addiction.

Gambling and not just winning made me feel lucky and in control and like I was good
at something. Gambling made me feel special.

My love affair with gambling started rather late. My first trip to Las Vegas I found games of chance boring and pointless. The second trip I like it less. During that visit my friend Hans and I got into a fight for some reason that was unclear to both of us and we haven’t been friends since. I returned from Las Vegas with one less friend and a distain for gaming in general.

It was at an Indian casino in Palm Springs where my obsession was born. I had been working out there for a few weeks and at night there really wasn’t much to do to unwind. My friend Larry and I started to go to the Spa Casino. At that time they had a smoke free room. I hated nothing more than sitting at a machine and having to endure a chain smoker smoke cigarette after cigarette, blowing smoke in my face. It was one of things I despised about Las Vegas. But in a smoke free room, I could enjoy hours of fun and it was fun, really fun. So fun in fact I took my Christmas bonus and gambled it right away.

The first slot machine that really captivated my attention was called “ Seventh Heaven.” You’d think it would be all about cherubs and angels but actually funny fruit was its theme. The animation of the fruit was very charming, featuring the whimsical pear, the jolly cherries and the wacky bananas. When I won my first jackpot of over $2000.00 on Seventh Heaven, I was hooked.

Ever the writer I liked to make up stories about the fruit while I sat there. When three bananas would be together not lined up, I would say they were a dysfunctional family. I wanted the bananas to put their differences aside, come together and win me some money. Since I rarely got oranges I thought them snotty. I once said upon getting grapes that they were so rarely seen that even though I hadn’t won, it was still as if I had accomplished something that day. When you are playing the same machine for hours on end, you do need to do something so that your brain doesn’t become stupid pudding.

Going back to Las Vegas after Palm Springs, I discovered a whole new appreciation for it. There was much more variety. I found many slot machines to adore. At the Blazing Sevens machine, I felt like I couldn’t lose and often times I didn’t. Jackpots of $6000 and $5000 dollars were won many times by me. I knew to always tip the people paying me my winnings- it ensures good gambler karma.

You can’t mention Las Vegas and not mention the shows, which really are fantastic.
Las Vegas shows need to be incredible to rip the gamblers away from the tables and from the machines. I saw everyone from Don Rickles to Chris Isaak. I amazed by Cirque du Soleil’s Love. Seeing Olivia Newton John made me weep with joy. The best show of all was Aimee Mann at the Paris hotel’s pool. It was their first pool show and they hadn’t planned things very well. We the audience just grabbed chairs and listened to Aimee under the desert stars.

Many gamblers are social, with a drink in one hand and a cigarette with the other, they converse and joke with the other players. I am not that way. I get very focused on what I am doing. When people try to talk to me, I generally ignore them. When I win and people gather around, as they tend to do, I don’t high five or anything like that, I just pretend they aren’t there. Now I would from time to time alert my boyfriend if he were near by “ Hey look I got three blazing sevens!” When he would want to come play by me, I would send him away. I didn’t need him to bring me bad luck or worse interfere with my machine mojo.

Sometimes when I wasn’t winning I would do things that I hoped would trick the machine into hitting. I would pretend indifference, feigning looking around everywhere but the slot machine as if I really wasn’t that interested. Am I playing a slot machine or
waiting for my ride? Whatever, I don’t care if win or not. It’s all good.

I had scorn for the nickel, dime and quarter slots as if only non- serious slot players would ever play them. I considered them the greatest money wasters. Play big or don’t play at all was my philosophy. In my most crazed state, I would go into the High Roller Slot rooms and play the $5.00 machines!

I even enjoyed losing. Nothing meant anything if you didn’t lose from time to time. Losing made me feel like a professional. Professional slot player, I’m betting no-one makes their living as a slot shark. Slot players aren’t that interesting to watch. I doubt you are going to see “Celebrity Slots” on your TV any time soon.

I loved the perks of being a devoted gambler- rarely paying for rooms or meals, getting hot chocolate chip cookies at bed times and the hardly adequate cash back.

When our money started getting tight, we stopped going to Las Vegas. My boyfriend and I did allow the occasional trip to the Indian Casino which we called ‘ getting a hot dog.” I guess because you can eat a hot dog with one hand and play the slots with the other, most casinos do have very delicious and cheap hot dogs. We weren’t gamblers. We were foodies.

One day we understood that there was no surplus to gamble away. We also knew that we weren’t the kind of people who could gamble twenty bucks and stop. I know that I can get kind of insanity and take it personally when continually lose.
Then almost out of spite, I keep feeding the machine twenty-dollar bills, daring it to make me lose again. It is true, if you are indifferent about money you will most likely do well, if you are desperate to win to pay your mortgage or hospital bills, you most will certainly lose. I can’t stand the tension of risking everything just so that I could get three red sevens lined up. I couldn’t gamble my integrity away any more.

It has been literally years since I’ve visited Las Vegas or an Indian Casino. I’ve found other ways to have fun. I don’t have that excitement I used to have but I also don’t have that insecurity of not knowing whether I can pay my bills or not. I used to love watching all things Las Vegas but now watch Reality shows instead. I’m letting other people be crazy and foolish instead of me. Now Television is an addiction I refuse to give up.

Collecting Evidence

2011-07-25T07:56:00.000-07:00

I intimated to the woefully unattractive private investigator that I would be very grateful if he could get me a current picture of the woman my ex lover was involved with. There were many pictures of her on the Internet but it was always the same exact one. I found this suspect. The photo seemed dated, posed and anything natural retouched out. But still I needed to know what made her so irresistible? Why did Will prefer her to me? Her picture gave me no clues, surely a current photograph would tell me what I needed to know. The PI was between surveillance jobs and agreed to go to the woman’s office. Again it had been perfectly easy to find out where she worked just not what she looked like now. The PI noticed his mark the minute he got into the elevator. Since he didn’t have to worry about getting burned, he asked her directly “Are you Doc Abigail?” She replied that she was. As she exited the elevator he snapped a picture of her with his camera phone and sent it to me. The image was blurry but I thought she looked mannish and as if she needed a touch up to her brick colored hair that was clipped up on the top of her head. She carried a big cup of something, diet soda I suspected as she looked fleshy. Her clothing had that same decades old quality that her Internet photo had. Unfortunately the detective had given me her photo but he hadn’t given me the real evidence I had been seeking, the evidence of her being worthy of the love I had wanted. I found that evidence for myself some months later. I came upon a picture of the two of them. Will looked intoxicated and sleepy with love and she looked lovely. Dang it. She appeared really lovely and cool and someone I'd want to be friends with. The feeling I got when looking at the picture was that finally Will was well cared for, protected and happy. I loved him enough to let his happiness stand and to be grateful that he had found a heart-home with this woman. It was all the evidence I needed to truly let him go.

The P.I. procuring the shot of my lover’s girlfriend wasn’t the first time that I had assistance in the gathering of the evidence of love. Instead of a picture, a friend had stolen love letters. That story started over twenty years ago with a slap across my face, given to me by my ex boyfriend Aaron. We had been sitting on a bus bench when he had slapped me. While I certainly do not advocate violence and never think it is appropriate to hit a woman, I had provoked it. Aaron and I had been going out for a little less than a year when I dumped him for his off-beat friend Dayton. Aaron and I continued to be friends and even worked in the same on-campus pub. We pretended we were grown-ups and very mature. Then Aaron had the nerve to get a younger, cuter girlfriend named Penny. One afternoon, after work, for some reason, I decided to go with Aaron to check out his new apartment. It would be his new place for his new relationship. I couldn’t have been nastier, pushing every button Aaron had and doing it deliberately.

Aaron, Penny and I were all not tall. Aaron was taller than me, so it was never an issue for me but it was an issue to Aaron. I used the word “ little “ about 70 times in our conversation at the apartment. By the time we were sitting on the bus bench, waiting for my bus, I had peaked with mean. With each diminutive slur I used, Aaron got angrier until finally exploding and slapping me. I didn’t cry. I simply stopped speaking and then got on the bus without looking back at Aaron.

The next day in the student lounge I handed Aaron a plain paper bag of everything he had given me except for the record albums. There was no way I was giving back Prince’s 1999 album- I wasn’t crazy! As his and Penny’s relationship grew brighter and happier, our relationship dimmed. We pretended to be friends and over it but we weren’t by a long shot.

When Penny and Aaron decided to get married, I couldn’t be happier for them. Actually yes I could have been a lot happier, I wasn’t happy for them at all. Their marriage irritated the hell out of me but I put on a good show of wishing them well. I even sent my good friend Lael to the bachelor party. She had been working delivering singing telegrams dressed as a French maid. I didn’t think it was at all inappropriate to send her to my ex’s bachelor party. Lael was supposed to get information about all the proceedings as if she was a modern day Mata Hari.

Once they were married, Penny and Aaron moved into a big black house. Since they were both still students and money was tight, they rented rooms to some of their friends. My friend Derek lived at the big black house or the "party house" as it came to be known. He would tell me stories of what went on there. I scorned the party house and all who partied there except for Derek. One afternoon Derek mentioned coming across a box of papers: the letters Aaron had written me that I had returned in spite. I begged Derek to steal my letters and return them to me. I now knew, that the chances that others would write me such beautiful and funny love letters were small.

Along with my letters was a copy of a poem that Aaron written. One of the lines of the poem referenced a “ kitten.” I was certain that it was a poem about Penny. I laughed at how silly Aaron had become. Later I would learn that the poem really was about his cat. Also among the papers was a letter that Aaron had written after we had broken up. It full of swearing and emotion and spoke about how much of a bitch I was. The funny thing about this letter was that there were four versions of it, each version a little neater than the one before but with the same exact wording. Aaron was too kind to ever send such a letter. He had been horrified by his slap and would never intentionally hurt anyone.

Aaron noticed the missing box pretty early on but never said anything. I guess he figured that most of it really was my property. I still have those letters, the evidence of our young love. I threw that love away, just as many years later my lover had thrown away my love. Now, there was nothing for me to steal from my ex lover except the image of the woman whose love he did want. I had grown up enough to understand that there are some things that you can never have back, no matter who steals them for you.

Hit it and Quit it

2011-07-20T00:09:00.000-07:00

In 1983, the comic masterpiece “ Doctor Detroit” starring Dan Aykroyd was released. Strangely, it did not do well at the box office. Dan Aykroyd had been so certain that it would be a big hit that he had already started writing a sequel, this was kind of arrogant, as he wasn’t even one of the writers of the first one. “ Doctor Detroit” was the hilarious story of a college professor who through no fault of his own, was forced to become a pimp in order to protect some hookers. Sometimes that is just what you have to do- be a pimp! Tagline “ He’s making the world safe for Insanity.” Now don’t confuse, “ Doctor Detroit” with” Night Shift”(1982) starring Michael Keaton. “ Night Shift” was about a morgue turned into a brothel-totally different flick. Tagline “ The Oldest Profession in a new look comedy.” You got a lot of comedy bang for your buck in the early 80s with laugh riot movies about prostitutes.“ Doctor Detroit” and “ Night Shift” would have been the perfect double feature, especially if you were going to the drive in movie-theater with your boyfriend and he was going to commit a crime.

Unfortunately on the night the “ incident” took place, the double feature was “Doctor Detroit” and “ Valley Girl “ starring Nicholas Cage. While I loved, loved, loved Dan Aykroyd, I despised Nicholas Cage and thought he ruined almost every film he touched. Many years later I believe the evidence speaks for itself. Can you say “Season of the Witch?’

This was my second time in seeing this double feature, and my second time at a drive-in. Since my parents didn’t drive, I didn’t grow up going to drive-ins. My boyfriend Ben understood my unattainable love for Dan Aykroyd . He even accepted that if Dan ever met me and decided he wanted a girl who dressed in a fuzzy pink polka dotted mini skirts, Ben would graciously step aside. Sadly for me, Dan would fall for his very beautiful co-star Donna Dixon and marry her. Ben was stuck with me. Although Ben seemed to love and understand me, I appeared to make him very nervous. His constantly moving hands expressed this nervousness. One time when we were at a dance club that actually showed music videos, Ben smashed a wine glass against the table, while I danced with known womanizer Shane Delores. It wasn’t jealousy that made Ben break the glass but nervous energy.

On this night, at the Capital Drive In, Ben was fairly calm or so I thought. We arrived early and were directed to park in a spot right in the middle. Ben attached the speaker on the side of his car door. The sound system was crappy but luckily good enough not to miss the golden gems of dialogue like “ Got the curry not to worry” and the movie's most oft quoted line “ Mom I will rip off your head and sh*t down your neck.” Man does it get any wittier?

Going to the drive-in was even more celebratory the second time, as Ben had only recently gotten his drivers license. Since I didn’t drive, I hounded him to get his. I was tired of walking home from everywhere. He flunked the test again and again but finally he passed. Driving made both of us nervous but as he was the only one with a license, I had to bite my tongue when he made an obvious driving error.

After a quick trip to the snack bar, Ben and I settled in to enjoy the movie.
“Doctor Detroit” was first on the bill and we sang along to the fantastic theme song by Devo. “ Now is the time to call me Doctor, This is a serious case. “ “Doctor Detroit” actually has a pretty great soundtrack including a song from James Brown. It also has one of my favorite movie things, the gratuitous dance number. The GDN is when a movie that isn’t a musical suddenly has for no real good reason a dance number? I love that!

Our evening was going great but for whatever reason I wanted to leave after “Doctor Detroit” and miss “Valley Girl”- probably my hatred of Mr. Cage. I don’t remember if I had a hissy fit or if Ben was feeling jittery but instead of putting the speaker back on its stand and maneuvering the car out its space, he slammed the car in reverse and backed into the car behind us. Bam! Realizing what he had done, Ben put the car in drive and took off with the speaker still attached. Suddenly the impala was a bumper car with many obstacles to hit on its way to the exit. Not stopping to see if he had caused any damage to the car he had smashed into, Ben kept going. Ben was a hit and run drive in driver! A pounding on the car and the screaming of obscenities alerted us to the fact that the man whose car Ben had hit, was running behind us banging on the car with fists of fury. Lordy was that guy pissed! We were terrified. Would we ever get out of there and would it be in one piece? Ben continued his erratic journey out of the Capital Drive In and finally made it on to the road. I hung on to the seat for safety, praying that he wouldn’t get into an accident on the freeway. By the time we got to my house, Ben was still hyped up on adrenalin. Jumping the curb, the car hit the tree on our parkway and finally came to a stop. Always thoughtful and sensitive, I quietly got out of the car and motioned to Ben to roll down his window. I then yelled, “ You are the worst driver ever.” We never returned to the drive in, too afraid that they would recognize the Impala and Ben would have to pay for the damage he had caused. If only “ Night Shift “ had been on the double bill that night, I certainly would have stayed for Michael Keaton. We were also lucky that after all that mayhem, we were unhurt and that we hadn’t had the need to “ Call the Doctor!”

Take a Drive Behind My Wheel

2011-07-12T00:11:00.000-07:00

As you absolutely know if you live in Los Angeles and may know if you don’t, this weekend they are closing a ten mile stretch of the 405 freeway and people are freaking out! We have such a reverence for our highways here. We always call them by their full formal title: The 405 or The 101. There are many things we just can't handle in Southern California. Remember we are a people who panic at rain. Droplets of water have the power to create utter and total havoc in regards to our driving. You can imagine what a car-tastophe or carmageddon (as they are calling it) this closing is expected to be. People have arranged to vacation out of town, hotel rooms are booked for workers who work on the Westside but live on the Eastside and most people are just planning on staying home.

I have to laugh a little bit, as I haven’t taken the freeway in ten years. This closing will not really affect me at all. I developed a phobia of driving on the freeway just before I met my boyfriend. It was the Fourth of July weekend and I was driving up North to spend a few days with friends. As I was driving on the 101, huge trucks kept whizzing by me. My little Honda Civic shook like it was being whipped about in Dorothy’s tornado. It was frightening but what was worse was my instinct to want to stop the car right there on the highway. I became so scared that I turned around came home. After that I forced myself to freeway drive a few more times but would always exit at the first opportunity. The final straw was when I slowed down on the 10 to such an extent that the other drivers had to narrowly avoid running into me. I knew I couldn’t risk it anymore. I haven’t driven the freeway since. They say a phobia like this is just your mind lying to you and my mind is a fabulous fabricator.

My mother, who doesn’t drive at all, doesn’t even like to be a passenger in a car driven on a highway. Perhaps her fear transferred to me but since I hate being like my mother I hope not. Admittedly when I am gripping the “ Oh shit” handle in the car as Adam is driving, I probably seem exactly like my mother. I try to hold on casually and fake the death grip I am using but I don’t think I’m fooling anybody.

Once when Adam and I were driving back from Northern California at Christmas time, he started to weave a bit on the snow edged highway. The weaving did not happen dramatically and it took me a few seconds to realize that he had passed out. I grabbed the wheel and screamed at him to watch out. My shouting woke him up and he corrected his steering. Having him drive was our only option. If he hadn’t come to, I have no idea what would have happened. I guess I would have just watched as he drove us off the road to our certain deaths.

I did seek treatment to get over this phobia. The group was very much a survive the fear and get over it. One exercise was to make oneself to hyperventilate. The theory was that inducing the feelings of a panic attack and surviving it, would convince me that I could endure the freeway driving as well. I thought it was stupid to make myself feel uncomfortable if I didn’t have too. I am not one for feel the fear and do it anyway. My theory is feel the fear and do everything in your power to never feel the fear again. I avoid freeways like a death march and only take surface streets. If a highway is my only option, then either I don’t go or I have to get someone to drive me.

Another time, when my roommate Lee was driving my car, an old man drove into our right side. He swore that another “ phantom” driver had hit him but no one saw this other driver. Of course we might not have noticed the other driver because his hitting of us caused our car to spin three times. Once the spinning stopped we found ourselves going down the freeway in the wrong direction, just missing the other drivers. Our car finally stopped when it hit a big rig, grazing its big right wheel. As we veered toward the truck I remember feeling very smug about my impending death. I thought to myself “ See I knew I would die on a freeway in an accident.” The funny thing is at that same moment Lee thought “ This is kind of fun and I’m glad this isn’t my car.” You would think that when we didn’t die or get injured in any way that this would have been enough of a sign for me to realize that the chances that I would die on the freeway were slim. It didn’t. I had used my one lifeline and I knew wouldn’t ever be that lucky again.

So this weekend people will see what it is like to sit behind my steering wheel. How to leave extra early in order to lessen the amount of traffic one has to encounter and which alternative routes are the best. Then there is the whole “ is it worth it to leave the house and drive somewhere” debate that I go through almost daily.

There is always the chance that with everyone becoming hysterical about how many cars will be on our streets and how long it will take to get anywhere, there will be no one out and about. People will be too frightened of the dreaded traffic monster to go anywhere. Ha who is the crazy person now?

Show, Tell, Just Don't Make Me Touch It

2011-07-05T20:58:00.000-07:00

I used to go to a "women only" gym. I use the word “ gym” loosely. Their workout isn’t really aerobic or that energy consuming. All the machines are in a circle and women use them until a robotic voice tells them to move on to another one. Mostly it’s a coffee klatch without the coffee. Women gossip, complain and once there was even a wardrobe make- over. Everyone left with a new smart blazer. Since I’m not that comfortable with strangers, I would try to get my workout over as quickly as I could. One woman was there all the time. I could tell she was trouble. She had that clear, plastic, Halloween mask kind of skin. Obviously, there had been one too many visits to the bargain Dermabrasion clinic. By the way she moved, I could tell she was incredibly stupid. She, of course, took an instant liking to me and would often comment on whatever tee shirt I was wearing. “ I like that shirt! It’s a cat. It’s a beatnik! It’s blue! “ Thanks” I’d say, trying to look evil and threatening- not like I wanted a new friend. She’d keep tabs on me. “ Haven’t seen you in a while” she’d say wagging her finger at me. “ Yes because I’ve been avoiding you”. Then one day she yelled across the circle. “ I got one of those sweat things on”. I shook my head knowingly. I had no idea what she was talking about. “ Yeah you should get one." I shook my head again, hoping she’d just shut up. I finished and started to leave. She screamed out “ Wait for me. I wanna talk to you.” As I waited for her, I had that queasy “ no good can come out of this” feeling. She lumbered up to me panting. “ Good, I wanted to show you.” She lifted up her sweat suit jacket to reveal another sweat- suit jacket made entirely out of a heavy, industrial plastic. Then she pulled down the front of her sweat suit pants to show that that she was wearing the matching plastic pants. And she was sweating. And she was sweating a lot. I mean rivulets of water; from her brow down the length of her body. It was the third sweat suit, the sweat suit made of sweat. While I understood that she was losing much of her water weight, she apparently didn’t think I fully comprehended this miracle. She took my hand and made me wipe some of her sweat from her body. My hand was now part of the cascade of perspiration. I nearly threw up. It was revolting. No amount of showering could ever cleanse me. I murmured something about having to go and ran to my car. I tried to disassociate from my hand but it had been transformed into something resembling the Creature from the Black Lagoon. I can only guess that my sweat-covered hand was somewhat wetter and smellier than any swamp creature from any lagoon. I stopped going to that gym, shuddering to think what that woman would want to share with me next.

