South By Southwest. Day 1:
Current mood: combobulated

Some months ago, I had a bright idea. My industry...jewelry, has recently taken a side trip to the toilet, from which it has yet to return. Wholesale certainly hasn't been panning out for me or anyone else lately. Over half of the small galleries that buy my work have gone out of business. The rest are hanging on by their teeth, selling $12 earrings. Because of that, I thought that perhaps a dip into the retail pool might garner some small remuneration. One can always hope.

To that end, a few months ago, I poked about, finally applying to several regional but prestigious craft shows in my area. One of those shows was in Sedona, Arizona

For those not in the know, Sedona is a small but thriving metropolis full of half rabid transplants. Everyone there is from somewhere else. Or so it seems. The country there is spectacular. Jutting mesas, astounding otherworldly scenery. The earth there is as red as a tomato. The greens and grays of the chamisa and the sage a startling contrast.

The small rickety backwater of my childhood has erupted into a center for the metaphysical tourist, the retiree, the golfer and those wanting to explore a beautiful vista alien to anything they have ever experienced before.

As a child, I lived in Phoenix. I have lived in a lot of places. As a native of the southwest, the desert is part and parcel of who I am. Indians taught me the value of art as life blood. The sunsets of a vast western sky were the backdrop to my early life. Selling jewelry in Sedona seemed like a sure bet for me. If I could get into the show.

To that end I applied. A few months later, the reply came that I had been accepted. The Sedona Arts Festival is a juried show. There is a board of directors. Artist work is screened for originality and authenticity. No manufactured or imported goods allowed. The show is small, that is a good thing. Less wrangling over limited dollars. From what I heard later, many of my friends who's work is in my opinion, excellent did not get in. I guess I was lucky.

As the date loomed, I got myself back into the studio, producing new work. Beautiful woven bracelets, a slew of gold rings with stones that look like boiled sweets. I was nervous about going. In the past few years, my drive to work has fallen off. I have felt at loose ends, and my business has faltered on my malaise. In fact, I didn't really want to go to this show. Or any show. I would have rather hermited myself in my mountain top lair, but I had made the commitment, and so I would go.

An old friend of mine, "Arthur", lives in Flagstaff, about an hour north of Sedona. "Arthur" and I met some thirty years ago at my grandfather's funeral. My cousin Moshe brought him along for the ride. Moshe's name is really Michael. He changed it to Moshe for no reason at all when he turned twenty. Although his parents were orthodox Jews, Moshe could have cared less. In fact, after the name change, he promptly went out and had a dragon tattooed down the length of his arm.

For those not in the know, tattoos are forbidden by Jewish law. If you have a tattoo, you can't be buried in a Jewish cemetery. Another reason the Nazi's did it. Who knows why Moshe did? Even more convoluted, Moshe is in a wheelchair. He was a cameraman that had a camera fall on him. He wasn't injured all that badly, but he took to a wheelchair that he didn't in the least need. My grandmother once told me that as a child, Moshe would feign a limp to get attention from strangers. I guess in Moshe's case, the wheelchair is the grown up version of look-at-me.

"Arthur" and I bonded over Moshe's stupid wheelchair. Regularly making fun of Moshe for his silliness, putting him in situations where he had to get up and walk, or be left behind. He could walk. He just didn't want to. We insisted he knock off the schtick, or incur our pranks. "Arthur" and I share a somewhat twisted sense of humor. Moshe, knowing we were on to him, always put up with us. On a side note, Moshe's dad Shelly showed up to the funeral in his everyday yarmulke, sporting a gun in a holster at his side. Go figure. To this day, Moshe is in the wheelchair. Now he says he has MS. Does he? Who knows? Probably not. I have a very odd family. Moshe is just one banana in the bunch.

"Arthur" is Moshe's best friend. When we met, "Arthur" was a long haired long distance trucker that read the New Yorker and drove a porsche on his days off. His CB monker...remember CB's? Names like "Cookie Monster", and "Beaver Eater"? "Arthur's" CB moniker was "Arthur". "Arthur" had driven his truck to Papa's burial. A behemoth, two trailers and 70' long. It took a ladder to get into the front seat. "Arthur" won me over by letting me drive his big rig around the block. I was pretty easily impressed.

Never attracted to each other, "Arthur" and I became great buddies. Over the years we have chatted regularly, visiting when we can. "Arthur" stays at my house when he is in town, camping on my deck as he is allergic to my animals. I stay in his spare room when I am on my way to New Mexico, which, due to a former fiancé and a subsequent boyfriend who both lived there, for many years was fairly frequently.

Over the years "Arthur" and I have settled into a pseudo-sibling relationship. I regale "Arthur" with my crazy life and my sometimes interesting selections of the male species. He tells me about his normal world of river rafting, building electric cars and bad women that got away. "Arthur" and I are what most would call, "comfortable".

As the day to leave LA approached, M decided that instead of my son Wolf, he would watch the critters and the house. That was a big step. I was not all that sold on the idea, but M assured me that he would take good care and maybe even fix a few things around the house for me.

Although there are plenty of things that need fixing, M is not what anyone would describe as "handy". He is more the cerebral type. I didn't say anything, but I wondered to myself how much effort it was going to take for me to repair what he was planning to "fix" when I got back? I gave in. In the end, I almost always do. It is not always my best feature.

M had over the night before I was to leave. That was nerve wracking. Wanting to help, M instead got in the way of the travel routine that I had comfortably created for myself over the last 16 years. This go-round, packing my truck took three hours longer than the usual 30 minutes, because M insisted ..ing". He was certain that he could do it more efficiently than I. He called my attitude "holier than thou", when I tried to tell him that I had a long used system that worked well. I am still annoyed that I didn't insist on doing it myself, but I didn't want to hurt his feelings. I have a tough time knowing how to handle situations like that. Too often I defer when I shouldn't.

Thanks to M's helpfulness, I finally got on the road a 1pm the next day instead of the 9 am start time that I had set for myself. It didn't really matter all that much. I like to drive across country. I love the solitude and the sense of renewal I experience seeing the raw countryside that many of our highways slice through. Unfortunately, the late start did mean that I would be seeing less of it before night fall, and that I would miss dinner with "Arthur", but M was happy, and I would live.