Letting It All Hang Out at the Big Girls Dance

2011-06-27T21:02:00.000-07:00

I had found myself at yet another “ Big Difference “ dance. The big difference being that this was a dance for large woman and the men who admired them. Men referred to as “Chubby Chasers,” “Pudgy Pursuers” or my personal favorite “ Overweight Watchers.” Besides the Big Difference, there were other groups like “Lots More 2 Love” and “Ample Pleasures ” who held these big girl dances monthly. But this was over 10 years ago. Now they have big girl dance clubs with names like “ Jiggles and Giggles “ or “ Club Curvaceous.” But back then there were only the dances.

Sometimes they’d have holiday themes though the overall theme was always size positive. Fat wasn’t just OK it was to be flaunted. It was a secret underground world that most people had no idea existed. You were only in the “ know” if you had to be. These dances were usually held near the airport, I guess so people could fly in for the event.

Having the freedom to wear whatever they wanted, the BBWs or Big Beautiful Women opted for mini-skirts, belly shirts and seemed to be silently chanting “ to hell with sleeves!” I would never let myself dress with such abandon, and would wear cute dresses with cap sleeves and a V –necks. My fashion mantra was always “ sleeves if you please!”

The DJ played any music that had a pro- weight stance like “ Fat Bottom Girls” “ Baby got Back” or any song by Two Tons of Fun. Then at midnight the music and the dancing stopped when the buffet was served. Of course there was always a meal, big girls get cranky if their blood sugar drops.

I would go to these dances because I figured I’d have a higher percentage success rate of getting lucky. I couldn’t compete with the skinny chicks at a regular singles bar like Popsicles in the City of Industry. I enjoyed being the thinnest girl at the big girl dance, although it didn’t work in my favor. There really was an attitude of “ Kate Moss –get lost.” “ What only two chins? “ and “If you ain’t got a belly you ain’t got sh*t.”

The trouble was I didn’t want to go to a dance club that would have me as a member. I could not have been less friendly and un- approachable. Generally I would stand there and not speak to anyone, feeling above it all. I don’t think snotty really works for the plus size gal.

Although I had the world’s worst attitude for a big girls dance, I did meet a few men. One was an extremely hairy Armenian man named Kabe, whose base body temp ran cooler than most other humans. He was icy to the touch and I didn’t care to be his heat source. You’d think his hair-suit would have kept him warm but apparently he needed a hefty heater hottie.

Then there was the very beautiful African American guy named Phido (spelled with a PH) who was dressed as a pirate. It wasn’t a Halloween dance. It wasn’t even Oct. His Blackbeard get up was all I needed to decipher that he was gay even though he didn’t know it yet.

Lastly there Barry who was so totally into me that I found it embarrassing and had to tell him I was too ill to date. Imagine how bad I felt running into him at the next dance I attended and having to make up a story about a miracle cure!

Finally one night after going to at least five of these dances and never meeting Mr. Kind of Normal, I found myself talking to a gentleman from Zimbabwe. His name was Zuka, like “Luka I live on the second floor” but Zuka. He was tall, thin and very handsome. His smile engaged me right off and I was intrigued by the ease in which he carried himself. I couldn’t be cold to him: he was too charming. I was definitely smitten.

After dancing to a few songs, we sat down at one of the tables. On the table was a very long hanging tablecloth and a sad wilted balloon centerpiece. It was an hour or so before any food would be served, so we had the table pretty much to ourselves.
As we were sitting there, chatting not touching, Zuka with no fanfare whatsoever removed his penis from his pants. It lay on his thigh like a very un-festive Yule log.

Like almost everybody, I have done some things that I am not very proud of but taking my junk out in public is not one of them. You certainly wouldn’t call me prudish but it has never occurred to me to whip out my breasts for any reason. No I have never been to Mardi Gras.

When I was a little girl my mother would often encourage me to not wear panties to bed saying I should “air it out” as if my va-jay-jay was a smoky stinky room. Air it out! Was Zuka’s member merely getting a bit of fresh air as it was hanging out?

Zuka continued talking as if having his willie out on walkabout was a perfectly normal occurrence. At one point he casually took my hand and tried to put it on his Mr. Johnson. I resisted. I got the feeling that like a farmer bringing his cow to the market, Zuka was letting me see what he hoped would be my merchandise. I however was not buying.

I am unsure of the mating rituals in Zimbabwe and didn’t want to insult him but honestly I was shocked. Did he think I was going to scream, “ Yes I want some of that. Lets get busy under the table. We’ve got an hour to kill before dinner. Lets burn off some of that buffet!

Worried that the organizer of the dance Fernie would come by to check on us, I whispered to him to put that thing back. At first he thought I was teasing and asked, “ of which thing do you refer?” As discreetly as I could I motioned down. “Oh “ he said “ don’t you like it? You must not be attracted to dark skinned men? You must be a racist.” Zuka was making a lot of assumptions but in his accent they still sounded charming.

Everybody knows that girth girls are easy. We are so grateful for any attention, we want to pay it back ten fold but even the most grateful know when they are being played. Having had enough, I got up, left the table, left Zuka, left his Zimbabwe sausage and headed home.

Sorry Sex Symbol, You've Got the Wrong Number

2011-06-21T22:43:00.000-07:00

I asked my mother what sex was. She said " A man was a man and a woman was a woman." She then continued " Women and men are the sex." She wasn’t lying but that wasn’t what I meant and she knew it. I wanted the verb definition of the word sex and she was giving me the noun definition. I managed to piece my own theory together. I knew that the man took his “ ya know” and placed it gently in the woman’s down there. There he stayed motionless for as long as he could stand it. He hovered above the woman with all his weight on his hands and arms, not speaking, barely breathing. The sex act was not unlike heating a Hot Pocket. To cook a Hot Pocket, you simply place it in its crisper sleeve and leave it in the microwave. You do not take it out, put it back in, take it out, and put it back in any number of times. You certainly don’t kiss it before eating. When the man can no longer stand being immobile or the cheese has melted, he very gently extracts himself from the mine field that is the woman’s down there, careful to not touch the sides (not unlike the game of Operation) and falls asleep. The amount of time he is able to keep his "ya know" in her "down there" is equal to how many children the man and the woman want to have. You only have to look at the size of the Duggar family to realize the great upper body strength Jim Bob Duggar must have.

I may not have been entirely clear on the “ ins and outs” of sex but I knew who the greatest sex symbol of all time was. The woman whose "down there" every man desired: Raquel Welch. She was known both for her “ body of work “ and for her work body, especially her "up theres!" Raquel was the star of “One Million Years B.C, “ “ Fantastic Voyage” and “Mother, Jugs and Speed.” She played the part of Jugs, if you hadn't guessed that already. I knew that if I could have just seen her film “ Kansas City Bomber” all sex secrets would be revealed. My parents refused to let me see it. There had been a big pictorial on the movie in Life magazine. I knew that Raquel played a roller derby queen, a bad ass roller derby queen in a very tight shirt. The shirt was so incredibly tight that her breasts flailed about knocking her opponents to the ground. It wasn’t her skating ability that made her queen of the rink it was her bust size. My parents stood fast and continued to refuse to let me see this vastly instructional film.

Julian and I were living in our first apartment, located just off Hollywood blvd. It wasn't exactly a palace, with just one big room and one bathroom. We had a futon, a bistro table, two chairs, and a TV. Our apartment looked out on the picturesque Crumb's Donut parking lot. Crumb's wasn’t just a haven for fried sugared dough ball aficionados, it was also the waiting room for the mobile brothel that would pull up each night. The whore-a-bago, did a slamming business between the hours of 11pm and 5am. The johns would drink their coffee and enjoy some maple bars until it was their time to go into the coochie couch and have their pleasure. One time as a pimp was beating one of his girls, we opened up our one window, shouting at him to stop or we would call the police. He replied that she was his woman and that they were from De-troit, so he could do what he liked. We didn’t understand or appreciate his logic, and called the police anyway.
In time the Hooker mobile stopped coming and we were able to sleep through the night.

Once after returning from a disappointing run at the flea market, I dashed into the bathroom while Julian listened to the messages on our answering machine. Immediately upon exiting the bathroom I asked Julian if there had been anything good. . “ No not really “ he said “ your Mom, my Mom and oh yeah Raquel Welch.” "Raquel Welch “ I screamed." Raquel Welch, the first lady of sex, that Raquel Welch?" He replayed the message for me to hear it.

“ Hello Irene, this is Raquel I’m in town staying at the Beverly Wilshire. You know I’m here for that stupid court case. I’m so bleeping bored. Call me. Room 918 “ She sounded phony and drunk- everyone we played it for said so.

Raquel was indeed in town for a bleeping court case. She had been cast in a new version of John Steinbeck’s “Cannery Row.” Allegedly she had taken too long each day to get ready and had been fired. Understandably it takes a lot of time for her to get into character. She sued MGM for wrongful termination. She must have been hanging out at the hotel, waiting to testify, sipping a glass of Chardonnay, and drunk dialing friends.

We had been getting phone calls for this costume designer for quite awhile. In fact we had gotten so many calls for her, we had her actual phone number. We rang her up to give her the message that Raquel had called.

“ Hi, this is Julian and Christine, the people who have your old phone number. Well um Raquel Welch called looking for you. Do you want her suite number? She’s staying at the Beverly Wilshire."

“ No, please, no,” the famous costume designer shouted into the phone. Sounding more frightened than angry, she continued, “ Whatever happens do not give Raquel my number! No No No!” She sputtered a bit more, thanked us for calling her and hung up. We called Raquel at the hotel and gave her assistant the info that she had the wrong number for the costume designer. Julian and I felt like a little bit of stardust had fallen on us. Although we lived in a horrible tiny apartment, we were going to make it in Hollywood. Heck with friends like Raquel Welch, we were guaranteed to succeed.

Raquel won 11 million dollars in her court case against MGM. She wasn’t in movies for a while but she had a nice chunk of change in the bank. I still haven’t seen “ Kansas City Bomber.” I think later, I’ll cook up some Hot Pockets and watch it in her honor. I'll remember the day she left us a message when we our apartment butted up to the parking space of the "Stiletto Heels on Wheels."

Always Talk to Strangers

2011-06-06T23:05:00.000-07:00

My mother likes to talk. She thinks she barely speaks. Believing she practically ignores the bus driver, the librarian, the hardware store clerk and even the man behind the meat counter, she goes about living her life conversing. In Walnut Dale, the little town she lives in, she chitchats with everyone. She chatters to post mistress Gail, the UPS guy Sam and the dentist Dr. Corman. Bantering with the bridge keeper as he lifts the drawbridge for the house- boats to go under, she does not pause. Once the bridge keeper gave her a box of chocolates because he had a crush on her, so she stopped talking to him for awhile. Her silence only lasted for a short time. She not only speaks to her cats, she often speaks for them. My mother would be appalled to know I consider her "chatty."

On one occasion we ran into a Senator’s wife in Locklen. Locklen is the tinier town next to the tiny delta town my mother lives in. Mrs. Senator greeted my mother as “ Katherine Shields, the Grand Dame of the Delta”. I grew very tense when my mother answered back" I've been meaning to speak to you." This rarely goes well, when my mother wants to speak to someone about something. One time my mother marched into a synagogue and demanded to speak to a Rabbi. She wanted him to explain “ Israel “ to her. Apparently she was satisfied with his explanation and never went back. Luckily on that day in Locklen, my mother only wanted to talk to the Senator’s wife about a fund raising luncheon. Whew, I had been afraid she would want an accounting of how her campaign donation had been spent.

I suspect that she was always friendly and assertive but she likes to paint the picture of herself being young and very aloof. She grew up in Walnut Dale. Well part of the time she grew up in Walnut Dale. Her parents moved around a lot. Her Father, Joe worked for the government. He either planned roads or planted trees. Every time she tells a story, he has a different job. After Walnut Dale they lived in Sacramento and then Los Angeles and then back to Sacramento where she attended McClatchy High School, which still exists. Her parents divorced and she and my Gommie moved to LA. Katherine then went to University High School or Uni High, which also strangely enough still exists.

Never winning any prizes for attendance my Mother would often cut school and go to the movies. She would take her 50 cents, get a tuna sandwich and a lemon coke at Woolworth’s, catch the Wilshire Bus downtown, see a double feature and still have money left over for a box of Jujubes. On a chilly day in Dec. 1941 she ditched school and did just that.

1941 was a terrific year for films. Films released that year include, Citizen Kane,
The Maltese Falcon, The Lady Eve and Dumbo. But on this day, late in Dec. she was probably seeing “ Penny Serenade” starring Cary Grant and Irene Dunne. Katherine saw it six times and used at least two handkerchiefs. It’s a tearjerker.

On her way to her favorite seat in the dead center, she ran into an old schoolmate from McClatchy High School, Ray. He was working as an usher. She greeted him warmly.He seemed pleased to see her but slightly nervous. How odd to see him in Los Angeles, had he moved here with his family?

Ray didn’t have a chance to answer Katherine’s questions, as the newsreel was about to start.
They promised to get together or whatever it was they said in the 40s. Perhaps he said something like “I’ll see ya in the moving pictures, toots” or perhaps "gee you're swell" as she settled down in her chair.

The following Monday, Katherine decided she would go to school. She had her favorite class , Public speaking. Her assignment was to get an article out of the paper and give a talk about it in front of the class.

Imagine her surprise, when she opened the paper to see a picture of Ray, the boy she’d seen at the movies.

Here is some of that newspaper article.

Boy Confesses Killing Father, Mother, Brother and Sister

Raymond Watson, 16-year-old farm youth, today confessed he shot and killed his father, mother, sister and brother, because “ he hadn’t been getting a square deal around the house.” Sheriff William Butcher said that Watson had been apprehended in Los Angeles, Calif. after the LAPD had received an anonymous tip.
Once in police custody, the youth admitted he had planned the slayings for a long time.
The bodies of his father August 50, his mother, his sister Anna Mae 10 and his brother
Kenneth 5 was found in the basement of their burning home.
“I would do it again and I’m not sorry” Watson told Butcher.

Ray had been on the lam when he had run into my mother. I wonder if he thought she had alerted the police to his whereabouts? Had he sat in his prison cell cursing her and swearing he'd have his revenge?

My mother received an A in her public speaking class and never heard from Ray again. Sometimes it is better to talk to strangers rather than the people you know.

I Got Tips from Drag Queens

2011-05-31T22:37:00.000-07:00

Once in the nineties, I went to a club called “ Cherry Bomb,” that featured music from the eighties, for people born in the seventies. I was standing at the side of the dance floor drinking a Singapore Sling( complete with a paper umbrella,)when a six-foot tall drag queen wearing marigold colored wig and a faux-fur coat came up to me. She was brandishing a comb and a can of Net hair spray as if they were weapons. Without saying anything besides “trust me” she gave me a stylish new hairstyle right there on the dance floor! I was stunned and didn’t know what to make of it. Finally deciding it would be best to be gracious, I thanked the Lone Styler effusively. She brushed my thanks away and was off with a flourish and a flounce! I never knew why she had chosen me to help but I was grateful for the dance club make-over.
I have always loved men who dress as women; Drag Queens, Cross-Dressers, and Pre-op Transsexuals. Obviously I watched “ Some Like it Hot” a few too many times at an impressionable age. This love turned out not to be one sided as evidenced by what I like to call “my most memorable drag incident.” This drag occurrence happened at a bar called” Raza.” “Raza” has been around for an extremely long time; it’s a pretty tired drag bar. The drag done drug, honey. Picture the club from “ La Cage Aux Folles, strain it through a lens of 40 years of despair and failure, add in some dust, condensation, dead fly wings and you’ve got “Raza”. For my friend Kyle, all he wanted to do was to go and have some drinks at Raza for his thirty-fourth birthday and that is exactly what we did. Kyle has a big gay personality but was never much into cross- dressing. I think he enjoyed the theatricality of the event and assumed he would be the center of attention. Since our party of six was there to celebrate, we got the most primo seats available, right around the stage.
The performance set-up was more of what I imagine a strip club to be like; U-shaped, with the audience seated around the outside. The performers would promenade the U while lip-synching to strangely appropriate pop songs like “Our Lips are Sealed” and “ Nasty.” Once Kyle got a few drinks in him, he started to wave around dollar bills around to get the entertainers over to where we were sitting. He especially liked the Latina Tina Turner. He even said he could go straight for her but since she was a he, he wouldn’t have to. Since it was his birthday, Latina gave him special attention, singing directly to him while doing a booty shake.
Kyle demanded that we all give money to the dancers. I protested, not feeling comfortable but Kyle insisted. It was his night! A beautiful drag queen, kind of a Hispanic Dolly Parton came over to me. As I tried to give her some money she pushed my hand away. Gazing up at her curiously, I attempted to read her expression and again tried to put some money in the blue gingham garter she wore. Swatting my hand away, she removed a five dollar bill from her cleavage and gave it to me. What was the etiquette in this situation? I had no idea, so I tried to get her to take her money back. She simply shook her head, put the bill back into my hand, took out another five-dollar bill and gave that one to me too. Kyle was shocked- it was his birthday and the drag queen was giving me money! This was unprecedented. I didn’t know if I should be flattered or insulted. Sashaying up to us came another drag performer, this time a kind of a Thai Madonna. She too started giving me her tips. By the time they finished, I had over $50! Thaidonna and Lola Parton never spoke, so I couldn’t decipher what they were trying to tell me by giving me their money. Did they think I was in drag as some kind of a secret shopper, someone from a competing drag bar who was stealing trade secrets? . Perhaps they thought I was a woman who needed a lot of help? I had kind of dolled up for Kyle’s birthday wearing not only make-up but a bustier as well. Clearly I was a woman. Should I be insulted or massively complemented? Was I so womanly that I was almost an idol to the drag queens? Were they giving me tribute? I guess I could have caused a scene or forced them to take their money back but I decided to accept the money as a sign that I was truly one of the girls.

The Amazing Real Life Adventures of An Ordinary Child

2011-05-26T20:01:00.000-07:00

Seven years old, and I had my own television show. No, I wasn’t a child star unfortunately. This show was only in my head. I would pretend that my life was a hilarious sitcom or riveting drama. Trying, as hard as I could to make my suburban child’s existence a little more interesting or at least viewer friendly. Yes, I created Reality programming when I was still in Mrs. Rothgib’s second grade class. My genius was never recognized. According to my mother I never ever just walked down stairs. I had to do it with a flourish – the cameras were rolling. Always at the ready should someone ask me to do the twist or to sing, “These Boots are made for Walking.” Oddly enough these requests rarely came up. My favorite episode of “The Chris Show” was the one I’ll call “A Trip to the Emergency”- combining the true-life escapades of a 7 year old with a medical drama. Think Bindi Irwin in “Grey’s Anatomy.” One beautiful summer’s day, I was riding my blue Stingray bike with sissy bars up and down Richland Ave on the sidewalk. I wasn’t riding in the street- that would be dangerous. Far better to ride over the uneven bumps made from overgrown tree roots than the smooth asphalt. Singing, “Spinning Wheel ” at full, unharmonized volume as only a tone-deaf child can do. Unexpectedly, I hit a rock and was thrown face down on some bricks that bordered a lawn. My chin was split right open. I still have the scar! Since my parents didn’t drive (making exotic locations out for the show), our neighbor Randy Forrests drove us to the emergency room. I wasn’t crying until I realized that good television needs drama and I turned on the waterworks. I know if my “Ow, it hurrrts!” monologue had been published; aspiring young actors everywhere could have used it as an audition piece. “Hi my name is Mandy, and I would like to do the Emergency Room monologue from “The Chris Show”. Thanks.” After hours and hours and hours or at least half an hour, I was shown into an examination room. The Doctor was very nice. His name was Doctor Quick, which I thought was hilarious! We had waited so long but his name was Dr Quick. Get it? Ok give me a break; I was a kid, not Bruce Valanch! He stitched me up, blew air into a surgical glove and drew a face on it. What a perfect image to project as we went to commercial.