This time I would try the new route through the Pearblossom highway that M had assured me would cut considerable time from the drive. That was a mistake.

Instead of cutting time, it added almost two hours to the drive. I found myself on desolate back roads in the thick of somewhat ominous looking Joshua Trees. The hardscrabble houses with falling tiles and peeling paint were few. The land was empty. Every few miles I came across cryptic dirt turn-offs. Each marked with a large piece of plywood, painted colorfully with rough Korean symbols. Each sign had a painted arrow pointing to what seemed to be emptiness. Of course I wondered what the signs meant. I imagined given the isolation, and my boredom, these were probably directions to alien landing sites.

Looking around as I drove on the two lane route, I realized that this was truly the middle of nowhere. It was probably marked that wway on some map somewhere. This was the kind of road that you imagined disappearing from, your body found months or years later , burned and buried in a shallow grave at the edge of a barren scrub. Not where you wanted to be lost.

Every once in a while, a tiny town would surprise. One small burg I cruised through was called "Littlerock". Population 1,000something. Littlerock boasted a store called "The Gnome Garden". Selling only english garden gnomes and pink flamingos, it was plonked next to some juke joint sporting a sign that read, "hot, tasty buffalo burgers!" It took me about 30 seconds to drive the length of that main drag, then I was back in the empty desert.

Finally, I arrived at the town of Victorville. What I thought was civilization. I stopped there for gas. It was a mistake. Every single white man in that town looked like he had just escaped from a chain gang. The sharp collection of eyes that lit on me when I strolled in to the AM/PM minimart to pay, drew an involuntary shudder that I kept to myself.

Taking back my credit card, I politely but blandly answered a question from one of the hungry looking men hanging around about where I was headed to with a lie. Slowly, I walked back to my car. The modern-day version of Tippi Hedron in "the Birds." Putting one foot in front of the other, deliberating her way past the elementary school with all of those crows watching and waiting not so very patiently on the telephone wires for her to stumble or show panic. It seemed a lifetime before I settled into my seat. Clicking the electronic door lock, I peeled out of that town, not waiting to put on my seatbelt until I was safely on the freeway.

The rest of the trip was uneventful, thank god. Along the way, somewhere out of Kingman, AZ I wandered through a truck stop, checking out the chrome accessories on display. At some point I ate a bit of a hideous subway sandwich for dinner, wondering to myself how places that serve such dreck stay in business? The Jalapeñoa that I had chunked on the so-called sandwich helped only a little.

"Arthur" was waiting up when I finally arrived at his house seated on the southern edge of Flagstaff. Pushed against the pines, the house is non-descript, with that smeared on spackle wall texture, popular in the 70's. "Arthur's" furniture is 70's stoner oak. The rugs, blue shag. Not much on the walls. The TV and the blaring XM 70's rock the only "decor". "Arthur's" dog Goose roared over to greet me. Jumping up and running around the room until both of us were tired. Goose loves me.

"Arthur" and I shared a hug, he asked me about the trip, helped me unload my stuff into the guest room, then offered me a drink. All of "Arthur's" booze comes from stuff left behind by clients on the river trips down the grand canyon that "Arthur" runs. Feeling contrary, I selected some mystery something in a plastic bottle. It was smooth. Probably some type of brandy or good whiskey. I liked not knowing what it was.

We sat down to chat and "Arthur" pulled out a hand blown pipe and some weed. Although I did smoke grass socially as a kid, I never liked it, doing it back then, because it was easier than making a point of not doing it. It was all about fitting in. I hadn't smoked pot in at least twenty two years, probably a lot longer. For some reason, when "Arthur" handed it to me, I took a hit. Surprise. I still don't like pot.

That old feeling of tightness came over me. The lazy eyes, the droopy conversation. Bleah. That's what I get for being polite. I have to stop being so damn polite. It is seriously getting me nowhere. Truth be told, "Arthur" doesn't really smoke it either. He said he does it once in a while "for the memories of the past" that the flavor evokes for him. I think I just didn't like that part of the past quite as much as "Arthur" does.

Stoned, we called Moshe, and tried to talk him into coming out for a visit from where he lives in Vegas. Moshe is as sedentary as "Arthur". He was staying put in Vegas. I was not sruprised. That night, "Arthur" and I sat up and chatted. Over the years, "Arthur" has put on a considerably amount of weight. He could stand to lose about 100 lbs. He has a lot of health problems, some of it due to his weight. He also suffers from panic attacks, and takes Paxil to combat those times.

Gone is the easy going guy that "Arthur" used to be. Replaced by a somewhat bitter doppleganger, uneasy in his skin, longing for love and a better life. I love "Arthur" like a brother. I always will. Its hard to see the track his life has taken. Harder still to know that he has to pull himself out of it alone. In that department, there is not much more than encouragement that I can give. I hope he gets to where he wants to be.

Finally, I dragged myself upstairs and tumbled into bed with no internet, and Goose flopped asleep, legs in the air on the blanket next to me. I read a book that I had brought along and wondered at how we change, and still see ourselves at the core as the same person.

Tomorrow, I go to set up my tent to get ready for the show.

The show.

What was I thinking doing an outdoor art festival again? Oh yeah, I was thinking of extending myself to a different market.

Let's hope different is better.

4:42 PM - 13 Comments - 14 Kudos - Add Comment

CITIZEN BAILOUT! YEAH YEAH YEAH!!
Current mood: Political

I just received this from one of my east coast McMunn cousins.... I want to elect the guy who wrote it President. What do you think?

xxoo

-L

CITIZEN BAILOUT!!!

I'm against the $85,000,000,000.00 bailout of AIG.



Instead, I'm in favor of giving $85,000,000,000 to
America in

a We Deserve It Dividend.



To make the math simple, let's assume there are
200,000,000

bonafide U.S. Citizens 18+.



Our population is about 301,000,000 +/- counting every man,
woman

and child. So 200,000,000 might be a fair stab at adults 18
and up..



So divide 200 million adults 18+ into $85 billon that
equals $425,000.00.



My plan is to give $425,000 to every person 18+ as a

We Deserve It Dividend.



Of course, it would NOT be tax free.

So let's assume a tax rate of 30%.



Every individual 18+ has to pay $127,500.00 in taxes.