There was one episode of the “Chris Show” that I was relieved never made it into syndication - you know, the syndication in my head. Down the street from me lived the McCarthy family. All the McCarthy’s were blonde, beautiful, kind and good. They were so nice that when I pretended that I knew how to swim and was invited over to play Marco Polo and nearly drowned, they didn’t make a big deal of it. They saved me and suggested we play tag instead. My favorite McCarthy was Lynn. Lynn was about 4 years older than me, and looked like a model (they didn’t have super models back then or she would have been one for sure.) She told me that there were fairies in their backyard and to close my eyes. After a few minutes, I would be allowed to open my eyes and search for these fairies. When I found them, they were “frozen” stiff with fear. Forbidden to touch them, I would stare at them, willing them to move. Curiously, these fairies or figurines looked a lot like Disney characters. Most fairies don’t look like Goofy, Pluto or Daisy Duck, do they? Lynn was also friends with a girl named Karen Lacemund. Karen was a dork. I didn’t like her nor did I like the competition. I wanted to be the only star. Eventually, I resolved to do something about it. I would break that friendship up in a way that could never be traced back to me. In front of Karen’s house, I wrote in chalk on the sidewalk, “I hate Karen Lacemund signed Lynn McCarthy.” In front of Lynn’s house I wrote “I hate Lynn McCarthy signed Karen Lacemund.” To throw them completely off the scent I misspelled every word but hate and I. The Police must have used some great detective work for they were able to pin the crime on me immediately. Perhaps I had left a fingerprint in the chalk or someone had called the tip line. There was no trial, no representation and I was forced to apologize to everybody. The “Chris Show” was canceled shortly after. My non-existent network was disappointed in my numbers.

I Want Candy

2011-05-16T17:09:00.000-07:00

I need to confess something. It isn’t pretty. You will definitely think less of me.
Let me give you some background first, some understanding of the why. I grew up in a household without food. We weren’t poor: we were just dieting.

My Mother watched what we ate. Tall and slender, she intended to stay that way and now, at 86, she pretty much has. Kudos, Mom. My mother can make a meal out of plain lettuce and dry Melba toast and declare it delectable. In addition to her “healthy food “ thing, she is also opposed to what she calls “chemicals,” which translated means Saccharine. Long, long ago there was a delicious beverage called “Pepsi Light.” “Pepsi Light” was a diet soda but it didn’t taste like a diet soda, it tasted like nectar. Secretly, I would buy “Pepsi Light” on the black market, AKA the grocery store.

Knowing I couldn’t keep it in the family fridge (though there was plenty of room) I kept it hidden in my closet in a shoe-box, like how some people hide their porn.
Alone at night, I would enjoy a can of the delicious (though room temperature) lemony elixir, feeling both at peace and sugar free like how some people enjoy their porn.

Then one awful, horrible day, my mother discovered my “Pepsi Light” stash. Calmly she removed the contraband from the closet, walked down the hall to the bathroom and emptied all twelve cans – several shoe boxes worth – into the toilet, flushing that deliciousness away forever.

Curse you Mother! How I mourned the loss of my drink, my special treat and knew how Christina Crawford must have felt. My mommie dearest had destroyed the only fake sugar item I would ever love.

Junk food was also on my mother’s least wanted list. We only had potato chips in the pantry for when she made her tuna casserole, badly. At my friend Dena Tuttle’s house they had every snack treat and all the cool board games. I tried to go there as often as possible. “Why yes, I DO want to play “Operation” and eat Strawberry Zots.”

Now my mother wasn’t completely cruel. I was allowed to go trick or treating and get candy that way. But she would just take most of the good candy: your Snickers, your Mars bars and your Butterfingers. She liked sweets, she liked them a lot, hence the reason we couldn’t have any in our house. Since this was one of the few approved ways to get candy, I went trick or treating well into college.

Candy became my drug of choice. I would search high and low for sweets. When I found them, I would revere them but consume them hastily, not daring to get caught holding a Blow Pop or Jolly Rancher Fire Stix.

From about age 8 to age 11 my Mother’s friend Celia would give me a Gingerbread House decorated with jelly-beans, melt-away mints and flavorful hard candies. The house looked so beautiful the two and half seconds before I attacked it. When I turned 11 Celia declared – perhaps at my mother’s insistence? - that I was too old for Gingerbread houses and stopped giving them to me. Did she not know me at all? I would never be too old for candy. Devastated, I realized I could no longer depend on the kindness of semi- strangers to feed my habit.

Taking matters into my own hands, I sought out a more direct way to get my fix. I found other candy addicts or cand-dicts. Monica was one such friend and we would ride our bikes to Bergman’s Dept. store jonsing for the junk. Upon arrival we would go directly upstairs to the candy-counter, not even stopping at the notions department. Once there we would choose whatever our candy theme of the day was: mint and chocolate, peanut butter and chocolate, and chocolate and chocolate.

With our bags of confections, we headed to the lanai area of Bergman’s. We would sit by the “not cleaned nearly enough” carp pond, eat our chocolate and get sugar high.

You don’t see your department store lanais much anymore. They seem to have gone the way of jelly glasses and Whatchamacallit bars.

When my mother sent me to fat camp in ninth grade, instead of learning good eating habits that would last a lifetime, I learned how to shoplift extra large bags of M&Ms and oversized Hershey bars from our weekly jaunts into town. Skills that might come in handy later in candy rehab.

What I’m getting at is that the getting of candy is very important to me.

My mother was never one for (her words) over-doing things. In her mind, it was perfectly acceptable the evening before Easter Sunday to go out into the backyard and carelessly throw various chocolate Easter eggs, bunnies, peeps and jelly beans in the garden. By the time Easter morning rolled around the candies would be covered in dew, dead bugs and snail trail.

Sometimes the actual snail would be stuck to the candy goodness – talk about
un-appetizing. When I actually chose to throw the candy away rather than consume it, you know there was a problem.

Ok here comes my confection confession that will make you look at me askance.

I am the Easter Grinch; well, I am the wannabe Easter Grinch. My fantasy, since I was a little girl was to wake up very early Easter morning and go to other kids houses and steal their Easter. Take the gorgeous Easter baskets, and the yummy Easter candy and even the super fun Easter toys. Take them and keep them for myself. I wouldn’t go to the poor neighborhoods, not because I cared about the poor but because they usually hide their Easter goodies inside and also I want top quality Easter treats.

I wouldn’t just hit one house or two; I would hit whole neighborhoods - Larchmont, done, Brentwood, done. Even parts of Los Feliz. I would take their Easter and finally I would have perfect candy that would be mine all mine. “You’re a sly one, Easter Grinch!”

I bet I could get my cat Yoshi to put on some antlers and be my assistant. Luckily he doesn’t like candy or we might have a problem.

Oh and Bow Wow Wow- you are mistaken. Candy is not better when its wrapped in a sweater. Candy is best unwrapped, and waiting to be eaten just the way some people like their porn.

The Wack Job

2011-05-09T15:01:00.000-07:00

His idea for our first encounter was a bit unorthodox. Instead of meeting at a Starbucks and sizing each other up over a hot beverage, he thought a better idea might be if he came over to my apartment, removed his clothes and jerked off in front of me. I had to admit, having a stranger masturbate in my living room was an ice- breaker! But I’m the kind of girl who wants dinner and a show, not just a “let me show you what mine can do.” He was very specific on how it would all go down, specifically that there would be no going down, no mutual touching whatsoever. Using words like sensuous and safe, he described how he imagined the scene with him sharing his most private of moments. He hoped that I would wear a cream -colored silk robe and hold a red rose while I watched him enraptured. It was as if he was trying to make it sound more like a boudoir photo taken at the mall than him playing with himself at my place. In answer to your question- no, he wasn’t responding to a Craig’s List Casual Encounters. Craig’s List hadn’t been created yet. I had placed a LA Weekly Personal ad along with a group of my gay male friends. Since I had been off the market for five years, living with a boyfriend, I really didn’t know how dating worked anymore. Had things changed so much that people skipped the whole courtship phase and went right on to puppetry of the penis?

Describing himself as tall, toned and tanned, with a swimmer’s built, he certainly sounded hot. He had the kind of voice I liked; part surfer, part stoner, with a little bit of uncalled for arrogance. His message sounded more like an audition monologue than an ad response, as if he rehearsed it many times. He said his name was Sean. He didn’t mention his party of one until I called him back. Since I didn’t say yes or no to his offer, he kept me on the phone chatting for quite awhile. He seemed intelligent, funny and a bit lonely. We talked about comedy, movies and how he liked to piss off his neighbors by dancing in his living room nude. An understatement might be, he was extremely comfortable with his own body. I also admired what I felt was his directness. He knew what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to ask for it. He kept repeating how much he wanted to perform for me, how much I would enjoy it. I wasn’t convinced – it really wasn’t my thing.

Meanwhile my friends hadn’t been quite so lucky with responses to their ads. Aaron had mentioned his obsessive love for the singer Nico and how he wanted a guy who was just as obsessed with her as he was. Sadly his “Extreme Nicotine” ad got no takers. One afternoon, as we were commiserating with Aaron at our friend Michael’s house, one of the other ad writers, Lance used Michael’s phone to check his ad’s mailbox. Laughing hysterically, he motioned for me to come over to the phone and listen to one of his recent responders. It was a guy named “ Scott” who was tall, toned, tan and had a swimmer’s built. At the first syllable I knew it was Sean, he hadn’t even reworked his response to be gayer- it was totally one size fits all. Then Lance played the message for Michael, who recognized “ Scott “ as “Bill” who had answered his ad too. Michael had also heard “Bill “ on a number of other phone chat lines. We couldn’t even imagine how much time and money this guy was putting into his “self –loving at your house” quest. Why didn’t he just look for a jerk off buddy? Irritated, Lance decided to create a sting operation that would teach “ Sean” (when he was being straight)/ Bill (when he wasn’t) a lesson. The plan was for him to come over to my house, get started and when he was underway, Lance, Michael and Aaron would all come out of the closet and confront him. I was unclear about what sort of lesson they thought they could teach Sean/Bill. Never one to keep a secret, I immediately told Sean that I knew about his answering of the other ads. He admitted that it was he but he had only been trying to find a date for his gay friend Scott. What a good Samaritan! He immediately segued in questioning me if I was agreeable to his idea of a meeting. I told him I was still undecided and secretly started my own detective work on him. Through clever questioning (Nancy Drew had nothing on me,) I found out he swam at Santa Monica College, owned his own Title company business on Greendale Avenue and that his real name was Calvin. I’d like to say that I didn’t become a little obsessed in discovering the truth, that I didn’t drive around in a brown wig, sunglasses and a big hat, hoping to get a glimpse of him but I can’t. I had no luck and eventually he became just an example of personal ad freaks. One way of discovering the truth would have been to just take him up on his offer but it seemed more than a little creepy and a lot unsatisfying.

Years later my friend Bob opened his own CPA office in Santa Monica on Greendale Ave. When I went to pick up my taxes, I realized it was the same building where Calvin had his office, the same building that I had stalked. I asked Bob if he knew Calvin and he did. He described him as tall, kind of nerdy, and naturally a little bit weird. Apparently he and his wife ran the Title Company together. Calvin would come to Bob’s office and try to put the moves on Bob’s receptionist, Stacy. One day he confessed to Stacy that his wife was abusive but he was too afraid to leave her. I think he thought if the receptionist was sympathetic to his plight, she might sleep with him? It seemed like a funny way to ingratiate himself with her. Eventually Calvin and his wife moved the business across town. Perhaps Mrs. Calvin had caught on to her husband’s ways? I have often wondered if anyone had ever taken him up on his personal ad offers. Though I will give him points, he was at least practicing safe sex. Recently I did a Google search on Calvin /Sean/Bill and found a picture of him. Standing with his wife and his kids at a bar-be-que, he appears normal and average in his “ kiss the cook” apron. He seems more likely to come to your house and grill the chicken rather than choke it

Best Not Best

2011-05-03T06:45:00.000-07:00

If you want to set my teeth on edge, sign your email with the word “ best.”
I know everybody does it. I certainly get it from all manner of friends, and acquaintances. Admittedly I have even used "best" myself but only because of peer pressure. " Come on, all the cool kids are besting." Do not best me, bestie. When I see “ best” so and so, I picture someone with a very tight face and pursed mouth saying “ best.” It is impossible for me to hear “ best “ in a friendly way. Like a rejection letter, “best” seems so curt and unpleasant. I don’t buy “ best.” You don’t really mean best, do you? What you are saying is “ best get out of my periphery, best get out of my sight, best get out of my in-box.” Best is cold. Best is detached. Best is indifference. Best is the the "Dear John" letter without the relationship. I get that “sincerely” is too old fashioned and “regards” too formal and what in heavens name is one to do with “ fondly?” I like “cheers” but some think it is like a fake British accent- both pretentious and silly at the same time. “Fondly” is too easy to misinterpret- he signed “ fondly- he must love me!" “Warmly” is good but also just a moment away from xoxo. There are some easy fixes to “ best.” “ Best wishes,” “ All the Best” and “All my Best” are much better than the lone best. Just to show you that I can compromise, I will even allow “Best!”
My next sign off rant will be on the use of “ more soon." “More soon- can’t you just tell me now, why ya got to leave me hanging?"

Talkin S**t on the Radio

2011-04-30T21:05:00.000-07:00

I was excited. I had just booked my first paid acting gig. Not only was it a job, but it was one in which my skills as an improviser would come in handy. Sure it was just a radio spot but it still paid $50.00 for only ten minutes worth of work.

I hadn’t even had to audition. The acting opportunity had happened as always I knew it would- it had come to me. It didn’t seem strange that I hadn’t had to put out any effort obviously this was the way big time show business worked. Workshops, classes, and the honing of ones craft were for suckers.

During my shift at the video store, my “just for now “ job, I met a nice man named Jaime. He turned out to be a booker for the Mancow Morning Madhouse radio show in Chicago. Since I lived in Los Angeles, I wasn’t familiar with it. Jaime said it was extremely popular and broadcast all the over the country. Commenting on how much he loved my voice, he wasn’t surprised to learn that wrong number callers would often leave messages on my answering machine asking me out. I was perfect for radio.

When I told Jaime that I had studied improv for a number of years, he was ecstatic. He thought I would be ideal for a spot on the show. I pictured performing a radio skit or perhaps doing a celebrity impersonation. Jaime confessed that while they did do bits like that sometimes, I would be needed for a much more specific kind of character. I would be a “ real” person confessing to an unusual fetish. He wanted me to pretend to have a thing for men with dingleberries.

Here’s an interesting thing about the word “ dingleberries,” there is no way to define it in a non disgusting way, even if you English it up and use the word “bum.” Here’s a definition with regards to an animal “ a small clot of dung, as clinging to the hindquarters.” Please do substitution of suitable human words silently in your head. Another word for dingleberry might be “kling-on.”

Now I am often fascinated by the fetishes that people sometimes have. Is there anything more intriguing than people who dress as clowns and sit on cakes for sexual excitement or just plain ole furries? But having a dingleberry fetish, I think even a hardcore fetishist would have trouble understanding that.

Yet again, it was a professional acting job. Everyone has to start somewhere. I probably couldn’t put it on my reel or my resume but I would be able to say honestly that I had some radio experience. I accepted Jaime’s offer.

My call time was 4:45 for my call. Dragging myself out of bed at 4:30, equipped with a cup of tea and a blanket, I was ready to make radio history.

The night before, I had done my character homework and created a back -story for my character. What sort of woman sought out a man with such bad personal hygiene?
I decided that Keira had lived in Scotland for a time. There she had fallen in love with a widowed sheep farmer named Rowan. Rowan could barely make ends meet and would only allow himself the luxury of bathing once a week. Having lumbago made it difficult for him to reach all those hard to reach places. Unfortunately poor filthy Rowan had died in a tragic lanolin accident. Keira had returned to the states but often sought comfort in the pungent smell of the dingleberry. I had my character’s motivation, I was at the ready when Mancow called. He quizzed me relentlessly on my so-called fetish. I don’t remember all my answers but I remember using words like earthy, musky and fireman. I was so believable that even Mancow was a bit taken aback and at one point asked incredulously “ don’t you find this disgusting?” Never losing my character, I replied " No it is just how I am wired." When my fifteen minutes of fake fetish was over, one of the producers got on the line and congratulated me for my Stella Adler like commitment. Although they promised to send me my $50.00 I never received it. I didn’t pursue the payment, I didn’t want to have to identify myself as the “ dingleberry lover.” Sometimes in acting, it isn’t about the money but the joy of a performance well dung.

A Man Can Be A Bitch and Other Things I've Learned from My Hairdresser

2011-04-12T20:22:00.000-07:00

She sounds like she is on the verge of crying. Why haven’t I called her back? She is worried about me. Is something wrong? Have I found somebody new? No it isn’t my lover calling me so frantically, it is my hairdresser, Nara. If she saw the long stretch of grey brown on my head, ending in processed yellow, she’d know that I haven’t been seeing anyone else. Each inch of brown hair measures a month that has gone by since my last appointment. Obviously, I have no beautician on the side. I’ve been having a challenging financial time and sadly my hair is paying the price, since I can’t pay the price. Shes called me three times. Yes we are more than client and stylist. Nara has come to my birthday parties before and if I ever got married I know she would fix my wedding hair. I’ve been seeing her for years. I am committed to our relationship. When I first started going to Nara she worked in a salon that was part of a beauty supply store on Franklin Ave. It was kind of embarrassing to sit there with peroxide on my hair as customers shopped for Aveda products. For some reason, almost every time I was sitting there the character actor Curtis Armstrong would come in. Curtis, who appears to be constantly working, was then most famous for his role as “ Booger Dawson” in the “Revenge of the Nerds” Trilogy. He seemed to examine every single product for sale as he made his way around the store. I don’t think he ever bought anything, not even once. Also if you know who I talking about, he doesn’t seem like somebody who uses a lot of product. I would be quietly willing him to get out. He wasn’t doing anything to me except be a silent witness to the arduous process of becoming a natural blonde- again. When Nara moved on, I followed her. The best time was when she was working, illegally, out of her house. I would sit under an arbor of ripening grapes as she highlighted every other strand of hair. After washing the chemicals out in the bathroom sink, we would take a break. Nara’s mother would bring out a tray of lavash bread and honey and tiny Armenian pastries. Then Nara would read my fortune in my Turkish coffee cup. She only worked at home for about a year and then got a job working in a salon on Larchmont. There she has her own room and also does threading or ancient hair removal. Watching her pull the thread with her teeth and twist it around any stray facial hair is an amazing sight to see. We’ve been through many things together: her excitement at finally finding a man to love, marrying him, divorcing him because he never wanted to go anywhere, her travels to Russia and Cancun. I wouldn’t know that Armenian Christmas is at a different time than Dec. 25 or that a man can be a bitch. My friend K has amazing luck in getting free haircuts and blow- dries and colors, she knows how to work it. I think I would feel too guilty if I went to someone else. In Nara’s message she says if I need my hair done, she will do it no charge, that I have always been such a great customer, such a dear friend and that she misses me. I realize I am quite spoiled. Sometimes we don’t fully understand the affect we have on people and the affect certain people have on our lives. Oh Booger, buy something already!

Operation Night Soil

2011-04-11T22:15:00.000-07:00

My neighbor on the left side is an older Filipino gentleman who spends much of his time mowing his lawn, gardening and cursing in Tagalog. He swears mostly about the neighborhood animals using his lawn and his flower- beds as outdoor litter boxes. They are merely trying to fertilize his lawn naturally. Many of these animals are the feral cats we take care of, some are the irresponsible neighbors’ cats and others are just neighborhood roamers. Luckily it is illegal to harm them in any way.
He complains to anyone who will listen, having long conversations with the UPS guy, the meter reader or the Laundromat customer making their way home with portable laundry baskets of freshly cleaned clothes. He can’t stand me, believing that I am a recruiter for feral cats and am training them to crap on his lawn. I offered to do “poop patrol” in his yard and clean up any fouling. This was my Mother’s first idea. His response to my offer was to latch his gates closed in a complicated and mysterious way, as if I was enjoying sneaking into his yard and collecting samples. I assure you I was not. Next I gave him a spray called “ Boundary” that acts as kind of a force field against cats. Judging by the amount of cats lounging among his roses, I’d say he isn’t using it or they have become impervious to it. I’m trying to work with him. It causes me a lot of stress to see him glaring at me when I park in front of his house. My mother believes she has come up with a solution. She ordered a new product from England that calls itself an “ animal deterrent.” What this evacuation impediment is, are little plastic mats with prickly, plastic spikes. The advertising blurb states that when the animal tries to step on the mats, the plastic teeth “confuse and irritate” them without harming them. Confuse, irritate and hurt, these mats sound more like some kind of torture device to me. There is one warning “ that this product is perfectly safe to use in most places, however avoid areas where young children play or where cats may jump directly from a height.” Yikes! Luckily it also claims to be inconspicuous around plants- thank goodness, I wouldn’t want the plants to catch on! Another selling point is that it safeguards valuable bulbs and seedlings- it isn’t only a deterrent, it is a bulb bodyguard. Sleep easier knowing your bulbs are safe. In order to use this product, one simply cuts the mat to fit and presses it into the soil. Voila – Le cat shall scat and scat on your chrysanthemums no longer. OK I’m all for discouraging without harming the cats but how do I present this product to my neighbor? “Hey Ramon, sir, here are some thorn mats made out of recycled plastic, how about you put them in your yard?” We haven’t successfully communicated in the past. I fear if I simply present this rather fierce looking product, he may think I am threatening him. He already thinks I have some kind of poop collecting fetish, now he’s going to think I’m into pain. Though I bet if we were having weird sex parties over here, he'd like me a lot better.