That sends $25,500,000,000 right back to Uncle Sam.



But it means that every adult 18+ has $297,500.00 in their
pocket.

A husband and wife has $595,000.00.



What would you do with $297,500.00 to $595,000.00 in your
family?

Pay off your mortgage - housing crisis solved.

Repay college loans - what a great boost to new grads

Put away money for college - it'll be there

Save in a bank - create money to loan to entrepreneurs.

Buy a new car - create jobs

Invest in the market - capital drives growth

Pay for your parent's medical insurance - health care
improves

Enable Deadbeat Dads to come clean - or else



Remember this is for every adult U S Citizen 18+ including
the folks

who lost their jobs at Lehman Brothers and every other
company

that is cutting back. And of course, for those serving in
our Armed Forces.



If we're going to re-distribute wealth let's really
do it...instead of
trickling out

a puny $1000.00 ( "vote buy" ) economic incentive
that is being proposed by
one of our candidates for President.



If we're going to do an $85 billion bailout, let's
bail out every adult U S
Citizen 18+!



As for AIG - liquidate it.

Sell off its parts.

Let American General go back to being American General.

Sell off the real estate.

Let the private sector bargain hunters cut it up and clean
it up.



Here's my rationale. We deserve it and AIG doesn't.



Sure it's a crazy idea that can "never work."



But can you imagine the Coast-To-Coast Block Party!



How do you spell Economic Boom?



I trust my fellow adult Americans to know how to use the
$85 Billion

We Deserve It Dividend more than I do the geniuses at AIG
or in Washington
DC.



And remember, The Birk plan only really costs $59.5 Billion
because $25.5
Billion is returned

instantly in taxes to Uncle Sam.



Ahhh...I feel so much better getting that off my chest.


Birk
T. J. Birkenmeier, A Creative Guy & Citizen of the
Republic


PS: Feel free to pass this along to your pals as it's
either good for a
laugh

or a tear or a very sobering thought on how to best use $85
Billion!!

2:51 AM - 23 Comments - 14 Kudos - Add Comment

When Trains Collide
Category: Life

It had been a long day in the studio. A show is coming up in October. I am dead broke. More than usual. It happens. Frantic to get it together, I had been spending every day in my shop. Work was finally appearing on my bench. Finally looking like jewelry. It was about time.

I was bushed. It was 6:30 pm. I went into the house and turned on the tv. There was a train wreck north of me in Chatsworth. It was on every station. It looked bad. Very bad. Two trains had hit head on. People were dead, injured, missing. I knew what was going to happen next. Sure enough, my phone rang. It was my Red Cross manager "Al". He said, "hi". I waited for more. It didn't come. I asked him: "so.....I'm going to Chatsworth?". I was a little dubious when he told me that the valley office would be handling it. I could see from the television coverage that this was going to be bigger than the usual apartment fire or car wreck. It turned out to be the third train incident that day.

No, he assured me, Valley would handle it. He was just calling to see how I was, and if I was going to be around in case anything else came up. Anything else? Right. I said I would be around and available should "anything" arise. We said our goodbyes ad hung up.

I went into gear. Feeding the animals, throwing myself into a shower and washing my hair. I suspected it was going to be a long night. Little did I know. By the time I was dressed, had my ARC vest and ID in the car and the house secured, "Al" called again. "Ummm....so...." he began, and then fell silent. Knowing what was next I asked him."Am I going to Chatsworth?" Finally, he spoke. "Uh...yeah...I'll call you back." He then hung up.

Thinking about it for a minute, I called "Al" back. "I am getting in the car and going. Is that the plan?" A cardinal rule of the ARC is that you do not self-deploy on disaster calls. Self deployment turns into a mess. Organization falls apart, the chain of command gets unhinged. Inevitably, there are problems of one kind or another. Self-deployers must be dealt with when the ARC and everyone else involved should be dealing with the disaster and helping the affected clients.

That was the plan. "Al", knowing that I would not go without a say-so, told me to meet him at Chatsworth High to help set up a shelter there for the affected families. I was already out the door and in the car. I had looked up the address on-line while we had been talking.

I arrived at what they were calling "the reunion site", to find somewhat predictable chaos. I was met by camera crews filming distraught families, who wondered where their loved ones were. If their family members had gotten off of the train. If they were hurt. If they were alive. One cameraman stopped me and asked where he might direct people to give blood. I told him that there was no place set up at that moment, but in the mean time they could call 1-800-give life, or go to www.redcross.org. I went inside to ask the same question.

There were hundreds of people at the site. Many were in tears. All looked dazed and worried. There were police, county mental health workers, as well as trained therapy dogs and their handlers milling among the crowd asking questions, trying to comfort. There were tables laden with food, and civilian volunteers passing it out from behind the area cordoned off with yellow tape. I wondered where the hell the Red Cross was.

Slipping under the tape to go into the auditorium, I finally spotted some ARC people, one of whom I knew. What was going on? The Nurses were there and organized, but there were no clients in the large auditorium. The ARC volunteers that were there, were just milling around doing fuck-all. Apparently, my ARC boss hadn't arrived yet.

Looking around outside, I spotted a big guy in an old ARC vest and no other ID tearing off pieces of blue tape, writing names on the tape and slapping them on volunteers from the neighborhood.....including children. I rushed over to stop him. People are well meaning. Almost everyone wants to get involved and wants to help. That is a great and amazing thing.

What I have discovered since being in the ARC, is that it can also be a big ol' mess in situations such as these. As an ARC volunteer, I go through training. I have probably taken about 14 classes by now. More to go. To be deployed, you only have to take three. You also have to go through a background check and be issued a photo ID for what should be obvious reasons.

The training is important. It tells you how to behave in theses situations. How not to be in the way of first responders. What to say to families/clients and how not to interfere and become part of the problem. You would be amazed at some of the trouble spontaneous volunteers get themselves...and others into.

Before I went after the big guy, I went and grabbed a supervisor higher up than myself for backup. As she began to speak to him, I went around methodically peeling the tape badges off of well meaning chests, politely asking the public volunteers and their kids to leave the area, while trying to explain the liability issues. Several refused to comply. Voila. Part of the problem. The big guy began shouting at the supervisor, refusing to cease his actions. I tried to talk him down. He started shouting at me. Bad idea.