5 Stages of Good Grief He's an A**hole

2011-04-06T18:35:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine, Charlotte was recently horrified to learn that her seemingly noble and moral husband, Irv was cheating on her. It wasn’t just with one woman and one time, it turned out to be a cooter-quest for Irv. Meeting as many women as he could “safely” meet in a week, sometimes doing two per night. Since he is over twenty-five he is thought of as a womanizer, not a man-whore. He could be considered a player if he was more honest, and a ladies man if he was more charming. The truth about womanizers is, they usually aren’t the hottest guys or the best looking guys. They just know how to lie really well. Charlotte’s husband, Irv, is likable because he doesn’t appear to be emotionally dangerous in the least. He seems kind of nerdy, and bookish and radically un-hip. Luckily Charlotte went through the grieving process pretty quickly and is moving on with her life.

Stage 1 Denial

Charlotte confessed to me upon finding out the truth, she felt like she was a character in a novel, nothing about this seemed real to her or her life. Having had some experience with womanizers before Irv, she had always been careful about getting involved with someone too handsome or too slick. She couldn’t believe the man who had spent so much of their time together whining and complaining about being the victim in his own life was having as much sex as a professional baller.

Stage 2 Anger

One of the qualities that had won Charlotte over for Irv was how he made her feel so important to him, like he was doing a cleanse and she was his water. Now she understands she may have been the water but he was the shite. Charlotte was angry as she had ever been upon learning the truth but it wasn’t so much with Irv but at
herself. How had she let herself be conned by such an average- looking man and one with so many nervous tics and obvious flaws?

Stage 3 Bargaining

Charlotte had a brief moment of wanting to work things out. She went through the
“ If he promises to change and stay faithful, maybe we can stay together” process in about five minutes. Then she decided since he was a womanizing hehag, he would have to pay, no bargaining involved.

Stage 4 Depression

Using her feelings of bitterness, frustration and sadness as fuel, Charlotte is staging a war against her soon to be former husband that in most cases would leave the target broken. Irv doesn’t think he did anything that bad, so this will probably just affect his finances not his high opinion of himself.

Stage 5 Acceptance

Charlotte accepts that her husband was an a-hole and that she really didn’t know him at all. His actions while hurtful to her, actually had very little to do with her. The only way you can win with a womanizer is to move on. She realizes that she wouldn’t want him back as he will never change. Supposedly Irv found his soul mate with a female version of himself-stop watches are out to see which one of them cheats first. I hope it’s Irv’s new love, jeez that guy is a jerk.

Amsterdam You

2011-03-27T22:46:00.000-07:00

This is how the story ends, with me stoned on hashish tea, asleep backwards on a bed in an Amsterdam holiday apartment with my hair in a tangled, crunchy mess. The Ivory soap I used to wash my hair with hadn’t been rinsed out. The soap is the explanation for the homeless hair, the hashish the reason for sleeping backwards but really there was no defense for using bar soap. They do have shampoo in Holland, and I’m told in some cities, conditioner even.
It begins with me using the train bathroom while the train was still in the station in Belgium, which may be illegal. I was convinced this usage would cause the proper authorities to come and take me away to Brussels bathroom jail. I missed the huge notice forbidding toilet use as I went in. When my friends burst into uncontrollable laughter upon my exit from the lavatory, was when my paranoia kicked in. Between guffaws, they pointed to the extra large sign in five extra large languages, one being in English, cautioning against using the toilet while the train was stopped. I assumed I would be confined the whole weekend in bathroom jail, because my traveling friends Jonathan and Seth wouldn’t want to waste any of their precious mini break getting me out.
Luckily the proper authorities did not track me down and I was able to leave a small memento for the people of Belgium without any jail time.
Jonathan lives much of the year in Paris, that is when he isn’t traveling the world for business or when he isn’t traveling the world for fun. Work Singapore, fun Berlin and boring home life Paris. Jonathan has a pretty fabulous life.
Whenever anyone visits him for any length of time, he likes to take him or her to another country for the weekend. He doesn't do this in a kind of a show -offy way.It is as if it isn’t fabulous enough that he lives in Paris but that he can also jet set off to any number of cool places like Rome, Madrid or Morocco if he so chooses. On my first visit to Paris, along with my friend Seth, we went to Amsterdam for the weekend. We took the night train, which seemed to make the journey three times as long, but maybe that was just because of all the stops.
After nearly being arrested, I thought I would never be able to sleep but somehow the rhythm of the train lulled me into an easy slumber. Unfortunately every time I would get into a dream state, I would snore and Jonathan would say sharply “ Princess! “ and wake me up. I did not get a lot of sleep on that train ride. I admit I do snore loudly but I don’t think that is the reason that the German Tourists who shared our couchette left hastily in the middle of the night. I’m almost positive they merely wanted a snack and then fell asleep in the smoky and uncomfortable club car, sitting straight up because they wanted too. Though, they did seem less friendly in the morning.
While in Amsterdam we stayed in one room together in a little hotel; earplugs had been purchased upon arrival . We then saw the Anne Frank house, the Van Gogh Museum and went to an old secret church that had been hidden in one of the traditional town houses. Dining on rijsttafel or Indonesian rice table, pancakes and beef, we experienced many of the culinary delights of Holland. We visited the famed Red Light district with their live prostitute mannequins decorating their shop windows and even went to the Torture museum. Getting in as much of Amsterdam as we could get in 48 hours.
No visit to Amsterdam would be complete without visiting one of Amsterdam’s famous teahouses, the establishments that serve (legally) hashish tea. I have never been much of a drug taker and am a complete light - weight when it comes to mind altering substances. We drank the tea at the Rainbow Tea House and nothing seemed to happen. As the evening went on, I felt no buzz what so ever. Jonathan and Seth finally conceded that I must have some kind of freakish tolerance to hash. We then went over to a beer bar or “brown bar” as they are called. I was sitting there with my two good friends drinking a coke, when suddenly out of nowhere I said, “ What’s that bird?” Now we were in a bar at night, there were no birds to be found. Sometime later I realized it was the sound of a slot machine but again not especially birdlike. I was, as a frequent visitor to the Rainbow might say – completely shit faced!
Deciding that it was probably best for me to call it a night, we all walked back to the hotel, Jonathan and Seth making sure I got into the room without incident. Not ready to end their evening they went out again. In my stoned state I realized I really needed to wash my hair and took my clothes off and got in the shower. I had no shampoo so I just used soap. As I was lathering, I suddenly became incredibly tired and got out of the shower without rinsing my hair. After putting my sleepwear on, I once again became bone tired but I knew something wasn’t right. Now this is where I really can’t follow my thinking process because instead of sleeping in my bed the right way with my head on the pillow and my feet at the end of the bed, I slept completely backwards. All turned around with crazy hair, is how Jonathan and Seth found me the next morning. That would be my first and last trip to Amsterdam, for the next visit to Jonathan we would go to London instead.
In London it began by taking the Eurostar and getting searched by Scotland Yard.

A Haunting by Lovers

2011-03-22T23:06:00.000-07:00

There we were, parked in our old, Easter- egg blue, Dodge Dart: on the side of Highway 5, in the middle of the night, in the middle of winter. Every time a big semi truck would pass us by, both the car and I would shake. I was convinced that at some point, a truck would careen right into us. A version of that would happen to me, only I wouldn’t be in a Dodge Dart, but a black Honda Civic and our car would be the one doing the careening. On this night, I was cursing my boyfriend Mike for buying such a crappy car and cursing myself for wanting to go up to my Mother’s house. She lived in a tiny town on the Sacramento Delta called “ Walnut Grove.” We weren’t going up there from Los Angeles to visit her but to visit my cats. My mother was back East, trying to rekindle a lost love. Since Mike and I were usually broke and this was kind of a spontaneous trip, we had decided to drive up. Somewhere outside of Lost Hills, the Dart had died and there we were broken down on the side of the Highway. It was freezing in the car, as it had no heater and we hadn’t thought to bring blankets or anything else in case of emergency. We never had anything in case of an emergency. The purchase of a broken down but once cool car was so indicative of Mike’s personality. Once kind of cool, he was now worn down from his view of his own inadequacy. He rarely drove the car. It usually sat in the underground parking of our apartment building in the dull section of Los Angeles known as Palms. Mike worked at a 20/20 Video nearby and would walk to work. I took the bus daily to my bank job in Hollywood, begging friends for rides home. To relax, Mike would sit in the car, secretly smoking, drinking huge Sapporo beers and reading old girly magazines. I think he thought I didn’t know but I did and didn’t care.
After surviving the night on the side of the road, Mike called his friend Eric who had sold us the car. Eric lived in San Jose, just a couple of hours from where we sat parked. The morning dragged on and finally Eric arrived. Soon, we were back on our way, this time with Eric in tow.
Since my mother never had any food in her house, even when she was home, we stopped at the ironically named “ Big store” and picked up some provisions. My Mother’s house resembled the Dodge Dart, in that it too had no real heating. A fireplace and an oven were the only sources of heat. The steak dinner we ate in front of the fire was one of the most delicious meals I’ve ever had.
We all went to bed early, partially because it was so cold in that house and partially because of our highway adventure. I slept in my old room, Mike in my Mother’s bedroom and Eric on a couch in front of the fire. All my mother’s cats sleep with me for extra warmth.

I was in a deep comfortable sleep when I was awoken by “ Chris, Chris- wake up. There are ghosts here.” “ Huh”? I asked opening one eye and then reluctantly the other. Eric was standing in the doorway, with an old plaid blanket wrapped around him. Already the palest non-albino male I knew, he looked ashen. “ There are ghosts,” he repeated. Ghosts are in this house.” I went to wake up Mike, Eric trailing behind me. All I needed to say was “ Mike wake up. Eric says there are ghosts” and Mike bounded out of bed. Studying to be a geologist Mike enjoyed debunking any kind of supernatural phenomena. He considered himself a scientist of the first order, even when checking out videotapes. Wrapping the blanket around all of us, we went back in front of the fire and Eric told us his story.

While his stomach digested his big steak, Eric slept soundly. His slumber was interrupted when he heard “ Kiss me again.” He thought it was part of his dream but he kept hearing it over and over again. “ Kiss me Again. “ Kiss me again.” The voice sounded eerie and unnatural. Now fully awake, he dropped off the couch onto the cold floor, looking around the room. Although he was still in front of the fire, he shivered. Once Eric realized it wasn’t me talking in my sleep or Mike or both of us together in a passionate embrace, he started to get frightened. Could the voice be coming from outside? Perhaps two lovers were rendezvousing at the Dentist’s office next door? When Eric peered out the window he realized it was far too cold for anyone to be out there, let alone two lovers. Seriously creeped out, Eric needed reinforcements and that is when he woke us up. Mike and I did our own cursory look around but could find no ghosts or hiding lovers. Suddenly Mike gasped and pointed to the small picture hanging on the wall near the fireplace. Titled “The Lovers” it showed a couple locked in a tight embrace. Were there ghosts trapped in that picture, forced to live out that hug for all eternity? Had they been screaming, “Kiss me again” to waken Eric out of his slumber and get him to break the picture and release their spirits? I don’t know but at that moment with a chill in the air, sleeping in the car parked at the side of the highway seemed like a better bet for a good nights rest than the cold haunted empty house belonging to my mother.

Hey Universe, it's me Christine

2011-03-14T22:21:00.000-07:00

I just took an online psychic ability test. My results were surprising and I certainly did not see my being rated as " not particularly psychic." I think I"m kind of psychic, at least where other people are concerned. Perhaps I'm don't have a lot of "online" psychic ability. Yesterday my animated Facebook psychic Daniela said " big financial changes are coming. A business partner or associate is going to plug you into a very lucrative deal." I'm psychic enough to know this is totally coming true. Daniela isn't my only Facebook psychic, there is Zamora and Christina too. Zamora looks completely like a cartoon gypsy fortune teller and Christine looks like Christina Aguilera which is disconcerting to say the least. Christina Aguilera shouldn't be wasting her psychic energies on me, she needs to focus all of that energy on herself. I wonder if the live Christina also has a pure white animated cat?
I see a live psychic every other week- don't judge. Actually she calls herself an intuitive. Her name is Patrice, sort of, her name closely resembles that name. Patrice is a large woman, with a large disease and beautiful sparkly blue eyes. I bet she was extremely cute in high school, she is extremely cute now. She doesn't make predictions, nor does she go into a trance. Sometimes I ask her what she's heard lately. I like to think of the "spirits" as big time gossipers.
Another psychic ( oh yes I've been to a few) told me I had a guardian angel named Rick. I complained that he was doing a crappy job watching over me, unless he was like Amelia Bedelia and took the direction " watch" literally. How could my guardian angel just stand by and let me get into car accidents, be fired or have my heart broken? Could he not run interference for once? Lazy Rick, if he isn't helping then he is hurting. I wonder if one can get a restraining order against a guardian angel? I've started making Patrice read the tarot cards every time, it makes my session seem more " legitimate" somehow. The readings all seem to say mostly the same things: abundance, good things coming,success and big time happiness. I'd say these readings are right on the money. I believe that all these good things are coming. Here's the thing, I can't explain why or how but I do think that since I started seeing Patrice, I really am a better person. I'm not as angry, I don't hold on to grudges and I'm more focused. I'm putting the positive out there in the Universe and believing it will come back to me. I guess if I act "as if" long enough, I won't be acting, I will just be experiencing all that good. Look I'm not an idiot, I know there is so much bad, so many disasters happening, all the time, all around us. All I can do is try to be a better person, try to have a good life and try to love with my whole heart. I guess I better forgive Rick the lazy ass Guardian Angel.

It Isn't Always Fair, Weather

2011-03-07T17:25:00.000-08:00

I want to talk about a very specific weather condition: when it rains and the sun shines. I hate that. Is there anything worse than indecisive weather? Well yes there is, but still it drives me insane. In the South, this weather is called “The devil is beating his wife.” In France, raining and simultaneous sun shining, is referred to as “ The devil is beating his wife and marrying his daughter” and in Germany “ When it is raining and the sun shines, the devil is beating his Grandmother: he laughs and she cries.” Obviously the off-kilter nature of this weather isn’t quite right and many find it unsettling. Other names of this meteorological phenomenon include: a monkey’s wedding, the jackal’s wedding, rats marrying, a hyena is giving birth, foxes taking their bath, the witch is braiding her hair in the rain and in the sun, and lastly “ There is a funfair in hell.” Sometimes people call it “ Sun-showers.” Doesn’t that sound kinky? “ Oh Bill and Hazel are crazy nasty, they are totally into sun-showers.” The belief is that a sun-shower is a sign that rain will occur again soon, specifically that it will rain the next day. Now the weather isn’t only indecisive, it is a lazy procrastinator. “I don’t have the energy to really full out rain today but I will tomorrow. I promise- cumulus swear!”
It also seems like the weather is not being truthful about its feelings. ‘ No I’m totally happy to see the sun shining. No the sun and I made peace. We are in a good place now. Though honestly I don’t get why everybody is always making such a fuss about him. I mean he’s alright, if you like that kind of obvious heat.” Everyone says that when it rains and the sun shines at the same time, that’s when we have rainbows.” Rainbows for rainy sunshine- that trade off isn’t worth it. Rainbows seem so seventies to me, like macramé and unicorn sand candles. So weather, make your freaking mind up one way or another and take some action. No more of this hemming and hawing, decide if you want to rain or shine and stick with it. Mother Nature just sent me a text- she is pissed at your non-inclement attitude.

Gigantic Monster Market

2011-02-19T20:49:00.000-08:00

I believed I could handle it. I thought it shouldn't be too bad at 10:30 a.m. I vowed to be strong and face this fear, after all it was just a grocery store. How bad could a trip to the Gigantic Monster Market possibly be? This is not its real name. I'm convinced that the owners will somehow see this and take me to court. I had been to this market before, once on my way to Jean's house.I had only stopped for some half and half and some pastries but I came away with an additional rage headache. Could their goal be that every moment spent there be as painful as possible for the customer? Today again I was on the way to Jean's house but I hadn't had a confirmation call that she and the baby would be home. I bravely thought to kill some time at the Gigantic Monster Market, not knowing I would be killing some brain cells too. People line up in their cars, on San Fernando Road and wait to enter the parking lot. Once in, the parking space battles begin and end and start up again- an endless loop of rudeness. One thing about the GMM customer, they aren't thoughtful, they aren't polite and they are monstrous in trying to get what they want, the next Hunger Games could be set there. The store- entrance is on the far right side and the exit is on the far left side. You can't go in through the exit side or leave through the entrance. You have to make your way through the whole building to get out. I'm sure there have been many casualties of people who beg their families to get out while they expire in meat aisle. There are many things to recommend this store, great prices, a mixed nuts bar, a bakery, a cheese aisle and a variety of unique Hispanic and Armenian items. They even have hookah pipes! But it is the produce area that causes the most distress. Everyone has a cart and the staff is stocking and moving large trash cans around. I was waiting for someone to move their perpendicularly parked cart out of the way, and one of the produce guys yelled at me for not yelling at the cart offender. Sure I got a dinosaur plum and a Ya pear but I didn't like getting chastised by someone wielding a price gun. It may be a law there, that you should never get out of the way for someone- take all the time you want blocking the aisle looking at discount juice. When I finally got in a check out line, I didn't have anything I had gone into the store for. Naturally the people behind me, kept accidentally ramming their cart in my back, with only a lackadaisical shrug for an apology. As I was waiting and waiting to be rung up, I wished I would faint- it might have sped things up a little. If I had actually passed out though, I bet people would have just rolled their carts filled with twenty cucumbers and packets of fish heads right over me and then yelled at me for causing their cart to roll funny.

Wack the Pinata With Your Head

2011-02-08T11:31:00.000-08:00

I fainted during Pinata the other night. I had a relapse of my bronchitis but was feeling better and didn't want to miss what I knew would be a very interesting evening. We had some people who had never done the show before. I felt that I needed to read too, to kind of balance things out. I make the show line-ups by what kind of energy the reader brings- even if I don't know their work. I don't want to end on a really sad note or have two melancholies in a row. I like a variety of styles, energies and experiences. I also knew we would have a good audience and after the last Comedy Klatch audience of 6, well I wanted to bask in the glow of an audience of 35 or so. The show starts off well, I read, people seem to like my essay. I'm standing in the back listening to some great stories when I start to feel kind of funny. I go to into the office portion of the lobby. I'm sitting at the desk and I start to feel that hot nauseous feeling I get when I'm going to faint. Yes I have fainted a number of times over the years but it had been awhile. I think to myself " Oh no I am not going to faint." This is one of my problems, I refuse to accept that I'm going to faint and thereby get on the floor or put my head between my legs- I fight fainting with all I have, which at that moment wasn't much.
According to Tom S who found me, that at first it looked like I was sitting in the chair sleeping, with my eyes closed and my chin tucked in. Then I snapped up and around, eyes wide open, and spun around off the chair, landing on my back on the floor and with one leg up on the computer. My eyes were still open. I was groaning and gritting my teeth until I came too. I remember only Tom asking me if I knew what had happened and I said " Yes I fainted." He thought it looked like a seizure but it felt like my regular fainting. It turns out that one of the possible side effects of the cough medicine ( Tessalon Perles) I was taking is fainting. Everyone was very kind to me during this ordeal. Tom getting me a pillow and water, Karen insisting I have some Goldfish crackers, Gretchen calling Kurt and Jenny driving me home in my car. Sarah, Aliza, Tom, Gretchen all offered to drive me home and I was very grateful to everyone for their concern. Luckily most of the cast didn't know what happened and the show went on to much acclaim and enjoyment. Brad, one of the readers joked that he thought my fainting was my Producers way of proclaiming the show a knock-out. I think I will stick to a Facebook status congratulations or a thank you email in the future. Passing out is too dramatic to use every time there is a good Pinata- they are all really good and my head isn't hard enough to withstand repeated bumps to it!!

But Where Will the Film Geeks Go to Graze?

2011-01-28T10:44:00.000-08:00

If you've ever been to Vidiots in Santa Monica, you know it is more than a DVD/video store; it is a community and an archive. The selection of movies they carry is astounding including some very rare films that haven't made it to DVD. Vidiots is going to die and die soon if people let it. Netflix and downloading both dealt Vidiots damaging blows, business has been dropping off for awhile now. People don't like paying what they think are high prices but Vidiots is an independent store, it doesn't have the resources of a chain, they are the specialty boutique of movie rental stores. Along with the fee you get a really knowledgeable staff who is very happy to help you. The owners are sending out a letter stating if you love the store and want it to remain in business, then rent a movie once a week or rent out the screening room. Come back, little customer, come back!
I've worked there for nearly 20 years- yes a testament to change avoidance. I'm not saying working in a DVD store was ever my dream or is it now. Working there allowed me to pursue writing and performing, it was flexible and it was a family. I've made so many friends there. I've learned so much. I've had some truly unique experiences like having a disemboweled rat fall on my head, witnesses a sudden swarm of bees over traffic on Pico only for the swarm to suddenly die and turn Pico blvd into a street made of dead bee cobblestones, had the late great Gregory Hines kiss my hand and my cheek, have my favorite customer ( who turned out to be a massage molester after he moved to Utah) bring me homemade bread and wine)and had a low budget director return three VHS tapes with a used condom smashed between two of them. Yes we've had all kinds of characters. There was an actor once who would come to the store for hours ( no exaggeration) and then not rent anything. He liked being in that environment where people talked excitedly about movies. I always felt too like we were a substitute for bartenders for the sober set. People would come in and just want to talk. If someone was getting sick the first thing after picking up juice and cough medicine was to get some movies! Family event - get some movies, you might not be able to keep the conversation up otherwise. Obviously since I work at Vidiots I have never Netflixed. I can't understand how one knows what they want to watch a week from Thursday. What will film students do when they miss the film they showed in class, or the old customers who have renting a film as part of their routine? I sincerely think if Vidiots closes there will be a huge gap- a wound in the film community and in Santa Monica.

My Bad College Professor Story

2011-01-18T17:00:00.000-08:00

Last year at Bang, I did a show called “ My Bad.” The theme of the show was to tell two stories; one in which bad had been done to us and one where we had done bad. Participants had the choice to read an essay or to speak extemporaneously. I chose to just tell my story. One of the stories I chose to tell was the story of how Dr. Thurman (not his real name) had wronged me. I have decided now is the time when I will write down the story of Dr. Thurman ( rhymes with the real name) and his wrongs, for he wronged not only me but others as well.
As there is a ratio of 4 to 1 of my San Jose State stories to my UCLA stories, you can almost assume it was at San Jose State. If I wasn’t trying to be slightly discreet I’d say for sure that it was at SJSU but I am, so I will just say it was during my University years. Dr. Thurman was an amazing teacher. He used fear and sharp wit to keep his classes riveted. One had to stay alert, as he would shoot a question at you when you least expected it and if you didn’t know the answer, you simply were an idiot. Fools and dreamers alike suffered at the hands of Dr. Thurman. History of the theatre was a fascinating subject especially in his capable hands. He was hilariously funny, so funny that you’d forget your fear of being chastised in class for a moment, you were laughing so hard. He was extremely short of stature, kind of homely and balding. Dr Thurman was attractive because of his great sense of humor,intelligence and in spite of his obvious not good looks. Kurt never believes me when I say “Yes in men sometimes a great sense of humor really does trump obvious physical beauty." Once I got over my fear of Dr. B I mean Dr. T, I loved his class. Often I would go to his office hours ( something I never did) and hang out and chat for a bit, still scared and nervous but enjoying it all the same. I was doing great in that class, maybe fear and funny is my key to learning. Then came the mid-term and I went absolutely blank. Suddenly studying and paying attention in class and everything I had done correctly , went right out the window and I couldn’t remember anything. The question that stands out in my mind was something about the beginnings of theatre. I literally wrote that the Greeks weren’t like Andy Hardy and couldn’t just put on a show in their barn. My exam answers went down from there. My test was a disaster and nothing could save it. There wouldn’t be a disaster like that until Dr. Thurman produced a play in SF called Pyka ( may be the real title not sure) that had the guy who played the Russian guy on “Man from U.N.C.L.E.” and was about the bomb. Ironically the play about the bomb bombed badly and all the reviewers had a field day with that one. Still enamored with Dr. Thurman, Jerry and I had taken the train to SF to help paint sets but we were there too early and just had lunch instead but our intentions were good. Anyway getting back to my crappy test, instead of writing a big fat F on it in red pen, Dr. Thurman wrote “ What happened? See me” in green pen. When I told him about my horrible block, he agreed to not count that test. Yes this was an incredible good deed and luckily I aced the final. Alright, so I’ve got my favorite teacher, Dr. Thurman and it is decided he will direct a show at school next semester. The school, I’ve not named outright, had a playwriting contest and the winning play was always put on the following year. I think Dr. Thurman’s production was one of the prize winning plays or maybe it was just some other play and he was determined to rebuild his reputation after his SF bomb play. "St Deb" was the title and I tried googling it and nothing came up, so I don’t know if it had a life after it was put up at school. If you are the author, don’t worry I’m not about to slam your play. Dr. Thurman comes up to me just before summer break and hands me the script to "St. Deb" and says “ I want you to play the lead. I’m giving it to you now so that you can learn it over the summer. You are going to be awesome" ( or whatever sophisticated college professor word he used.) Wow am I excited. It feels so professional. I have been assured of the part. It is a little confusing because while there is a St. Deb character, there is also a crazy sister part that seems bigger, so I’m not sure which one I’m supposed to study. I learn both roles to be on the safe side. Classes resume in the fall and Dr. Thurman has auditions. I of course go through the motions of auditioning but it is just for show- I already have the part. My audition is amazing especially for the sister as I get down on the floor and use a chair as crazy making prop. Brilliant! Man I have got this in the bag! Christine Schoenwald is St. Deb or the crazy sister! Obviously this is my star -making vehicle! Dr. Thurman puts the cast list up, outside the green room. I don’t rush over to it, I know my name is there but I need to appear humble- that is how we big time stars act. Finally the crowd thins away from the posting and I saunter over there only to find out that not only am I not St. Deb or the crazy sister, I haven’t been cast at all!!!!!!!! Some tiny, small-waist girl with huge breasts named Debbie is St. Deb. I’ve blocked who was cast as the crazy sister. Excuse me, I was on the floor wrestling with a straight- backed wood chair in my audition and I didn’t get cast? I was given the script the semester before and assured I would have the lead and I wasn’t cast? WTF- it was supposed to be my star- making vehicle, not Tiny Breasty’s. Needless to say I am upset. I travel down the hall like a tornado of tears and upset. The next day, I am no better when Dr. Thurman takes me outside the building to have a talk. He's going to explain to me why he did the awful thing he did, to make things better, or so I think. Nope, while he feels badly, he explains to me, he went with a younger cast and I was just too old. At the time, I was the ripe old age of 22! I am livid and get no better when I discover I have to be House Manager for the play, meaning I get to take tickets and greet people and act enthusiastic about the production. I slightly get my revenge when Dr. Thurman gives way too many comps and I make him pay for some, embarrassing him in front of people he wanted to impress.
As if Dr. Thurman’s crimes against me weren’t bad enough, he does something even worse. At the end of his tenure at my school, Dr. Thurman left without turning in the final grades for his students. In fact, he never turns them in and all his students get Fs in his class. It is a scandal of the highest proportions, that you’d think would prevent him from ever teaching again but doesn’t. I hear he is quite happily teaching at a school in So.Calif. St. Deb must be watching over him.

Remembering the Parking Lot Gang

2011-01-13T21:11:00.000-08:00

They were known quite simply as “ The Parking Lot Gang.”
Not a gang so to speak, just some kids who hung out in the parking lot at our high school. No real crimes were committed like robbing liquor stores or rolling drunks or anything like that. Smoking, yelling at passerby, flipping people off was about as “dangerous ”as they got- still they scared the crap out of me. One girl threatened to beat me up twice and I'm still not Facebook friends with her- ha that'll learn her!! Cranking their car eight tracks up- Boston, Lynard Skynard,Ted Nugent filled the air and yes I meant to say eight tracks! The harder the guitar riff- the better for reverberation. Rumor had it that the occasional joint or beer was passed around. Sometimes they smoked but like the song says, that was usually in the boys room. They cut class often and openly. Looking back,I don't know how they cut class and got away with it. When some friends and I ditched and took the bus to the mall, snotty but pretty Mary Beth Lake, squealed on me and the school called my mom. My mom had had a history of cutting class when she was in high school, so I didn't get in trouble, but I sure could have! The Parking Lot Gang's whole social scene was surrounded by the smell of exhaust, gas and smoke. Donuts weren't eaten but created on the asphalt. Old jeans and rock tee shirts( that you actually had to get at the concert) were the unisex uniforms. Feathered long hair was also for both. The girls had rabbit fur purses and rabbit fur jackets. Everyone carried their smokes and their combs in their back pockets- it was so bitchin!
Our yearbook staff thought it would be hilarious to put the Honor Students in the parking lot leaning against the cherry Camaros and muscled Mustangs for their group photo. I heard that the honor students were very nervous that when their photo shoot ended, their asses would be kicked. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t their choice to pose there, they still needed to pay the price. Posers in the lot were not to be tolerated. Luckily the shoot went off without incident. Since the parking lot gang participated in no official school activities, there was no humorous place to take their picture; like the library or the science lab. Ha ha Enrique Atuna in a lab coat- hilarious.
Now you might assume the natural progression for a parking lot gang person or loadie (as the next generation would call them) would be for them to have ended up as bikers or in jail but the majority settled down,had children and became respectable. As time went on, the PLG people started to rewrite their high school experience. Instead of remembering they hardly went to class, flunked some and generally didn’t participate in any activities because they were too cool, they recalled high school as a happy golden time of learning and growth. They forgot that “parties” were spent smoking a doobie or balling some other PLG member. Calling out someone hadn't meant beating them up but calling for history notes for Mr Burton's class.
Thirty years later, the Parking Lot Gang were the ones most excited about a high school reunion. The last high school reunion I attended was organized by a Lot-er for the Loters. There were no delegates from the Field people (or Stoners’coalition.) The school athletes or jocks were mainly not in attendance. There was a smattering of drama geeks and the occasional cheerleader. Yet many, many of the Parking Lot gang were there, in fact more of them were at the reunion than were ever in class at any given time. Dressed in suits, ties and pressed shirts, the men all looked like adults. The women, were dressed a little more skimpily. Bad-ass doesn’t die, it just gets a little more uncomfortable. One woman, we’ll call her Bethany was dressed like a 1970s cocktail lounge hostess, in a long black dress, plunging neckline and very high slits up the side. Her dress wouldn’t have been so bad, if she hadn’t been so bitchy. When I said “hello “ to her, she reacted as if I was a drunk in a bar on St. Patrick’s day and had vomited green beer all over her dress- horrified disgust. I don’t remember being enemies or friends with her in high school. Generally by saying “ hello” I was saying “ wow we survived high school, we survived life and here we are. We have something in common.” I wasn’t trying to steal her man or put her real weight on her driver’s license. Strangely I'm not Facebook friends with her either but you can bet I commented after her, constantly!
My friend Mari and I developed a code. Bethany was a NAW as in Not Aged Well. Was a NAW better than a NAL (never a looker,)difficult to say. A NAW was certainly better than a NLNTNP (no looks no talent no personality.)The five-year reunion was held at a park, a park under construction. Situated between some parked bulldozers and concrete bags was the sweet spot for the reunion. I didn’t go to that one. At almost every reunion I have been to, there has been a fight in the parking lot. As respectable as the PLG got, a reunion takes them back to that time when they ruled the pavement and people feared their wrath. One night they're allowed to be rowdy and tough and young again. One night and that's it, they've got church in the morning and grandkids to spoil.

Gratitude From the No-Longer Emotionally Mutilated

2011-01-11T19:33:00.000-08:00

Thanks to the Extremely False Ex – enough time has passed and I can finally feel gratitude for the lessons his lying and cheating taught me.

Thank you for-

Sharing your secrets and your journeys with me, even though they were fabrications and untruths- they sounded good at the time.

Spurring me to take chances. I didn’t realize the chance I was taking was with my faith in mankind.

Playing one game but giving me the rules for another, knowing full well how I like to follow the rules. You spared me of being able to compete for your love.

Making me feel everything from happiness to intense pain to nothingness: ennui can be a wonderful emotional salve.

Destroying any illusions I might have had about goodness and honor.

Creating a secret language that I thought was for both of us and now I realize you never intended for me to translate.

Helping me to accept that I am an adult and cannot be comforted like a child.

Showing me heartbreak for the first time and giving me a faulty glue-gun for putting
the pieces back together.

Thank you for not choosing me, helping me to dodge the bullet of your endless need.

Making me who I am today and letting me see that not only am I worthy of love, my love to give is pretty awesome. I found somebody who treasures it and me.

Thank you.

Well Blow Me Down

2011-01-04T17:56:00.000-08:00

I have wanted to be more current with my blogs. Writing about things that are happening to me right now! What am I thinking about right now! But I have been sick for over a week and mainly I've been thinking about the past and about Noelle. Noelle died a number of years ago, in the bathtub, drunk and on cold medicine. She wasn't supposed to drink while on the cold medicine, she had been warned but the pull was too great. Noelle is one of the reasons I am hesitant to ever take more than one medicine. I am certain that all medicines react badly with each other and that things you've never dreamed had alcohol in them do. I believe in the hidden dangers. But Noelle's dangers were not hidden, she knew what she should not do and did it anyway. Noelle was the first person that I can recall making me laugh. I was about 6 and I remember sitting on an ottoman laughing hysterically at her repeating the phrase " Well blow me down" over and over. I don't know why Noelle sounding like a drunk and surprised sailor made me laugh but my goodness it did. Making me fall off the stool with laughter, Noelle became my comedy goddess. It was Noelle, who inspired my first joke. We were in Cost Plus with our Moms. They were looking at wines and we were looking at bath products. Noelle said " Those soaps are bright." and I said " They think you're pretty smart too". Noelle laughed. I loved hearing her laughter, it was so real, not fakey sounding. After that I did many versions of that same joke. I was like the Henny Youngman of the playground set." Our Moms were long time friends and every summer around the 4th of July, Noelle and her parents, Nannette and Dan would drive up from LA to San Jose. They came up in a big, red van that they called " Big Red." Dan did all the driving. Nannette, like my parents didn't drive. Noelle was so unique and interesting and she made my world fascinating when they came to visit. We would ride our bikes all over the neighborhood, only stopping to pick the neighbor's flowers or magnolia blossoms. When we'd spy the magnolia blossoms, we'd shout " Low hanging mags!" We'd arrange all the flowers in glasses all around my room. The scent of all those blossoms was heady and overwhelming. We shared a gay doll named Twinkie. He was out and he was proud and we treated him like a king. Washing Twinkie in the sink with a tiny bit of Mr Bubble, we'd declare him " bathed and buoyant". After his bath, we'd place a naked Twinkie in the Barbie car with naked Barbie and naked Francie and naked Casey and throw them down the stairs to have a naked accident. Man did Twinkie know how to party! Noelle made up all these cool stories, she never thought about things the way other people did. Unfortunately it was her oddness that started to pain her. She had her neighborhood friends, she had me but at school she was a loner. We started to drift apart. Since she didn't have many friends to hang out with, she started drinking at age 12. She left school at 16 and moved in with this hippie/biker dude Bute. She began doing more and more drugs with Bute's encouragement. He started beating her up but I had no idea that was happening. I was more concerned with my school drama than with what was going on with Noelle. Occasionally I would get hilarious letters from her describing her life with crazy hand drawn pictures in the margins. Believing that she was special, it was clear to me she would achieve greatness eventually. She finally left Bute and moved in with a crazier guy named Dorian . She steamed squash for a health food store- yes that was her only job - squash steamer. Even with a different guy, life was still beating her up. She continued drinking, it really was her first best crush. When it had come for her to have a separation from alcohol, she couldn't stop speaking to it and died. I wish I could say I think of her when I make people laugh but usually I forget about her. When I do remember her it is like a stab, a jab to my heart that someone who was so special to me just kind of faded away and I couldn't do anything about it. Life did not do Noelle justice and I can't either. Those soaps are pretty bright. Yes they think you are smart too.

A Modern Day Friendship Prospector

2010-12-28T19:08:00.000-08:00

I was mining for friends the other day on Facebook and I hit a rich vein of friendship gold. I found four very significant people from my life, although they might be surprised to hear that. Finding them was like having a bunch of printed-out pages of mapquest lying on the floor of my car, showing me the journey of my life. Obviously a modern day prospector would have to use some kind of contemporary mapping system and mules are hard to come by, much better to have your own set of wheels and directions. The lode was great; I found my college roommate , a guy I worked with at the bank ( who always made me two cakes for my birthday,) and a woman I had known from grade school all through high school and at whose house I had experienced my first grown-up dinner party. Lastly I tracked down a friend of mine, who is one of the smartest and most alternative women I've ever known. It was she who taught me that ultimately it really is O.K. to be different-to be yourself. To most of them, I am Chris. When I started working full time at the bank, I became Christine. Do the people who think of me as "Chris" have a different version of me, then the people who think of me as "Christine?" I have tried to go back to being Chris but it doesn't seem to stick. Kurt is trying to adopt the Chris usage but for some reason he always has to say it three times in the voice of an English schoolboy " Chris, Chris, Chris." You can almost hear the "tine" hanging there ready to be spoken. Is it easy for the Chris people to see me now as Christine? It is challenging for me to use my grade school friends full names now when they were Sammy and Cindy then. Sometimes it feels as if we have all these secrets of each other and yet we really have none. That basic little kid core is still there but we are all grown ups now, adults. What about the friends who knew me first as a young adult, am I the same to them after all this time? Can they give me clues to figure out who I am now? I only lived in the dorm for one year and then went back to San Jose. Was I miserable to live with? My parents had chosen my being away to separate and ultimately divorce. I probably wasn't in the best mood most of the time.
The me, I remember with all these four people is one who knew I would someday accomplish something, probably in performing. I had no doubt. When I was an obnoxious 9 year old visiting my Grandmother in Ireland, I would explain to the Irish children who lived in the cottages, how I was sure to be a big star. Now I know that although I am a pretty good performer, I don't have the business acumen to pursue a career in acting. I do feel whether I am Christine or Chris, or even Cris, I am a writer and that is what I am meant to do. Finding these people from the various parts of my life, is helping me to find those memories, those emotions and will ultimately make me a better writer. Finding old friends can be a bigger pay day than finding gold.

2010 Hid His False Teeth in the Rice Pudding Again

2010-12-20T20:22:00.000-08:00

2010 is an atrocious, old man. He is the elderly guy who refuses to clean himself. He says anything that pops into his head, no matter how hurtful. At the Nursing Home, he squeezes the young nurses asses and is rude to fellow retirees. Calling Mrs. Decanza an old bat or deliberately waving his hands in front of Miss Persimmons’ face even though she, clearly, is blind. Unpleasant doesn’t begin to describe 2010. What makes 2010 such a disappointment is, he started out with such promise. Occasionally there would be glimpses of greatness, of wonder and of breathtaking beauty but as 2010 aged, he got bitter and mean. He wanted to teach the world about loss and sadness. Why are we fooled each time he asks us to pull his finger and then lets out the most noxious gas you ever smelt, cackling as you gag? 2010 wants to still be allowed to drive, so that he can run over all your dreams . His eyesight is so poor, that while he will be aiming to crush your dream of health, he will actually smash your dream of financial security. I'm so ready for 2010 to stop deliberately peeing on my shoes and then laughing like a hyena on steroids. When 2010 whacked his cane on the back of my legs causing me to fall on the cold linoleum, I didn't stay down for long. I got back up, which I have been doing after every one of 2010's little pranks. He wants me to get tired and give up but he doesn't know he is making me more resolved than ever. Besides I've got a new friend coming soon, 2011 and he's going to make everything better!