When he got to the "who the hell are you" section of his tirade, I lied, flashing him my photo ID, I quietly told him, "I'm your boss, now put the pen down." He was too stupid to know any better, so I relieved him of the tape and the pen. He launched back into the supervisor, and she, never the one for calm reasoning threatened to call the police and have him removed if he didn't take off his vest and leave voluntarily. That was my cue to do something else.

To that end, I went looking for someone to organize the mishigass. It wasn't going to happen. I was directed to a very mousey, gnomish, mental health supervisor who I was told was in charge of the operation. Bad idea number one. She had zero experience leading. She was ok-ing and going against pretty much every ARC and county rule and law known, and was adding measurably to the chaos by her lack of action. Great.

Knowing that there was no help there, I began organizing several of the ARC workers standing around, I instructed them to grab some water and gatorade. To go into the crowd and pass it out. To look for anyone who might need a nurse or mental health services, and then to provide that help.

I grabbed a few other ARC volunteers and asked them to please oversee the spontaneous neighborhood volunteer ladies who I was forbidden from asking to leave by the "Head supervisor." I then gathered up some water and went out myself, talking to people, passing out water and waiting for my boss to arrive. It was a long wait.

Although a few people were reunited with their loved ones at the center, most were not. The wreck was catastrophic. Everyone knew it. Several reporters tried to slip onto the site to get into the faces of the grieving families. We caught the vultures and threw them out.

My boss finally got there. We unloaded the trailers and started to set up the shelters with cots and supplies. That went smoothly. Another "in charge" supervisor arrived. He wanted to know why I was there. I found it an odd question. Trained as everything from a case worker to a shelter manager to a logistics supervisor to an ARC instructor, pretty much the only things I was untrained to do was mental health and driving and official ARC vehicle. I told him that I was there to help set up and staff a shelter. That seemed to suffice.

The death announcements were starting to happen. A grieving room far away from the crowds was set up by the coroner. Families were told that there was information on their loved one. Then they were led to the private room and gently informed. There were mental health personnel there. A priest and a rabbi were also available. The rabbi was a really nice man. Trained in hospice care, he was the perfect gentle soul to help out at this time. Things had started out rough. They were only going to get rougher.

In the middle of all of this the Mayor of Los Angeles, Antonio Villarigosa arrived with his entourage, police and fire chiefs. I was at the shelter helping set up. One of the other volunteers and I decided to go over to the auditorium to check out what hizzoner had to say. By the time we got there the speechifying was in full swing, the room was packed with families and friends of the missing hangers on volunteers, ARC, police and sheriffs.

As I walked through the door and across the crowded auditorium, I noticed that Villarigosa seemed to be tracking me as I walked to the back of the room. As he spoke, it looked like he was watching me, catching my eyes and not breaking the gaze until I stopped and stood with a small group of volunteers. Even then, he would glance over at me every minute or two. I figured my imagination was working overtime.

In any case, the Mayor, police and fire chiefs were just flapping their chops as far as I could tell. One idiot told the crowd that it was difficult to identify some of the dead and injured because their clothes had been torn off in the wreck and ensuing fire. Brilliant. Just what frightened families need to hear. Pointed questions were asked. Some people were understandably frantic. There were no good answers.

When the yammering finished, Some of the crowd broke up. Wandering off to find information, food, or just to go home. I was talking in the back with my small group when I noticed hizzoner cutting through the families and his own people, instead making a beeline for my little trio at the back of the room. Oh no he di'int.

Yes he did. The mayor of Los Angeles is short. He is handsome, smooth, dark skinned and sleek looking. He is also a total horndog. He introduced himself around to the three of us, but I had his number and he knew it. I met his eyes as he gripped my hand and asked my name. I knew then that it wasn't my imagination. I also realized that hizzonor had not introduced himself to anyone else in the room. Was the idiot Mayor hitting on me? Not wanting to find out, I politely excused myself from the group, heading back to the shelter. I felt like I should take a shower. Ick.

My boss was leaving. "Al" told me that he was putting me in charge of the whole operation. I told him that made no sense as there were at least two people with more sheltering experience than I. I also knew that one of them would have a fit if I was put in charge. No need to ruffle feathers for inconsequential non-power positions. He headed off. It was almost 1am.

The families had been told that there would be no more information that night. That was not the truth. We were a central command post. If any information was coming in, it would be going first to the Center. Most families chose to go home and try their luck calling the two numbers that they had been given by the mayor's office for more info. Unfortunately, the number was broadcast to the world media. There were only two phones to answer the entire country's questions. Smart move.

The rest of the night was spent talking to clients that stayed, who's family members had not been found. They ate an sipped water. Mostly they wandered around wrapped in our donated blankets, forlorn and afraid.

As I stood outside the shelter alone at about 2 am, Mr Mayor spotted me and crossed the street from the grieving center to make small talk alone with me. I made the talk as small as possible. After about 10 minutes he finally got the message and left me alone.

Walking around, I spotted a group of young girls collapsed around each other against a far wall, covered in blankets. One of them was weeping hysterically. I ran for a mental health worker to help. They didn't want any help. The 17 year old girl had just been told that her mother was dead. All she wanted around her were her friends. No amount of helpful talk from a professional would bring back her mom. We kept an eye on them, but left them alone. Sometimes that is all you can do.

We had one woman who's husband and son were among the missing. She told us that she knew her husband was alive because her missing husband's cell phone kept on calling relatives randomly. His phone would ring them up over and over again. When the family members would pick up the phone, they would only hear silence on the other end. After two hours the calls stopped. The wife was frantic. The man and his son were later found on the train. It was determined that they had died instantly. There was never an explanation for the phone calls.

Two families turned out in force for their loved ones. I spent the dark hours chatting with one young man who was about my son's age. His 18 year old brother was still missing. It turned out the man I was talking to worked the night shift as a respiratory therapist at a nearby hospital. His brother had been on the train on his way to see his girlfriend. She was there too. So was his mom, dad, and 7 other relatives. I talked to that man for a very long time. I hoped against hope that his brother would be found alive.