Small Capacity Heart

2010-12-10T11:07:00.000-08:00

Recently discovered that someone that I thought of as a friend is a huge liar, narcissist, and your garden-variety sociopath. To say he has fallen off his pedestal is not accurate. He jumped from said pedestal and used me as the landing pad.
I take friendship very seriously and always have. I still have friends from grade school and I’m in my “not even close to 30s.” Accepting individuals, for who they really are, flaws and all, is something I work towards. I want them to accept me too with my many faults. Real friends who are truly human are some of the greatest gifts we get in life. Sorry I know that is sappy but it is the truth.
This year I have worked on getting rid of grudges and not holding on to the negative feelings that come as a free gift with purchase.
I have even been contemplating removing an ex- friend from the killing fields of my friendship and friend requesting him on Facebook. I thought no one would betray me like that guy. Burning with rage when I saw this front-stabber, I would whip myself up into such a state of agitation and anger that I only hurt myself. I made the decision to let it go: forgive him for what I felt were his injustices. Forgiving him was huge. A friend of mine once said to me “ You never forget a slight.” Imagine how I reacted to betrayal, my least favorite of bad behaviors. In order to forgive him, I also had to forgive myself and that was more difficult.
I’ve learned that it doesn’t make you more powerful to not like someone and make him or her aware of it with every encounter. Taking the time to discover the positives about people I might not have instantly liked has been amazingly rewarding.
So now I see another false friend in a new light and it is a black one. Every good quality I thought he possessed is absent. He isn’t even honest enough to be considered evil. This is someone with a small capacity heart. I would never have learned the sickening reality about him if certain circumstances hadn’t exposed him. If the person I thought of as a good guy and friend doesn’t really exist, am I required to try to forge a friendship with him? Surprisingly I don’t feel angry or hurt at learning the truth, I feel something I rarely feel-indifference. I think in this case, there is nothing there to build a friendship. He doesn’t qualify for the Island of Lost Friends. Although terribly lost, he never was really a friend. Having none of the characteristics I look for, if he reapplies for friendship status, his request will be denied. Sometimes the most positive action you can take is refusal.

There is magic here

2010-12-06T13:07:00.000-08:00

LA is never thought of as a great American city. We don’t have the energy of New York, the great neighborhoods of Chicago or the charm of New Orleans. I once had a friend who had lived here for two years( for business) and couldn't wait to move back to a “ real city.” I told him he had treated LA like a one- night stand and could never claim to know it. I have a feeling none of it registered for him, so I’m recreating the list here. This is LA the magical not LA the used and spit out.

To really get LA you have to have experienced some things besides Beverly Hills, Disneyland, Universal Movie Studios or the Hard Rock cafe. You have to discover it's unhidden treasures.

You must have

run on the beach in the early morning-warmed by the sun and chilled by the splash of the icy surf
hiked Griffith park, explored the old deserted zoo
explored Angeles National Forest

listened to the Thai Elvis at the Thai Mall Food court

Gone to see a classic movie in a classic old movie theatre ( Last Remaining Seats)

had a picnic and enjoyed a movie at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery

gone to the Jewish Film Festival, or the French Film Festival or the Spanish Film festival-

Explored Little India and forgot for a moment that you were in America

Had a private room at a Korean barbeque with a bunch of friends and sake and come home a little drunk and reeking of smoke but smiling

done Karoake bowling- aiming for a strike and the perfect rendition of Bette Davis Eyes

gone nightime horseback riding

studied Israeli Folk dancing at the Westside Jewish Community Center

bet on a horse at the race track and lost or won but took a chance

had a glass of wine and enjoyed free jazz at LACMA in the summer

gone ice skating either downtown or Santa Monica

seen a free concert, or movie or just enjoyed the boardwalk at the Santa Monica pier

visited either the gardens at Descanso Gardens or the Huntington Gardens. If Huntington gardens, then rewarded your walk with a fine high tea

enjoyed the LA Phil and a picnic at The Hollywood Bowl and see fireworks light the sky

listened to music and gazed at the stars at the John Anson Ford Theatre and for a moment here and there appreciated the stillness and the silence

Went to the Skirball Center for a movie or lecture or exhibit

Eaten at
Philippes
Senor Fish
Casa Bianca
Langers
Jeff's Kosher Dogs
at a dim sum place where they push around steel carts

caught some magic at the Magic Castle or enjoyed an ok meal but a magical view at Yamashiro

Dined at Papa Cristos with about 25 other strangers - had wine, lamb and belly dancers for entertainment

Marveled at The Museum of Jurassic Technology or The Peterson Auto Museum

Been changed at the Museum of Tolerance or astounded at The Museum of Science and Industry

visited the Watts Towers or The Hollyhock House ( Frank Lloyd Wright) or gone on a walking tour of Angelino Heights

actually saw some theatre here, especially something at Bang, especially one of my shows at Bang

taken a cooking class, a writing class, a class that is both a cooking and writing

seen the beauty of it's neighborhoods and it's people and been grateful for this city opening itself up to you, not just left feeling under satisfied before breakfast

Je Ne Regrette Rein

2010-11-23T21:52:00.000-08:00

My friend Jenny inspired two epiphanies for me in the last 24 hours and yet I was the one voted Most Inspirational in college. To be entirely honest, I not only made up the award, I campaigned for it. I didn't think I had a shot at any of the acting awards that year and truly what could top the esteemed honors of "Best Actress in a MINOR role" and "Most Improved" that I had won a couple of years before. "Most Improved" people, watch out Meryl Streep, there's a most improved actress coming up the ranks. Anyway yesterday at Writing and Tea at Karen and Sarah's fabulous new home, Jenny casually said " oh I see your book as a collection of essays." My book went from huge project that I can't even see how to begin, to a quarter, at least, already written. Then today while driving home from a spontaneous tea at Jenny's house I realized I no longer wanted to have regrets. Selling the Wilton house has always been my biggest regret, I should have refinanced instead. But there were some big problems like drainage with that house, that I didn't have the funds to fix. How about I appreciate the funky little house I have? Then there is the heartbreak I've suffered over the years. I recently had a duh moment when I realized " Hey if you like someone more than they like you, that doesn't mean you have less power." So going with that thought and not having regrets, if there was someone in my past that didn't like me as much as I liked them or even if I loved them and they didn't love me, it doesn't mean I lose or I am weak. Isn't any kind of connection good? If they didn't return my affection in the same strength, I'm not going to regret my feelings. I'm going to focus on what I did get out of it, maybe heartbreak made me a better writer, or more focused or kinder? Sometimes I feel regret that I am pursuing this writing dream too late. I used to get offended when someone would say I was a good writer. I would think " But I'm a good performer too." Now I think all that comedy and improv training will help me in surprising ways and it isn't too late to pursue writing, it is exactly the right time. Regret really is a time waster and as fun as it might be to wallow for the wallower, I don't think it is very entertaining for the people who have to listen to the wallowing. As they say in the musical Rent " forget regret" and so I shall.

Hanging with the Wolf Man

2010-11-21T14:35:00.000-08:00

Stewie likes wolf man movies. He enjoys " The Wolf Man," " American Werewolf in Paris, " "I was a Teenage Werewolf " and " Face of the Screaming Werewolf." Sometimes he likes to mix it up and rents " Return of Dracula" or " Undying Monster" but he always returns to the misunderstood and cursed wolf man. Stewie is an intellectually disabled 60 year old man but his movie tastes are of a 10 year old boy growing up in the early 1960s. He is a regular customer at our store. Enjoying the process of taking the bus to get here , giving his list to the employee, and paying the fee, dollar bill by dollar bill, gives Stewie routine. When Shane or Iggy are working, he hangs around the counter chatting, sometimes if there is coffee made, they give him a cup of the too strong brew. If it is a Sunday when Stewie comes in, they will pop in a movie with the sound off and Stewie will watch it as casually as if he is in the park watching the pigeons fight over sandwich crusts. Everyone likes Stewie but Shane and Iggy are remarkably kind and patient with him. Once they all went to an matinee of the new version of the "Wolf Man" and even discussed the merits of the film afterwards. Stewie always responded to Iggy best but grew close to Shane. Shane looks like Jesus and has the kindness of Jesus too. Earlier this year, Shane decided to move back to the Bay Area. We knew that it would be a difficult blow for Stewie. At first Shane thought he would spring the news on Stewie at the last minute but it seemed too cruel. Telling Stewie of his move, weeks before he made Stewie feel like a co-conspirator. Stewie would often say that he would be OK when Shane left. On the last day that Stewie was able to hang out at the counter with Shane was one of the saddest good-byes I have ever witnessed. It ended with Stewie holding Shane's hand, convincing him or himself that he would be fine, that he had Iggy and the rest of the staff to lean on. Stewie was the grown-up that day. Shane sends postcards to Stewie via the store that Iggy reads to him over a cup of that too strong brew. As they glance from the postcard to " The Howling" on the monitor, they both know that Stewie is alright.

Take something for it

2010-11-18T19:45:00.000-08:00

Grrrr, so the "logically challenged manager" really got me peeved- he tried to ban pain relievers from the store for the employees! I know - it is barbaric! First of all, it is a store, we work with the public and the public is always sick. Secondly young or old, this is not the healthiest bunch of people you'll ever meet- every one has something, usually chronic. I don't think anyone of us, has any kind of immune system, if the flu is going around, it will spread like herbed goat cheese! The "logically challenged" manager suffers from migraines and has for years. I think he finally saw a doctor about it last year and I don't know if he takes anything for them. He just doesn't believe in medicine and that is fine for him but some of us need a little Ibuprofen now and then. I always carry some with me but what about the employee who doesn't- must they deal with horrible pain while trying to help someone?
LCM told the owners that massive quantities of said pain relievers were disappearing. Uh maybe people were needing them- does he think that someone is standing on the corner whispering at people " pssst want to buy some Advil? I gots the good stuff but it will cost you." Perhaps LCM thinks that these pain relievers are gateway drugs and if people take them, after awhile they will have to take something harder like an anti-inflammatory? Of course I had to put the kibosh on this and go to the higher ups and plead for the ban to be released. Think of me as the Norma Rae for the pained.

Hiding in Lockers

2010-11-16T18:32:00.000-08:00

Hiding in the gym locker, in the girl’s changing room was my only option if I wanted to survive. The locker walls seem to close in around me. Although I was only 10 and a smallish 10, it was a tight fit. No bully had stuffed me in. I was crammed into locker number 242 of my own accord. Lockers are for gym clothes; tennis shoes and forgotten lunches not swim race phobic children. Every time someone slammed a locker shut, my metal tomb reverberated. My senses were highly attuned, like a hunted animal. I could hear every turn of every combination lock, feel the hot air surrounding me, and smell the mold of unwashed gym clothes of long ago. Through the tiny slits at the top of the locker, I could see the cruel lifeguards searching for participants for the mandatory swim races. I held my breath as they walked by my hiding place, with their whistles and their zinc oxicide marked faces. The air was thick and seemed to be diminishing, would I last out the fifth grade girl’s race or would I pass out before and come crashing out of the locker at the feet of Buddy, Pam or Terri? What if the door of the locker jammed and I was locked in there forever, would any of my friends know where to find me? One thing I knew for sure was that not even a perfumed Honeysuckle Cologne Liddle Kiddle doll in it’s own plastic case could ever cover up the smell of swim fear. How had I gotten myself into this predicament and how did I seem to get myself in it time and time again?

In the hot days of summer in Willow Glen, all the kids would go to the High school pool to swim. Walking down Cherry Ave for what seemed like forever, getting hotter and hotter and sweatier and sweatier, until finally getting to the pool, throwing off our tee shirts and shorts and jumping in. Ah the cool water was always a relief. I remember walking up the long staircase to the high dive and looking down with trepidation but jumping anyway and then doing it again. Heights did not fill me with fear. Competitive swimming and probably dying did. Summers were really were lazy then -days filled up not with camps, or summer internships but bike riding, comic book reading and swimming.
Long days turned into longer days and each day really seemed pretty much the same and so it always came as a shock when it turned out to be Friday and Race Day. Fridays were the start of the weekend for our parents but for us , it was the one structured afternoon at the pool. It was the day of the mandatory swim races, where each age 6-14 girl was pitted against each age 6-14 girl and same for the boys. Kindergarten through 9th grade, everyone had to participate. Everyone. I loved the water but was a terrible swimmer. To this day I can sit in the sea for hours but rarely do any kind of stroke. I can float pretty well but these were mandatory swim races not mandatory float races. If I tried to race, I was pretty certain I would drown. You can’t fake swimming. I had learned that at the McCarthey’s house when I assured them I could swim only to almost drown in a nearly tragic Marco Polo game. “ Marco!” gurgle gurgle gurgle. No far better to hide during my grade than to risk drowning.

I had tried hiding in the bathroom stall, but they would check under the doors and rattle the handles. It never occurred me to just go home, it is if I thought they would check my kid I.D. at locker room door and scream at me “ Hey you are able bodied get yourself in the pool- it is almost time for your event.” Swim like you’ve never swum before!

So there I was waiting and waiting for the swim races to be over, so I could go back and have fun with my friends in the pool. I would be truly terrified of having to participate but once my grade was done, I forgot my fear almost immediately.
I did some of my best kid acting work after my grade had swum. “ Oh I missed the race? I’m so disappointed- oh well there is next week.” I managed to avoid the swim races for the next three years, it was as if I was not only the magician but also the subject and managed to make my own self disappear.

Odd yet Ultimately Fun Day

2010-11-13T10:41:00.000-08:00

Last Monday I brought my car into the service department where I bought it. The check engine light was on. Once the check engine light was lit on my old car, twice removed, and I basically did nothing about it. Doing "nothing" ruined that car and so now I take the check engine light very seriously. I thought I'd drop it off and pick it up a couple hours later- no such luck. The computer in the car was bad and had to be replaced. Naturally the computer needed to be back- ordered as there is a state wide shortage!!! At first it was Ok but then Andy had to go to Las Vegas for business and there was no extra car or driver available. I got a rental car which is quite nice but bigger than my regular car. As I was driving down Pico, my usual route, in the rental and I saw an optical illusion at the corner of La Cienga and Pico, it looked like a carnival! I have never seen a carnival there before and besides most carnivals are at a school or a park or a dirt lot, not in a very busy intersection. Obviously my eyes were playing tricks on me- perhaps the steering wheel had been treated with hallucinogens! As I neared the intersection,it became clear, there really was a carnival and I had to go an alternate route to get to work- more complications! At work I was secretly or not so secretly waiting for our paychecks to arrive, so I could meet the Victator at the movies. The paychecks didn't get there until mere seconds before I had to leave to see " For Colored Girls" which made me quite anxious as I really really wanted to see it. I mean Tyler Perry, Janet Jackson based on a poetic play, it sounded perfect for me. The show times were odd, very spaced apart at our usual The Grove, so it was decided we'd go see the movie at Century City. Century City is not my favorite mall but it seemed to make the most sense to see the movie there. Parking was a nightmare, I'm not sure if it was because being the day after Veteran's Day was a day off for kids or if people were doing holiday shopping but it was jammed packed! There are some stop signs in the garage but mostly it is an honor system of right-of-way and you know how that goes- badly. There I am in the big rental car , nervously driving driving around and getting more and more frustrated. Each time I call Victator we get cut off. I am ready to pack it in and go home when Victator says she'll meet me in the Parking Garage and help me get parking and darned if that isn't what happens. I find her, pick her up and almost immediately we get parking. Unfortunately it is now too late for the movie, there is no way I am going into a movie twenty minutes late, even if they are still showing previews. We decide to see Morning Glory and Victator has coupons. We have some time to kill so we go to the food court and I have some lunch and V has some ice tea. " Morning Glory" is enjoyable enough, especially if the alternative is duking it out in the parking garage. Afterwards we go to this Tea store called "Lupicia" that V had gotten me a gift certificate for. They take their tea very seriously as do I, so it is an enjoyable experience picking out some new tea. Then to V's favorite fragrance counter where we get some free scents. Time to go and Victator being very kind gets in the car with me and leads to the better exit for me to take. She gets out at the entrance and we have a quick goodbye! It turned out to be such an enjoyable afternoon that the hour and a half ( remember Carnival on route) to get home wasn't too horrible!

Truisms

2010-11-11T21:46:00.000-08:00

I don't know if it's being a child in the sixties or being a teenager in the seventies but three things I hold to be true; if you are waiting at a bus stop there is a high percentage that you will be gunned down by a sniper, in almost every town in America( other than Los Angeles, New York or San Francisco), if you have really long hair, the townspeople will gang up and kill you and all drivers of those old funky vans are always serial killers. My friend Kyra has the sniper thing too. I'd rather take a plane or train than wait like a sitting duck for a bus. The bus may never show but you know that on the top of the building across the street from the bus stop is the sniper who has already decided to use you as target practice. You know that old song " Signs"? It's about some store that has a sign in the window saying " long haired freaky people need not apply" so the lead character of the song puts his hair up in his hat and gets the job, only to take the hat off and show the other guy that actually he does have long hair. The employer in the song is not to be confused with the boss in " Raspberry Beret" who didn't like Prince because he was a bit too leisurely. In the version of " Signs" in my head, directly after the long hair reveal, the store owner blows the guy away with his shot gun as the bigoted town folk applaud, hoop and holler. I wrote a story in junior high called " The Story of Barry and Jasmine" which features the backsides of Barry and Jasmine on it's cover. Well I couldn't draw that well, but I wanted everybody to get a feel of Barry and Jasmine. " I didn't think my " prose " could accurately portray them, one needed a visual. Barry has long hair and a spare tire that is falling over his hip- huggers, Jasmine has really long hair and platform/wedgie shoes. At the end of their tragic love story they are killed by townspeople. The serial killer thing is obvious. I'm suspicious of mini van drivers too, even Mad Moms in mini vans. Oh sure most female serial killers are nurses but I ain't getting in nobody's van. This being said I will probably be killed by a crew cut van driving sniper who doesn't like " my kind". Do I need to draw you a picture?

Sometime in Nov.

2010-11-08T14:02:00.000-08:00

Sometime in Nov. my Father passed away. It was many, many years ago but it happened in Nov. I remember it being almost Thanksgiving, the irony not lost on me. For some reason my mind refuses to remember the actual date, sometime in Nov, thats all I know. He was on his way to get my trust paper work signed and collapsed in an Eddie Bauer store in San Francisco. I'm sure he was using the store as a short cut. When I heard the news, I believe from my sister in law, I remember thinking that I should have felt him leaving this earth. That day, sometime in Nov. I was feeling happy and light. When I heard that he had died, I felt guilty for my previous good mood. Sometime in Nov. my then boyfriend Steve and I drove up or maybe we flew. We stayed at Lauren's, at Barb's and at my Father's apartment. Sometime in Nov. my Mother who was divorced from my Father refused to make the funeral arrangements but insisted on being the "headliner" at the Memorial and going on in the last spot. I made her go first, the warm up. The Funeral director tried to give me my father's torn and dirty clothes,( the paramedics had given CPR) but I wouldn't take them. Barb opened the package and I just shook my head. Sometime in Nov. my beloved Father's life ended and I don't have the date to officially grieve him but this way I can grieve him on any day or all the days of Nov.

Smell My Yard

2010-11-01T21:41:00.000-07:00

Boy that sounds dirty. That would be a great euphemism for something. " Yeah, Simone, well you can just smell my yard." Take one part "Smell My Finger" add some " Smell U later" and add just a drop of attitude of Flo from "Alice" and her " Kiss my Grits" and you've got " Smell My Yard." Although I'm not using it as a substitution, I really want you to smell my yard. This morning I got up super early and before I even had my tea and toast, ( gasp) I did some yard work. Andy is really good at keeping up the lawn, parkway and occasionally the driveway side area. For some reason he completely ignores the strip between the lawn and the porch and under the bush in front of the house, so I raked those areas. I also did the side area by the porch. Then I sprinkled this stuff that is supposed to take away the outside odors. Yes I have outdoor cats, and occasionally people's dogs use our lawn and sometimes we have possums, raccoons or skunks who slink across the lawn and the dirt areas- this odor eater stuff was to make it all smell better. It is like carpet fresh for your lawn. I sprinkled or threw it quite liberally everywhere. Unfortunately it looks a little like clumping litter, so that may be a problem down the line but now gee my front yard smells great,like a caramel factory or pecan pound cake! My neighbors who enjoy sitting on their faux leather couch on their porch must be ecstatic. This probably means I'm going to have to do this more regularly. Oh I've thwarted my own self!!

This Isn't What It Looks Like!