8 members of the other family showed up and stuck around for the night. I would have too.Their missing person was an 18 year old girl coming back from classes downtown. I knew the probable outcome. It was breaking my heart....but not anywhere near as much as it was breaking theirs.

At around 4 am the public information officer on site had been called to go to the actual crash site. She needed a ride. Wanting to take a break from the overwhelming grief at the shelter, I offered to take her. It was not far.

Even in our Red Cross vests and clear ARC photo IDs, it was not easy to yap our way through the many roadblocks on the way to the site. There were camera crews and police everywhere. We finally drove down the long road to the private school where the triage and recovery had been set up. The klieg lights lit up the wreck as though it was daylight.

The disaster was visually stunning. The ruined trains looked like toppled buildings tossed like so many oversized pick up stix. Far more enormous than what it looked like on television, the wreck dominated the neighborhood, towering over houses nearby. There were hundreds of uniformed police and fire fighters. Some coming from out of state. The ARC had one Emergency Response Vehicle, (ERV) on site to serve the first responders.

Next to the trains were enormous cranes, peeling the metal back like a tin sardine can. From our vantage, we could see almost everything. There were over 250 firefighters swarming over the scene. We knew without asking that no one else would be found alive that night.

There were two refrigerator trucks at the makeshift morgue thirty feet away from us. Our contact at the site confided that although only 10 deaths had been officially announced, they could see other bodies. The count might rise to as much as 30. They would be there well into the next day. Many in the hospitals were critically injured. To say it was horrific is an understatement. There are no words sufficient to describe the scene.

While the Information Officers were debriefing, I made myself busy serving coffee and food to the exhausted firefighters. They had been working all night. I did what I was trained to do. Stay inconspicuous, out of the way and help out where I could. Other than serving food, there was not much to do.

At one point a fire captain approached us and asked if we knew where they might be able to obtain trash containers. They had been trying to locate some since the day before with no luck. It was a weekend. All of the companies were closed. Finally, something I could help with. I told the captain that I would be able to get the trash containers donated free within five minutes of finding a phone. He was incredulous. I assured him that it was true.

With that I took off with him into the fire and police command center. We got on a computer and found the local trash company. I called and was transfered to the emergency center. They transferred me to one of their managers in under a minute. I gave him my name and told him what I wanted, and that I wanted it for free. He only had one question. "How many containers did we need?" Handing the phone to the chief, the police captains patted me on the back asking me how the hell I knew to do that.

I have done volunteer charity work for many years. GI Waste management is a countrywide company. They are the greatest. Once my local trash company, I had seen their generosity at Katrina and again with our local charities. They are awesome.

The chief handed me back my phone and I went out of the trailer only to have the ARC PI officer tell me that her boss, "didn't want me to be doing their job for them." Huh? Last I checked we were partners with first responders. We scratch their backs, they scratch ours. Good will actions were lost on this Supervisor woman. So the PI woman and I both lied, telling her that all I did was to get them to the website and let them take it from there. What a crock.

There were other things that went wrong. We found rat damage in some of the blankets and had to toss many of them. Our Volunteer District Chair went off on an ARC staff member in front of the grieving room, screaming his head off about two boxes of kleenex. No I am not kidding. I thought he had lost his mind. That guy later quit his position. Boss man wants me to take the job. We shall see.

By the time we arrived back at the shelter it was daylight. 8 families had been told that their loved ones were dead. It had been a long night for everyone. I signed off of my 12 hour shift and went to leave. As I was heading to my car, the young man that I had spent the evening talking to caught up to me. His brother's girlfriend needed socks or a band aid for the blisters on her feet that she had gotten from pacing. His brother had still not been found.

I turned around with him, headed to the nurse's station and hunted down band aids. We had no socks. As I left, I hugged him and told him that I would keep his family in my thoughts. I looked into his mom's eyes and she began to cry. It was all I could do not to. My son is 22. I could easily put myself into her place.

Driving home was a blur. I was revved up and tired all at the same time. I stopped by the local feed bin which was closed. Left a note and tossed a 90 lb bale of hay into the back of my suv for the goats. Arriving home, I dragged the hay out, fed the goats, the dogs, the cats and drew myself a hot bath. It was almost 10 am.

My sleep was fitful. After about three hours I rose, got on my computer looking for the name of the still missing boy that belonged to the family I had befriended. It was not there. I convinced myself that there was still hope.

The next day, I found his name among the dead. The newspapers and television were full of his story. It was only when I saw his brother on TV, the one that I had spent those hours with talking about it on the news that I cried. M was with me watching. I had become attached. Something I try not to do, but how can you not?

Although this was their child, brother, nephew, and boyfriend. In the end, their grief was ours.

One day, it could be one of us on the train, in the car, in the plane, or wherever.... I know when it is, one of the rest of us will be there. Just like I was....

I haven't mentioned it before, but if you have never thought about it, I would urge each of you to join either the Red Cross, or another charitable organization. Every one of us needs your capable hands..... and generous hearts.

xxoo

-L

6:50 PM - 29 Comments - 30 Kudos - Add Comment

I Kissed A Girl
Current mood: amused

Tuesday was interesting.....

I have been in NY again for sessions with Super Shrink. NY was grand as usual. I saw a very old friend with whom I have rekindled a long lost relationship. When I am in her town, she and I go out somewhere or take a walk. Talk, reminisce. Have a bite or a cup of tea.

This time, we sang old songs we used to do together back when the earth's crust was cooling. I was amazed that she remembered what the hell we sang back when I was 20, she 26. I was even more amazed that I remembered them too. Isn't the human brain incredible? Now if it could only manage to decide on a reasonable president.....but I digress.

I saw my mother while in NY as well. The very reason that I have gone back into therapy in the first place. She has decided to move to NY for at least the next year. Moms has to that end, rented a very small swank apartment in a building in the 90's streets with a doorman and a concierge. We had lunch. She tried to force me to wash my hands. Some things never change. But apparently I do.

When I had decided to catch the earlier flight from NY back to LA. M jokingly asked over the phone if I had improved so much that I didn't need a second session? The answer was "yes". Dr Super Shrinkski had decided that I had made remarkable progress and cancelled the second round. Instead, he will see me in another month to start in on what I want to do with the rest of my life. Now there's a question.

When I decided to go back to NY for two days, M had lamented that I was going to miss the performance of one of his friends. The son of a world icon, this boy who looks exactly like his now deceased dad had recently put out an album and was playing a local venue to promote it. M had been a friend of the dad and had played on the son's album. He had planned for us to go together. He was late in mentioning it.

Catching the earlier flight would allow me to make it to the show. I headed out early from the hotel to do an errand that I had promised to a begging, wheedling, threatening friend. You know who you are and what it is. You shall get them tomorrow. Beast!

Upon my return, I checked out and snagged a taxi to JFK. My taxi driver was really interesting. A youngish arab man with a long religious beard. His name was Khalid Hassan. He was Egyptian. There are a lot of Egyptians in NY. We talked all the way to the airport of course.

Khalid was amazingly well travelled. He had been all over America, South America, Africa and Asia. He had two wives. One, a Peruvian nurse that worked at a local hospital, and the other a Swede/Russian who lived in Egypt with their small son. Khalid split his time between the two of them.

He loved the US. Loved NY. He and I both hate the Iraq war as a bad joke perpetrated upon the innocent. I dislike Saudi Arabia. Khalid thought that Iran should be bombed off the face of the earth. He was sunny and well spoken. I thought about how an Egyptian taxi driver was so much more well informed than most of the US population. It mad me sigh.

I got to the airport in chop chop time. Checked in and got to the gate. The rains from the last hurricane had hit NY as I arrived, and had apparently disrupted the day. I was soon happy to be taking the earlier flight.

The storms had wreaked havoc with the schedules. Many flights were delayed or canceled. They had trouble finding our plane, getting it from the hangar to the gate. While I was waiting, a youngish woman arrived with her child in a wheelchair. She was obviously extremely ill. Judging by the 80 some odd pounds on her 5'4" frame, I would say either cancer or lupus.

She looked at me oddly. I checked her out surreptitiously. With I shock, I realized that I knew her from the canyon. A woman married to a local music composer, I had never made friends with her because her attitude had always seemed somewhat pushy and superior. Seemed like she might need help now. I cheerfully introduced myself as a neighbor, noting that I didn't recognize her with the bangs she had added to her hair.

She smiled and introduced herself. I offered her a hand with her bags and her son. She had several carryons and a small dog in a tote with her. We chatted and relaxed. The plane was taking forever to board. She was frail and weak. We talked about being with composers and how their families were not supposed to have lives. She went on about how some composers don't do their own work, but have permanent teams that do it for them, with the so-called composer only coming in to tweak it at the end.

The name she mentioned as a prime example was who M works with. M is one of the main team members. I assured her gently having been there, that M's "boss" did all of his own composing. The team did the tweaking. None the less, during movie crunch, none of us had lives.

We ended up leaving an hour late. They were canceling flights right and left as we boarded. I took my neighbor's dog and helped them on. We sat on the tarmack for another hour before we took off. Luckily, the flight was easy and uneventful other than the plane landing with such a crashing thump that everyone on board screamed. Certain we had blown a tire.

When we landed, I helped her and her son off, went with them and pulled their luggage off, stacking it on the cart for them. I waited until another neighbor that has a car service in the canyon picked them up. I had offered them a ride, but they had already paid her.

M called me on the drive home. He would pick me up. We would go to the show. I was on my own for dinner as he would have eaten. I got home, fixed a door latch that had broken, fed the critters, took out the trash, then got dressed for rock and roll, having scant time to cram a bite into my mouth.

Retrieving me right after, M and I took off, getting to the club early. The first band was playing....loudly. They were backlit. You couldn't see a thing. We had been given wristbands for the afterparty in the secret downstairs room. M texted his friend and the friend's manager. Soon, we were hunted down and given all-access wristbands.

We went to say hi to the band. I was introduced. The young lead was gracious and charming...and tiny. The long hair he was sporting made him look less like his dad. Better for him I thought. The keyboard/guitar/computer player came out to chat. he was bubbly and nice as could be. We didn't keep them too long. Everyone wanted to go upstairs to see the next band.

With the schmancy wristbands, we followed them through the back stairs to the empty upstairs "Star" lounge. There was a pretty blond waitress who was introduced to us. She brought us drinks. They were free. That was nice. Frankly, I would rather have been down on the floor with the crowd, but M prefers the star treatment. I think it is nice, but sometimes a little too "special" for my tastes. Also...in some venues, the music sounds better out on the floor.

The band started playing. M's friend BM and his girlfriend X arrived. We said our hellos, and they sat with us. M moved back to sit with BM and chat for a while. When after some time, M didn't move back next to me I turned to ask him if he would. When he indicated that he planned to stay there, I pointed out aloud, that he BM had X, and last I checked, M was dating me...not BM. BM laughed. M moved back.

Others that we knew arrived. I was glad to see the fun wife of a very famous percussionist that we had spent some time with. She and I are around the same age...ok....X is the same age too, but not so much fun. Wifey and I compared shoe buying practices. I can't afford the ones I would like to buy. She instructed me not to tell M how much they were. An excellent plan were M the one paying for them. Unfortunately, if I decided to buy them, I would have to not tell myself how much they were . If I can figure out how that might work, I will do it!

The band member's wives and girlfriends arrived soon after. One of whom I knew, was the daughter of the percussionist. She had....predictably.....married the drummer in the band we had come to see.... A tall handsome talented British boy. The girlfriend of the lead was a tall-ish blond model from a cold northern country. She seemed just a tad tipsy.

The second band was ok. They played well, but the songs were unremarkable, and I hated the lighting. M's friends were up next. They were doing their own set-up. A shame that, as I think perhaps things might run more smoothly with roadies doing all of the electronics.

I noticed on stage there were these odd machines set up on pedestals. M and BM explained to me what "Chaos" machines were, and how they are used to alter sounds. That was interesting, but with 4 of them, I wondered if there might be a tad too much gadgetry. Turns out there was.

Although the musicians were really good, especially the young guitarist/keyboardist, who played remarkably, the technology f****d up, leaving things at times off key and not as smooth sailing as I am certain they would have liked. I could hear through, that the songs were good. Unfortunately, the live set needed work.

At one point, BM's famous "star maker" manager left. Had he stayed and decided to rep these guys, it might have made their career. Maybe he will come to another show and change his mind. I hope so.