2010-10-29T21:32:00.000-07:00

I was caught cheating today- friendship cheating. Many years ago there was a big blow up between some people involved with a show I was in. A current big celebrity was in this show too. She wasn't a big celebrity then but now she glee-fully accepts her big celebrity status. Anyway the fight was huge and people took sides and the show ended its many year run right then. I managed to stay friends with both sides, which is kind of weird because I don't usually, I am a side picker. In first grade when my friend Cynthia would get in a fight with her friend Sabina, all of us first grade girls had to literally line up behind who we thought was in the right or who we basically liked better. It was an easy way to see who won the argument. I always chose Cynthia. Sabina kind of ruled the playground with an iron fist. We played this game called " dollies" where I guess we pretended to be human dolls- creepy now that I think of it. Anyway I inadvertently lifted Sabina's skirt up and was told to go sit on the bench for the rest of recess, which I did. I don't remember the punishment for crossing Sabina but it was severe. Kudos to Sabina for not taking down the names of people who did not line up behind her and using it to punish them. Sabina was tough but fair. I always liked knowing where I stand with people and letting them know where I stand. This year I realized that I am not a mind reader ( I know it took me long enough) and that I often misread "clues" about people's feelings for me. I also realized, people don't need to know exactly what I think of them- sometimes it is kinder if they don't know. After the show blow up fight, I didn't hide the fact that I was still friends with an obvious enemy to the other friends. Sometimes I might in passing even reference the barred friend. I knew that the barred friend could never perform in a show at the other friend's theatre nor could she attend a show- it was unspoken but very clear. Today after seeing a movie, the barred friend and I were enjoying some coffee and catching up, when who should appear to say hello but one of the barring friends! Awkward!
The barree, says the that the barrer didn't know it was her but the barree is very distinctive and I think the barrer did. The barrer was very pleasant and friendly and we chatted for a bit. Of course I was sitting on my hands, nervously waiting for something awful to happen. It didn't, nothing bad happened, it was just very uncomfortable. If were the barree I would have walked with my head down and never would have approached us. I admire the barree for his graciousness but I really felt like I had been caught cheating. Friendship cheating has all the elements of regular cheating though instead of sex, there is usually a hot beverage or snack and you have on all your clothes. You still feel guilty though and often need to take a cleansing shower. The big celebrity never had to chose sides, she just got too big for any of the people involved.

Was I evoked?

2010-10-26T22:33:00.000-07:00

Sometimes when Kurt or Andy or anybody goes to an event that I've been invited to or if they spend time with mutual friends, I ask if I was evoked? I'm not saying that the world revolves around me, but I do enjoy being mentioned. If I can't attend, I like knowing that for a split second, I really was there in spirit. When I ask if I was evoked, I definitely mean in a positive way like " Christine says Hi" or "you know who would enjoy these Snickerdoodles, Christine." Evoke is defined as " calling forth" and that does sound a little like you are using a Ouija board to summon a spirit or something. Unfortunately for my writing career I am not paranormal ( in the ghost or vampire sense.) I'm not malevolent, and am really trying to stamp out my spiteful side. You can usually call me forth with a nice cuppa and some excellent TV.

on another note, guess how many words I had to look up because they just didn't "look right?"

Emotional Day Spa Friends

2010-10-24T13:54:00.000-07:00

I am lucky enough to have quite a number of really good friends. In fact someone once called them my" friend posse." I get a little irked when people ( mostly celebrities) say how superficial and shallow the citizens of LA are. I say you find what you seek. I've met so many warm, creative, truly wonderful people here. Its the same with people who think Los Angeles is Beverly Hills- such a narrow view. There are many great neighborhoods, some of them- magical. Now I have all different kind of friends; mean for my own good friends, creative genius friends, big heart friends and the emotional day spa friends. The emotional day spa friends are the friends that even if you've just spent a short bit of time with them, you feel so rejuvenated and inspired after seeing them. The two biggest EDS friends, the Bliss of Emotional Day Spa friends we'll call Britz and the Mermaid. Britz is British and after having lived here for a time moved back to his native soil. He visits ( too rarely in my opinion but I get it, he has a life there.)
Britz was recently here for a visit and I got to hang out with him on Friday. I actually worked, went next door to the coffee shop, chatted with Britz for about 90 minutes and then went back to work- go me. I felt like I was a creative genius and that the world was mine for the taking and my energy level was high high high. He also is able to make me see my failings as truth growth. My other EDS is Mermaid. She has this cheerful positive energy, even when she is having some challenges. She is constantly doing and creating and just being around her, you start to think of yourself as an artist. Luckily she lives here so I get to see her more often.
Like regular day spas, my EDS peeps give a great ego massage, a negative attitude exfoliating and a love body wrap.

Jenvy

2010-10-20T22:22:00.000-07:00

I have Jenvy- Jewish envy. I have always wanted to be Jewish. When other little girls were reading Nancy Drew, I was reading " My Name is Asher Lev." Since both my grandfathers were Jewish but married out, I have a Jewish last name. In fact, my grandparents and father, lived in the Jewish Ghetto of Shanghai during WWII. Sometimes in college, people would assume I was Jewish and say things like " How was your Passover?" "Great," I'd respond, secretly thrilled. I have never been to a sedar in my life. I only went to my first shabbos dinner last year. I was impressed by the kindness of the family that invited me and by the beauty of the ritual. One of my favorite things to do during Sukkot, is to try and see how many sukkahs, I can glimpse on my ride to and from work, driving down Pico. There is no prize for spotting the hard to find sukkah, but I feel like there is. I once knew a middle aged Jewish man who told me of visiting his parents and going to their synagogue during Simchat Torah. He spoke of dancing and singing in the temple with his elderly parents, with such joy, I truly felt envious of him. As he danced, he was surrounded by the love of his parents, his people and his faith. He belonged. I have never felt that sure sense of self, of knowing exactly who I am and who I will always be. I certainly never danced with my parents or rejoiced- those two things never went together in my family. A few weeks ago, after a show, I was driving home down Beverly and saw an entire congregation out in front of their synagogue, dancing and singing and carrying the ark. It was as if the building couldn't contain their joy, so it had to spill out onto the sidewalk. For a few minutes, as I waited for the light to change, I was, as an observer, a participant in their ritual. Then all too soon, the light changed and I went on my way.

Mystery to give you Paws

2010-10-19T16:14:00.000-07:00

Mangey is dead. Mangey was one of our long time outdoor cats. He is the sixth in a rash of cat deaths. Now Mangey has never looked good- hence the name. He was always a fighter and has always looked like he was at death's door. Apparently Death finally opened the door for Mangey. We have both outdoor and front door outside cats. We have indoor cats too. We are cat people, we are those people. But we didn't seek out all these outdoor cats, they arrived here. Our backgate neighbors seem to be the ones importing new cats and then not doing anything responsible with them. We get them fixed, we feed them and we try to keep the whole thing in control. But six cat deaths in one year, there could only be three explanations. One we are extremely unlucky and finally after years and years of having cats, the number is thinning. Two- one of our neighbors is BREAKING THE LAW and being incredibly INHUMANE and poisoning some of them . Three- Yoshi the cat is a serial killer. Let me say that at our absolutely most we probably had about 18 cats divided between the front and back. Yes that is a lot but some were obvious strays, left behind when their owners moved. I mean Vic was a beautiful Siamese with blue eyes- a show cat. In the heat of this year's summer we had 6 cats on the porch, trying to keep cool, now there is no one. They know, we used to be a haven now we are a death house. My postman is an a-hole, I've blogged about him before. Today he got in a conversation with a man whose big dog had chased a cat into the driveway. They talked about how many cats there were here. I was so mad, I had it and I went out and yelled at the postman when he was on his way back to the truck. I screamed " Do you see any cats? No. Why because someone is poisoning them." He said" I'm not poisoning them. I like cats." He got defensive and I know he isn't poisoning cats, but I am so angry. Getting back to my theory of Yoshi being a serial killer. Yoshi is a very needy cat. He craves affection like it is a drug. He has to have it. Here's my theory, Yoshi has been getting rid of all the cats who he feels were taking affection that he should have been getting. Victim #1 Evan. Evan was always a bit sickly but he also was here before Yoshi. Evan was my baby and the king of cats. I'm not sure how he did it but maybe Yoshi substituted arsenic for catnip or something. Buddy was an indoor/outdoor cats because we couldn't control his spraying. Whenever he came in for a meal, Yoshi gave him a bad time. Buddy disappeared, so maybe he didn't die but either way, I think Yoshi strong pawed him to get out. Unknown cat dead under lemon tree. Yoshi used mind control from the glass doors of the bonus room- obviously. Vic the beautiful Siamese who was hit by a car- most likely Yoshi had been driving the vehicle. Mangey, Yoshi hired some other cats to rough him up, this time they went too far. Finally and probably the most painful Ramon. Ramon had appeared on the scene a few months before Evan passed. He was a beautiful tuxedo cat, with amazing black and white markings and what a love bug. I believed he had been sent to help me with the grief of Evan. Most nights I would go out and Ramon would run along the side wall meowing until he could jump into my arms. We would have a good affection session. Yoshi would meow from inside the house. When I would come back in , Yoshi would act like I was cheating on him. Two weeks ago Ramon was found dead by our gate. No marks or anything on his body. Andy thought he had been jumping from one house to the other but he was a cat, he did that all the time. It doesn't make any sense, unless Yoshi distracted him and he got hung up in a wire or something. I would so rather believe my precious angel Yoshi ( and honestly he is one of the best cats ever) is a serial killer than believe one of my neighbors is poisoning cats. I have more respect for serial killers than cat poisoners.

Those College Days

2010-10-16T19:48:00.000-07:00

I had an epiphany just now- I loved college. It would explain why I was in it for six years. Well five years at SJSU and one at UCLA. I'm talking now about SJSU, the Theatre Department to be most specific. Lord it was not perfect. Downtown San Jose at that time was all about the homeless. They had closed down a number of shelters, so the homeless made the University benches, hallways and libraries their shelters. Only one building at that time looked anything like an University building should look like- the ivy covered tower. Its picture was on everything. I only applied to SJSU because Stevie Nicks went there- honestly. I rode my bike to orientation wearing cool Willie Wear pants and a tee shirt with what looked like a heavily made up bottle blonde show girl. The creepy shop guy ( as opposed to the cool sexy shop guy) offered to be my adviser. I turned him down and he would get his revenge when I had to take his class. I turned in my scenery and props project, perfectly copied from my boyfriend's project and got a C-. Jerry had gotten a B+ I know it was bad to copy Jerry's project but the Instructor had made it very clear that it didn't matter what I turned in, because I had refused his "help", I would never get a high grade in that class. But besides that everything was great, well except for the time that my favorite teacher promised me a role in the fall play the summer before and gave it to someone else- but that is another essay. I loved the green room, where we all hung out. I loved how cool DT would just lean against the doorway and occasionally speak to us but usually was too cool to actually sit in there. I loved doing the plays even though I was always cast as a character in a lot of fabric; Major Barbara, Ondine, Henry the Fifth. Not as much fabric in Good Women but we performed that in masks, so still a bit uncomfortable.
I loved our dance parties, my slumber party with females and males and of course the Actithon. "Sandwiched Inn" was right across the street from the theatre building and had the greatest turkey and cranberry sandwiches ever! Our student group born pretty much out of indifference and would die due to indifference was fun for awhile. Here's something really crazy I loved finals. I loved having one or two classes on final days, I loved the atmosphere of study and freak out, I loved the feeling of "we're all in this together." Once I stupidly missed a final and my teacher who was a high school classmates father, let me take the final in the teacher's lounge-very nice.
I loved Eliza who was the woman who worked in the costume shop. She suffered no fools but sometimes we all would have lunch in the quad and she would tell stories and entertain us for hours. My parents in the midst of a divorce had both moved out of our house and a bunch of my friends had moved in. This girl Leslie had just moved her stuff in-boxes, and boxes of stuff but she was rarely there. She was kind of untalented and was always be trying to find somewhere ( like San Jose City College or DeAnza) where they would think she was star material. I don't think she ever found it. Yes it was a grand time if only I had known it. Bang is a little like the Theatre Dept. only I have more control over my projects and of course there is no Sandwiched Inn-dang it!

Halloween Mega Rama Super Discount Store

2010-10-15T20:23:00.000-07:00

I worry about the people who own Halloween stores. How can they possibly make enough money in Oct.to survive the long winter? I don't even think they are that busy until say Oct. 29 and then for three days it is hell but is it hell enough? Sure maybe they have other holiday stores like the Christmas store or Easter store or the 4th of July store but I think usually the Halloween store is their one egg filled basket. Somehow the Christmas tree lot owners seem to have a better deal to me. Yes they are selling one special holiday item but they have tree farms. There must be big money in trees for films or forest services or landowners but frankly you only need Halloween stuff on Halloween-well usually. Once I wanted to do a show called "Campfire' and have people sitting around a fake campfire,you know like the kind you usually find in Halloween stores. We looked and looked and since it was after Halloween, we couldn't find one. Kurt and Mitchell had to make a fake campfire, which I still have. I have always wanted to do that show again, there are definitely some things I would have done differently. Do the Halloween stores ever have to do anything differently? ' Next year more candy corn! We must only purchase the zombie costumes from Sid Zombieteria the zombie costumes from Everything Zombie always fall apart upon washing.

Logically Challenged

2010-10-14T20:40:00.000-07:00

Today is the anniversary of when I started my "until my career takes off" job. Believe it or not, it has been 19 years- unbelievable! Next year at this time, I'm hoping for a 'this is your life" slide show at the very least. This job has changed over the years and now I pretty much like everything I have to do, well mostly. I even like most of the people I work with, though I mostly work by myself in the back office. I am an excellent co-worker, if i do say so myself. I don't know what the future holds for this business or myself but I do know I will stay friends with many of the people I've met along the way. Today one of my co-workers, who lets just say is a little " socially challenged" and a little " logically challenged" entered the office with a big stick. He shut the door and announced that he wanted to get the mouse out of the office. Over the years there have been many varmints from cockroaches to snakes to rats to bees and this mouse ( who I hear tell is cute) is not a big problem. But Mr Logically Challenged was bound and determined to get that mouse outa there. He proceeded to jab the long white stick he was holding under the counter and the computers and managed to dislodge almost everything. He didn't get the mouse but he did manage to make the internet go down. Sigh I have to say I am still a little steamed at him for a really dopey thing he did a couple of weeks ago. He never apologized and tried ( unsuccessfully) to use the " Gaslight' technique on me- that I must have imagined the bad thing he did. He is always the first one to write a big note or put something in my face that he thinks I did wrong. It would have been great if he had said " oops I messed up ' or even a " my bad" instead he just tried to figure out how such a thing could have happened. I'll tell you how it happened- you messed up. I remember when many years ago I was told that he had been offered the position he now holds- I literally thought it was a joke. Granted he does many things that no one else would do and so in that way he is perfect for the job. I just wish he was a little more open to improving his "not as strong skills!"

The Through Line is Tim

2010-10-13T16:45:00.000-07:00

In anticipation of The Rocky Horror episode coming up on Glee, I bought the original movie soundtrack of Rocky Horror Picture Show on Itunes. This is not the first time I've purchased something Rocky Horror. I had the LP, the Australian stage version and the entire movie soundtrack on four cassettes. I even had the press packet. I wouldn't even say I was the hugest Rocky Horror fan. I remember the first time seeing it in high school. I went with a bunch of girls, some of whom were my friends ( Lynn/Karen A whichever she was going by that night) and some who weren't ( Lisa R, Lisa B.) We dressed up the way we thought we were supposed to- in white ,clown make up, cat eye glasses and ratted hair. We probably were more appropriately dressed for a Cher as Laverne show than Rocky Horror. It was about three years into the audience participation type viewing and all showings were at midnight. Being a fairly naive 16 year old, I was shocked, shocked I tell you by the movie! What- he is having sex with a girl! What -he is having sex with a boy- you can do that? The movie blew my mind. I couldn't admit that I was so unsophisticated, so I pretended that it wasn't anything I hadn't seen before. Trust me I hadn't seen anything like that before. The next time I went with my friend AS. He was totally cool about all aspects of the movie and had brought the required props with him like toast, squirt gun and rice. He also smuggled in a tape recorder and taped the whole movie. Before we ever bought any merch, I had a copy of that tape that included AS's comments on it. I saw the movie many many times after that . I never dressed up as a character but I did make fun of those in line who did and did it badly. I was unsophisticated but still sarcastic. About this time Tim Curry came out with an album ( yes album) that included a hit song(that seems to have disappeared into the ether) called " I do the Rock." What a far out ( and I am using that on purpose) song it was. He mentioned celebrities in it- just like the New Radicals would do decades later but without mentioning " kick their asses in." I immediately bought the album. Friend RK and I skipped school and took the train to San Francisco for a Tim Curry record signing. Wanting to appear sophisticated ( which let me repeat I was not) I had him sign it " To Crissa" that being the only time I used that name but now that I'm thinking of it, it may become my new pseudonym. While Tim was signing, I asked him if he had seen Richard O'Brien ( his co-star) lately? He replied " No not lately." Well here was my reasoning, nobody else was going to waste their time on asking about Richard O'Brien ( Riff Raff) and that would make me stand out. I thought I would seem more like a friend than a fan. I stood out alright but as an incredibly dopey stalker. Then I saw Tim Curry in concert at the now defunct Boarding House in San Francisco. I remember we sat up front, but that may be wishful remembering. He was awesome, I can tell you that. A couple of years ago I saw Tim at a local restaurant and he kept looking at me like he knew me. Do you think he remembered? No, I don't either, but if I were still 16 I would think so. Recently Tim was on Criminal Minds as a chain smoking, grimy serial killer and he was BRILLIANT. Hello EMMY people. Anyway getting back to the Rocky Horror soundtrack, I had never purchased the CD before because frankly after seeing it so many times, it no longer shocked me and I had had my fill. But listening to it today while driving, it so good and Tim Curry's phrasing and performance is beyond brilliant. He plays with words and almost creates a new language. He may be our most underestimated actor. Remember him as Pennywise in "It?" Seriously creepy.
He truly can play anything gay, straight, bi, crazy, sane, scary, sad, everything.
I wish I had seen him in Spamalot, because I know he was great. The fact that still some people can't see him as anything else besides Frank N Furter, is a crime. He is a national treasure or Britain's national treasure because he's English but he lives here so I'm going back to our National Treasure. That's all- love CRISSA!

Pho-knee

2010-10-12T22:20:00.000-07:00

Kurt and I went to the "other" pho restaurant today in Glendale. It was lunchtime and I guess we thought Pho Hut would be too crowded. I curse us that we didn't go to the Pho Hut. At Pho Hut,they treat us like celebrities- it is true and I'm not sure why. I think once after we left someone jokingly said" do you know who they were-they are powerful people in Hollywood and they were in here eating Banh Mi and drinking sealed fresh lemon soda."But we opted to not go for the delicious awesome experience. At the
other Pho place in Glendale,there wasn't soul in there except for the staff when we arrived at 1:30pm. The counter girl,picked at the bottom of her nose,not going inside it but being too close for my liking when she took my order. Placing my hand on the bottle of water I had put on the counter,I said " and this water too." You can imagine my surprise when the clerk was completely thrown by my water,after she rang me up. The food was dry and not delicious. It wasn't the worst meal I've ever had but it was a waste of a perfectly good meal out.

The Hidden

2010-06-07T14:09:00.000-07:00

Today in an old book, I found a tiny scrap of paper. On the paper, were three tiny words " I Love you." I recognized the handwriting of an old boyfriend from long ago. Both of us have completely different lives, have other significant others and basically are completely different people. We aren't friends, we aren't even Facebook friends. I deleted him after he kept saying in his status updates, and his pictures how every woman he had every been with before his wife was crap. He didn't know beauty or love until he found her. He should love his wife, he should love her more than he ever loved anyone else but don't call me crap. Have some respect for our relationship, for the time we spent together. He also is amazingly supportive of her and anyone else he comes into contact with. With me, he wouldn't even laugh at my jokes, saying he was just trying to make me stronger. I remember he had hidden quite a few of the love papers, so that I would find them and think of him. Although so much has changed, finding that tiny scrap of paper made me happy. It wasn't who said it, it was just that someone had said it.
Oddly enough once at a party I gave, a rather bizarre co-worker friend had taken an extra large bag of M&Ms and hid them all over my house. I found them on shelves, in small doll cups, in vases, in shoes, under knick knacks, hidden among tchotches, in the wax pools of candles and everywhere else you can think of. These melt in your mouth not in your hand candies survived hot weather, cold weather, ants, spiders. Years and years after that party I was still finding them. I moved and I still found some, it seemed never ending but finally all the M&Ms had been found.