Again, the entire set was played with backlighting. It was irritating. If the audience can't see faces and expressions of the players to connect to, why not stay home and listen to a recording? The lighting pissed pretty much everyone off. M told me to can that comment....until a minute later, BM made the same comment...but more forcefully. At that, I turned back to M, pursed my lips wryly, and cocked an eyebrow at him. At the end, the band did not play an encore. I was disappointed. The audience always likes to think that they altered the outcome in some way. M's line, it's a good one.

After, we went back through the secret passage to the band area with about 10 other people. It was a small group. At one point we checked in on the after party. A mob. We ducked back in with the band. At some point someone noticed my jewelry and wanted to know about it. "S" the tipsy model girlfriend of the famous young lead cornered me, pulling me in close to her to tell me earnestly about a jeweler from her country.

At one point she stood to talk. She had put her one hand around my waist, and had reached around my neck to play with my hair with the other. Soon, she was looking into my eyes, both hands around my neck, taking all of my hair in her hands and twisting it through her fingers. Somewhat trapped, I glanced over her shoulder to see M laughing at my predicament.

"S" talked to me like this for around 15 or 20 minutes, holding my hand, my arm, playing with my hair, pressing up against me. I think somewhere in the middle of draping herself all over me, she told me the story of her life. Doesn't everyone?

Eventually, and thankfully, it was time for us to go. As I looked to "S" to say my goodbyes, she looked soulfully into my eyes, took my face in her hands and said, "I have to kiss you". Before I had a chance to pull back, say a word or turn my head, she did. On the mouth. Alrighty then.

I suppose it is par for the course to make out with a beautiful foreign female mode/girlfriend of the famous backstage at a rock concert. Somehow in all of the years that I spent onstage and backstage at rock concerts, with beautiful models and rock stars, I had missed that element of the guided tour. I wonder how?

Her lips were soft, the kiss was sweet....and weird. No, I do not do girls, however, as far as I am concerned: in the dark, a mouth is a mouth, a hand is a hand. Beyond that, same sex sex is not for me. Her girl pal, seeing what happened, apologized for "S". I just laughed it off, and told her not to worry. I guess I was into a go-with-the-flow mood.

As M and I left, We said our goodbyes to his friends. I mentioned to the young star that I thought his "girlfriend was sweet". Really, I thought she was wasted and probably somewhat of a liability to him, but still, harmless and a bit endearing in a crazy way. The young man replied, "My girlfriend is insane!" I countered, "insane....but still sweet". If only to mitigate. M would have killed me had I said what I really thought.

M had missed the kiss. I told him about it, he seemed a bit turned on by the whole thing. I was fascinated. I wondered how turned on he would have been if it had been a gorgeous young male model kissing me? Not so much I would bet.

So that was my day...that was my night...

I went from one coast to the other, learned about Islam, connected with a neighbor, hob nobbed with those better known than I.....and...

I kissed a girl.

xxoo

-L

7:22 AM - 22 Comments - 20 Kudos - Add Comment

One Lump Or Two......
Category: Life

Last Saturday M and I were showering. Yes, we shower together. I have a huge shower with a window that faces the oaks and my large deck. Its really quite lovely. No....I am not inviting you to shower with me. Remain where you are.

Anyway, we were chatting, I was shaving under my arms. TMI? Too bad for you. I had my left arm raised. M, glanced over and down and asked, "what is that?" I raised my eyebrow, looked down to where he was gazing, laughed and said, "that is a breast. Did you forget what they look like?"

He hesitated ever so slightly and touched the side of my breast. "No, I mean that". I couldn't for the life of me figure out what he was talking about. I looked to where he was pointing. There was a small red dot on the surface of the skin. I think it is where a blood vessel ends. I have loads of those.

M, a little impatient, insistently reiterated his question, so I put the razor down and ran my fingertips along the side of my breast. No....this is not where you get to hear about my sex life. Just as well that.

As my fingers crossed the wet skin, I felt it. I grimaced and checked again. I didn't meet M's eyes, but looked out the window as I told him, "That's a lump. I have a lump in my breast." M froze. I went back to pick up the soap and finish shaving.

"Whoa whoa whoa..." he said. "A lump? Did you know it was there?" I did not.

It was then I had to tell him what I thought I had told him before. I grow things. Cysts. tumors, fibroids, lumps. I let him know that it was probably another cyst. I have had many of them. Found in my yearly mammograms, found by my vigilant checking, found by my boyfriend.

I looked at M, I could see the fear on his face. For whatever reason, I was slightly annoyed. Wanting to cut the discussion short, I found myself comforting him. Telling him that it would be alright, that it was probably nothing at all. Another cyst. I believed most of what I said.

The truth is, I am going through menopause. Although I grow these things yearly, and have had umpteen needle aspirations to rid myself of them, menopause puts them into a whole new light. You see, now that my hormones are abating, it makes me less likely to get cysts. It also makes the lumps I do get more likely to be cancer. To put it mildly, that sucks.

No one in my immediate family has had breast cancer, but two of my four great grandmothers died from it. One from each side of my family. That ups my ante considerably. Not wishing to frighten M even more than he was, I didn't mention that.

We finished the shower, dried off and dressed. Irresistibly the stupid lump drew my fingers back to it. The lump was large. About the size of a small, flat, pecan. It was hard and near my chest wall. Not one of the usual places that my cysts grow. By the time I had finished dressing, I was pretty pissed off and a little unnerved.

I saw M off to his busy day, reassuring him again that it was nothing, then I headed for the phone. It was only as I picked it up to dial the doctor's office that I remembered they would be closed on the weekend. The holiday weekend. Great.

So I lived through Saturday, Sunday, Monday, checking my new little life interruption when it came to mind. Remembering not to mention it to M to keep him calm. Going through in my head what the plan of action would be if it was not a cyst this go round.

This is what I came up with:

1. Break up with M.

He is going through a nasty divorce. Although he is at the tail end of it, there are still years of nonsense ahead of him. My line of thinking was:

a. No way could I stand the stress of cancer and someone else's bad divorce.
b. M is squeamish about small things. No way could he stand the stress of his bad divorce and someone else's cancer.
c. If I had cancer, M would probably leave me anyway. Statistically, men leave when their women fall ill. I would just be beating him to the punch saving us both the trouble.