There weren't nearly as many I love you papers as the M&Ms but as evidenced today, they were able to be the final winner. Is this all a metaphor for how love will always outlast anything else? I don't know but it still put me in a good mood.

Stupid Thing

2006-09-18T10:35:00.000-07:00

It's amazing to me how long it's been since I posted here. Oh well, It's also amazing that it's been three weeks since the big accident and my car was totalled. I got the new blue Matrix and all is well. No one was hurt. Then yesterday I'm driving to work and I notice every time I'm at a stop sign-smoke! At first I think " Oh it's a lot colder outside than I thought." Then I think " Wow this car has a lot of exhaust." Then it dawns on me " Oh no! The cars on fire! Finally, and I mean finally, miles worth of finally I notice the brake light. I had been driving with my parking brakes on! I know! What an idiot. All the cars I had before, you couldn't move if the parking brake was on. Well you can move with the parking brake on with the Matrix, you can drive to Palm Springs I bet. Let's hope that's the last stupid thing I do with my new car, and yet I fear it is only the start.

Bad News and Good Views

2006-06-25T22:53:00.000-07:00

On Tuesday Patrick informed me that the Arrogant Victim had sold a script. This isn't quite true, he and his partner sold a pitch. Whatever. I hope he doesn't melt down like he has every time in the past when he has had an opportunity. I hope he doesn't shoot himself in the foot. Wednsday was a blur. On Thursday we had the new " Extra Credit" show and it went pretty well except one of the performers dropped out the day before and one of the performers changed what they were doing that night. I've got to be more of a hard ass. People seemed to really enjoy the show and there will probably be another one. On Friday Mark, Jean , Kurt and I went to a sushi and sake tasting event at the New Otani Hotel. It was as I expected; a lot of sake and not so much sushi. Not being a big sake drinker I talked to some people from Mark's work and people watched. There were some very watchable people there including a woman in head to toe studed denim with a matching denim purse and an over the shoulder denim cell phone holder. Saturday I worked, then had Korean Barbeque with Eileen and Karen and went to Lorelei's karoake party. Let me tell you those Hill girls can belt out some mean karoake! Watching them perform a song from " Grease" was truly entertaining! Mitchell and Eileen weren't no slouches either. I didn't stay too long as I was exhausted! OH and one of my friends really disapointed me but I'm not ready to post that story...yet. I watched a couple of episodes of that hilarious British comedian's show " The Catherine Tate Show". She is hilarious!

The Cook's Revenge

2006-06-18T20:25:00.000-07:00

Kevin was here visiting. He split his visit; two days with us, two with Jean. It was as if Jean and I had joint custody. On one of our visitation nights, we went to "Damon's." This is a great old steakhouse with a tikki theme. When we first took Kevin there he said " I must come here every visit". I am afraid he may not request a dinner at "Damons" anymore. He and Andy both ordered the blackend rib eye- medium rare. Andy got his medium rare, Kevin got his well done. Kevin didn't want to be difficult but he had to send it back. The second time the waitress brought his steak it was rare. It was if the cook had thrown the steak on the grill and immediately took it off. It was bloody. Kevin felt horrible but it wasn't his fault. Finally Kevin got his steak cooked but not too cooked. Of course a wide variety of what might be the cook's revenge went through all our minds. I like to think that a place that has been open since 1937 would have cooks that would beyond spitting on someone's food. Perhaps it was a new cook and they were just getting the hang of the grill, maybe they were knocking themselves on the side of the head " Oh I'm a dope. I better brush up on my steak cooking terms."

Please Kevin don't hate "Damon's." Save the Tikki.

Whata Weekend!

2006-05-30T11:37:00.000-07:00

Our long weekend started on Thursday. Andy took me to work. We stopped first for coffee, which I promptly spilled all over myself. Luckily I had already put my suitcase in the car and was able to change. Andy picked me up later in the day and we took the 1 to Solvang/Buelton. We had dinner at that restaurant in " Sideways" called " The Hitching Post." It was one of the best meals ever! First of all the staff is very friendly and helpful. The restaurant is darling and you really get a lot for the money. You start off with a little tray of carrots, celery and olives. We had grilled artichoke for appetizers. It came with a spicy mayo for dipping. Yummy! We skipped the soup/shrimp cocktail and had our salads. Then we shared a huge rib chop. It was delicious. We ended the meal with key lime pie. We then went to the Casino on the Chumash Indian reservation. Having no luck at that casino we went back to our motel in Solvang. The next morning we had breakfast at Pamela's Pancake house ( Andy had Danish pancakes) and walked around a little bit. We bought some petit fours at one of the many bakeries there. We were on the road by 11:15 and made good time to San Jose. We stayed at the " Hotel Sainte Claire". I remember this hotel from when I was a little girl. I remember using the bathroom there when I had to go to my dentist across the street. It is a beautiful, historic hotel. While we were in town to enjoy Kevin in " La Cage Aux Folles" many other people were in town to enjoy the Fanime Convention. Fanime is a convention by and for fans of anime and man do they like to dress up. I decided that "fanimes" were like "trekkies" with more choice. Anyway after signing the " no party" clause for the hotel we went up to our room. The room was very pretty and had everything from wireless internet to a DVD player to guest robes to hairdryers but strangely only one tiny bottle of shampoo. We hung around a bit and then had dinner at "Original Joes" a restaurant I have been going to since I was a child. I had what I always had when I went with my Dad- raviolis. Delicious! How delicious you might ask? Delicious enough to take the leftovers to the hotel room refrigerator and then two days later pack them in the car , drive 7 and 1/2 hours, and eat them the day after we got home and still they were delicious!
Then we picked Jean up ( she was in town meeting various family members) and went to Kevin's show. He had the lead and was just incredible! During the intermission, needing some sugar so we ate the petit fours . We ate them standing besides the open trunk- like drug dealers or something.
The next day we met my high school friend Cynthia for breakfast and then afterwards toured the " Winchester Mystery House", went to my father's grave, had the best falafels in the land at " Falafel's drive in" went to Macy's, bought shampoo at Walgreen's and even saw " Mission Impossible 3". Oh and we drove by my old house. Whew it was a whirlwind tour.
Sunday we brunched with Kevin and watched more dressed up fanime people parade by. We were on the road by 11:15 again. Stopped for lunch at the outrageous "Madonna Inn" and made it home by about 7.
Monday we rested and had really good watermelon.

Not part of my job description

2006-05-07T13:04:00.000-07:00

I can't imagine the challenges that disabled people face each day. I don't know if it's ok to say disabled- handicapable seems too forced. I saw " Murderball", those wheel- chair rugby players can kick some serious ass. All this being said, on those rare occasions that I have to work the counter, if I see someone in a wheel chair I want to run. I just don't know what to do. If I help them too much, is it insulting? If I help them too little, well that just seems cruel. It's a quandry that makes me very nervous. Flash back ....UCLA, me college sophmore. I somehow get duped into running a polling place. "It will be fun!"- it is not. I can't remember what the big issues were that election but the UCLA student body wasn't turning out in droves. A guy in a wheel-chair came into vote. The place was empty except for him and me. He signed in, got his ballot and went into the voting booth. He went into the voting booth but instead of voting started to masturbate. His focus was on his own poll. Now you know these voting booths, they have a curtain, a curtain that comes to maybe the waist of a standing person and end of the jaw line if you are in a wheel chair. My point is that the curtain wasn't hiding anything. I had a clear view of his activity and he knew it. I was frozen. I didn't feel I should stop him.....I didn't know what to say or do. He finished up, smiled, handed me back his unpunched ballot and wheeled off. Flash forward another wheel chair man renting DVDs. My co-worker is in the bathroom. The guy in the wheel-chair asks me if he could have some rubberbands? Of course, I answer. He asks me to slip them on his wrist. I start to put the rubberbands over his hand onto his wrist. It is strangely intimate- think a certain type of rubber ring being put on a specific part of the body. He has an odd look on his face. He asks me to put more and more onto his wrist. There are now almost 10 rubberbands butting up to his hand. I am feeling very uncomfortable. He wants more and more. He is enjoying my discomfort, he is, well, getting off on it. Luckily we have no "booths" at our store. He wheels off with a smile on his face- apparently this time I helped just enough.

My slip is showing.

2006-05-01T19:55:00.000-07:00

Today I was strangely full of energy. It was my day off and I was vacuuming, doing the laundry, washing the dishes- everything all in my pink slippers. Then I learned how accurate the name "slippers" really is. I was stepping down in the Bonus room ( or Florida room ) and I slipped on the stone step. I went flying onto the chair next to the steps and still continued to fall onto Andy's shreader. The cats were very concerned and showed it by getting the hell out. I stopped myself from actually falling onto the ground but I must have used rarely used muscles because I am sore. It was so much like slipping on a banana peel that I think I shouted " OOOH No. Whoa!" It was much like the time I slipped on Hollywood blvd on the Walk of Fame or the time I slipped on a cobblestone street in Paris. The most humiliating slip was the time I went with Gary to Gay Night at Disneyland. We were making our way back to the car. We had enjoyed a fun time at the Gayest place on Earth- I mean happiest. I was wearing my fab blue angora sweater with some distressed ( not acid wash I swear) jeans. Suddenly I slipped in some car oil and fell right on my ass! The curses that came out of my mouth would have made Mickey blush. Gary and his friend ( whose name luckily I have forgotten) were convulsing with laughter. I know it is one of Gary's favorite memory of me, falling on my butt in Pluto section D.

Chicago!

2006-04-25T15:40:00.000-07:00

Just back from my first visit to Chicago! I loved it! I had checked the weather forecasts every day and they always predicted rain. Not only did it not rain, it was beautiful and sunny every day! Tulips were blooming along side the Magnificent Mile, these white flowered trees bloomed in the parks and the buildings looked so sparkling and clean. I had no idea what a beautiful city Chicago is. We went to the Chicago Art Institute and were simply blown away by the collection- I mean Picassos and Monets and Manets and Modigliani, not to mention Hopper. We went on a bus tour and a boat tour. I have always wanted to see a show at " The Second City" and it was hilarious! The show was one of the best sketch/improv shows I have ever seen and trust me I have seen many. We also saw at show at the Steppenwolf theatre- so polished! Then there were the meals. From the height of haute cuisine at Charlie Trotters ( tuna, skate, scallops, squab and steak) to the plain good eating of " Portillos". I must mentioin the dinner we had at " Smith and Wolinsky". I know it's a New York restaurant but we went to the one in Chicago. It's located just under what I like to call the " Bob Newhart apartments", I think they're really called " Marina City". This location of "Smith and Wolinsky" is incredibly beautiful on the Chicago river, decked out in polished wood and brass. The service is wonderful. We had a Porterhouse steak for two ( Scott and I ) and mashed potatoes and creamed spinach. Eileen had prime rib. Everything was exceedingly delicious and perfectly prepared. We couldn't finish our Porterhouse so Eileen suggested we wrap it up. She gave it to a homeless man who, somewhat disapointed in the steak asked if he could get some vodka as well. Besides the lack of vodka I think he enjoyed his curbside service.

Dead Rat Walking

2006-04-16T11:02:00.000-07:00

The rats are back! One wonders if they ever really left, perhaps they were just spending more time in the empty store next door. Now that a record store is moving in, the rats are coming back to us. Yippee! Last Saturday, Patrick saw four at one time on the beams over head. Good thing one didn't fall on anybody. " I'll take Junebug, King Kong and oh......!" So the owners of the store have decided to become more aggressive in the fight against the rodents. Forget catching them and returning them to the wilderness. Traps are too dicey, they going for poison again. Here's the rub, so to speak, they don't want the rats dying in the walls. They are putting out slow acting poison, so the rat will be compelled to wander away from the site. Scott, the manager told me this. He said since I am usually the first person here, I shouldn't be " surprised" if I should come upon a rat walking his way into the valley of death. Since Scott knows that I am an "animal" person, and that I have not enjoyed having a dead rat fall on my head or murdering one by accident, he offered to leave a number. He didn't say whose number; the rat patrol, the paramedics or a good therapist? Gee I can't wait to open the doors of the store one morning, race to turn off the alarm only to have to side swipe rats on their Bataan death march!

Alias Miss Lazy

2006-04-13T08:38:00.000-07:00

Kristen here, well not really. Kristen is the name I seem to have been christened by the Starbucks people. Almost every time I say my name is " Christine", they always seem to shout out " Kristen, grande non-fat mocha- no whip!" So Kristen I shall be. I've been a Chris, a Cris( that's Chris hold the H) and of course my secret Tim Curry name Crissa. David and Scott call me " Princess". Gary calls me " Crusty"- well it's actually more detailed than that. Sometimes Patrick calls me " Pyle" for Gomer Pyle I believe. Gomer Pyle, a show I never watched. My mother would call me " Pearl" when she was feeling slightly affectionate. Someone used to call me " Tina" but it was so long ago I can't remember who. Occasionally Andy will call me " Babe" which just makes me laugh- it's so seventies! Lately Paddy has taken to calling me " Shony" which really makes me laugh because my father used to do a " character" called Shony. While my Dad never did sketch comedy, he would have been great on Saturday Night Live. " Shony" was his character who was the only used car salesman who didn't drive. He'd perform his "Shony" monologue at the dinner table. It was hilarious. I guess that's why I enjoyed doing character and character monologues. When Scott, David and/or Gary is feeling extra evil they call me " Miss Lazy." While I miss the youthful " Chris" or the " I know it's really coming from a place of love" Princess, it's nice to be simply Christine sometimes.

Alone Time

2006-04-02T10:40:00.000-07:00

Usually I give great parties. I have much food, much drink and much merriment. I have a nice mix of friends. I always serve something that makes people talk: a fancy drink ( ever try a Blonde Bombshell?), fondue ( retro and delicious) or Andy's amazing barbeque ( that man can grill!). I have some fun modern glasses ( thanks Kevcorn!) and pretty plates (a green glass one I always use- gracias Meg!) and Fiesta Ware bowls. The parties are festive, the house is clean and I lock all the cats away. There was one party though that was not a success, not fun and decidedly not festive. I was in seventh grade and was having a slumberparty for my birthday. We had a summer house right out in our backyard, which I guess would make it a yardhouse. There was no bathroom, you to go into the house for that. Sometimes my brother lived out there and the smell of homemade sake would permeate. The summerhouse was very rustic,only bugs thrived there. A fireplace was the only heat source. On this occasion, I had about 10 girls over and we set up our sleeping bags in the summerhouse. Someone ( probably Coe) wanted to get stoned. Cynthia and I had alot of experience at turning down a hit without seeming like geeks. We would say we had to give it up for lent, or had already had a bunch that day, whatever worked. For some reason this time Cynthia wasn't by side with a good lie. I couldn't let them smoke in the summerhouse, my mother could walk in at any moment. We also couldn't leave. I told them no. I suggested a rousing game of charades. The girls were determined, they wanted to do something "bad." The entire party left to go get high at the the Mormon church. I was left alone. I was left alone at my own party, a party to celebrate me! It was my party and yes I cried. I wrote a note saying something like " with friends like you maybe I'll become a hermit" and went into the house. An hour later they came back and the party went on. I think it ended up ok. Unfortunately the girls got a big kick out of my note and the phrase " maybe I'll become a hermit" was repeated and repeated over the years to much laughter.

Dinner with celebrities

2006-03-24T10:17:00.000-08:00

As a treat, a reward for everybody's hard work and/or attendance for our shows, Andy, Heather, Scott, Kurt and I went to the Tam O'Shanter for dinner. The Tam O' Shanter or the "Tam" as we call it has been in business for over eighty years. The staff wears old fashioned uniforms, though really they are more like costumes. The men wear what can only be described as the village blacksmith look and the women wear tartan skirts and caps. My friend Jean doesn't like the outfits but I love them, they are so funny and charming. Prime rib is the thing to get at the Tam though they have a large menu with some olde English favorites on it like " Toad in the Hole". Here's the part that made this evening a little different than any other meal at the Tam, Tim Curry was there. Not only was he there, he kept looking at me like he knew me. At one point it seemed as he was about to come over and say Hello. Now I know people who know him. I know people who got great seats at Spamalot because they know him, but I don't know him. I know people who get their hair cut at the same place as him but that's not me. I have heard that he is a very nice man. One time in a bar, a man approached me asking if I was so and so. When I said no I was not so and so, he breathed a sigh of relief and said " Oh thank God, she is a costume designer and a real bitch!" Did Tim think I was this costume designer? Perhaps Tim remembered me from long long ago when I cut school to go to Tower records and have him autograph his album ( the one that contained the hit " I do the Rock".). I had him sign " To Crissa" because I thought Crissa was a much more sophisticated name than Christine. Did he sense that in high school I too had been a " Rocky Horror " freak even though I found it very shocking? No , I probably just looked like someone he's worked with or a neighbor. Kurt may have had a delicious looking ice cream sundae and Scott and Heather may have had delicious looking chocolate walnut souffles but for one brief moment I had my friend Tim Curry.

Kurt rightfully gets angry!

2006-03-20T16:26:00.000-08:00

Kurt wanted me to write about what happened today. He was leaving the house to go for a run when he noticed a woman dumping out the contents of her car ashtray on our lawn, surrounding our fledgling tree with her cigarette butts. He said sarcastically " Thanks a lot". She shrugged. Her indifference made him see red. Realizing that her car was the same one that had blocked our driveway a few years back, didn't help the situation. He decided to clean it up himself. He went and got a dustpan, broom and plastic bag. The lady then offered to clean it up. Kurt refused, saying " I don't come to your house and spread my garbage all around". The people who visit their oldsters at the retirement home across the street are the most consistantly inconsiderate people I've ever seen.

Small plates

2006-03-19T09:18:00.000-08:00

For Meg's birthday, we went to a hip eatery with a flower's name. They specialize in "small plates". Like Tapas, everyone orders 2 or 3 small plates of food. They suggest sharing. We like Tapas. We like small plates. We like to share. What was unusual about this restaurant was how stingy they were with utensils, additional plates and bowls. It was as if to save on money they had eliminated a dish washer. They brought out bread ( sparingly) on a paper napkin. We begged for spoons. In fact Kris used the baby sized salt spoon as a serving spoon. I never saw a bowl. They served pasta on a plate. A scoop of ice cream on a plate. Macaroni and cheese in a casserole. Mostly the food was delicious. I enjoyed the short rib, the macaroni and cheese, and the scallops especially. But when they said " small plates" they meant small portions served on small plates that would make a model cry. I truly learned about portion control. I had to laugh when they brought the beet salad out. The beet salad consisted of 6 penny sized pieces of beets with some creme fraiche ( maybe ) on it. It would have been the perfect size for a doll's house. We had a nice time, though the acoustics were terrible and conversation was kept to short bursts. I'm not entirely convinced that Momita who is very petite and a vegetarian didn't stop and get a burger on the way home. Oh and it was very expensive, so that made it seem extra fancy. In the end though, there were no incidents, we bonded together over some of the general oddness of the place and the waiter ( rude or just no personality, I'm not sure) and I think in the final tally Meg had a good birthday.

Bad But Beautiful

2006-03-11T10:10:00.000-08:00

While I hesitate to write about one of my cats ( not sure I want to open those floodgates), I can't resist writing about Yoshi. He's a beauty and he knows it. This weekend is one of those weekends where we try to trap some of the feral cats ( that live in our backyard) and take them to the spay/neuter clinic. We don't feed the feral cats breakfast and they are hungry. Some are on the front porch like a college sit-in. Feed us, Feed us they seem to chant. Yoshi, who is bad, has been slipping between the wood blinds and the window to taunt the feral cats. " No breakfast" he seems to say. " I guess that's the price of freedom. We have full bowls of food in our kitchen. You get to stay outside in the rain". Then he flounces away. After chasing Ray around a little and tormenting Kurt by opening the door to his room, Yoshi is settling down for his 10 am nap. He is sitting on the blanket on the window seat, with the curtain wrapped around him. He is hidden to us in the house but those outside can still see him lounging. He has the life and he knows it!

He's got the fever

2006-03-07T05:55:00.000-08:00

Kurt our border/roommate/friend is asleep in his room. It's almost 6 am so that's not so remarkable. What is remarkable is the extent is talking in his sleep. He is talking alright, loud talking, words that sound like lines from some of his auditions. He's also singing. Sleep singing? I know he said he wasn't feeling well last night. He got out his vaporizer, three extra blankets and was huddled up in his bed watching the Super Bowl again. Now he is laughing coughing. Poor guy. If he was awake he would come out into the dining room and say " Do I have to go to ( insert outlandish location here- I'll say Portos Bakery) Portos Bakery to get some rest?!!!!!