No, I did not confide this to M.....or to anyone else for that matter....until now. Yes, you can clearly see here how my faith in men has not strengthened, even with therapy. Perhaps I need more therapy. I assume any man that is not married to me would leave. I assume a man that is married to me still might. I have had cancer. I have had experience in this department. It was not a good experience.

On with the plans I was making in my head.......

2. I would check to see if I have the BRACA1 gene. This gene almost guarantees that you will at some time in your life get breast or ovarian cancer....or both. If you have a mom, sis, aunt, or grandma who has had breast cancer I would go get tested.

3. If I do have the gene then I would go straight to plan A:

a. Have both breasts removed immediately
b. After recovery have nice perky implants put in.
c. Check on the ovarian angle that comes with that diagnosis.

I did mention points 2 and 3 to M over the weekend when he insisted on asking me about the lump. He did not take my line of thought well, wanting me to stop thinking like that. But I have to think like that. I am, if nothing else practical. If cancer was the card I drew, I would do the most sensible and immediate thing. M was unnerved by my practicality. Or maybe it was because I sounded ruthless about the possibilities and my choices. My brain cut to point 1.He would take that even less well, so I wisely kept it to myself.

4. If I do not have the gene then:

a. Explore options. Lumpectomy if possible.
b. Chemo, radiation, whatever is recommended.

I am from the "Get Rid Of It Immediately" School of thought. It's bad, it needs to get the hell out of my body as soon as possible. Cut it out, radiate it out, poison it out. If its me or It....It has to go. As far as I am concerned, the sooner the better.

At 18, I had to plan my imminent death from cervical cancer that somehow didn't happen. My parents were too busy la-di-dah-ing through their party lives to be bothered too much. I was ruthless about it at 18. I haven't changed a bit. But then I am still alive to tell the tale.

Tuesday finally arrived, and I called my radiologist. Over and over again until the line wasn't busy any more and the receptionist answered. I told her about the lump, and that The doctor's instructions were that were I to find yet another one, I was to come in immediately.

She, irritated proceeded to lecture me on having missed my mammogram in June. Their office had moved, I would have to go onto a waiting list. The list was long. There was no way I could get in quickly. Blah blah blah....I stayed calm, friendly, chatty. I mentioned that this would be my 14th needle aspiration if it was indeed a cyst and asked her to maybe take a quick look at my chart. She put me on hold.

After a moment, she came back to the phone, and with a much different tone to her voice, told me that she had put me in for the next day. Tuesday at 1:30. I thanked her and started to get the house in order in a just-in-case mode, muttering under my breath all the while about stupid receptionists.

Tuesday came quickly. I spent the morning relaxing. Checking little lumpy every once in a while. I had spoken to a few friends letting them know what was up. They offered to go with me. I talked them out of it. After all, with my history, it was no doubt a cyst. It was just my aging brain running away with the other possibility.

M called to tell me about the long list of things he had to do that day. I didn't say anything. He finally asked when I was going into the doctor's and I told him. He went on about his lawyer, legal procedures, etc... I kept quiet. I heard him hesitate once or twice. He called me a "tough cookie". I pointed out that I didn't have much of an option in that department.

He told me that he assumed that I was going to be ok, that he knew that I didn't want anyone there holding my hand. I told him that I had already talked my friends "B", "J", " A", and my cousin "P" out of going with me, so no, I would be ok.

M was surprised. He also finally got it that the good thing to have done was to have asked if I wanted him there in the first place. I told him that the only part of the whole thing where I might want my hand held, is in the case of a needle aspiration, or a bad diagnosis. He was even more surprised that I would need or want emotional support. I tend to keep a lot of my feelings to myself.

Of course then he insisted on coming. I insisted he not, as the needle aspiration would only result in his keeling over. He is not good with gross stuff. I told him that I would call him when it was over.

I got there in time. Brand new office that was laid out like a rat's maze. I had to disrobe from the waist up and toss on one of those puke pink glamor gowns, open to the front.

The mammographer led me into the mammogram room. Lo and behold....new technology! Something called a "CAD". Digital breast imaging. Cool!
My tech was not the best. It took her 4 tries to get my breast placed just right. Squashing it like a pancake and twisting me around like a pretzel each time. 3 more tries on the other side, and only then did she change direction. My boobs are still sore today from it.

The photos were amazing though. I could even see the skin. And the definition! Wow! I could also see that the cyst didn't look like any of the ones that I had before. That couldn't be good. I just hoped it was indeed a cyst.

I sat in the exam room for 20 minutes waiting for my radiologist. I was a bit worried, but told myself quite sensibly, that every other lump had been a cyst, this one would be a cyst too.

He arrived finally. An older quiet Persian man with white hair and a sweet demeanor. He wasn't so fond of his new medical group. I could tell. He checked out the lump.

It was a cyst....

again...

Whew!

He palpitated it. In the past, he would take take me in to have a sonogram, measure, record and then use the sonogram to position the long thin needle. This go-round, he did none of that.

Instead, he seemed somewhat lackadaisical. The assistant got a needle. Not the long thin fine ones that I had grown used to. She brought what looked to be a regular syringe.

He felt where it was with his fingers and in went the needle. It hurt. No more, no less than all of the other times. Sticking a needle straight into one's breast is not pleasant..... ever. But better it's gone is my opinion, so my advice is to suck it up.

The doc drained the cyst, and for the first time he didn't have it sent in for testing. The nurse seemed surprised. I was surprised too.Every other time he had sent in the sample for testing. I think that now he is not on his own, he has a salary and is saving me money and the trouble. I hope.

I left with the same admonition as always. If I find a lump, come in immediately. Otherwise, another mammogram next year.

I called my friends to let them know I was ok. I called M. He was insistent that we have dinner together. He wanted to see me. I wanted to be alone, but he would have none of it.

In the end, we had a nice dinner at the site of our first real date. As we were leaving, the band was setting up in the bar area. It turned out to be friends of M's. People that I had met before, so we stayed and listened.

Although the day and the weekend had been stressful, the evening was gentle. We got back to my place. I headed for bed. M wanted to watch Brian Wilson play on Leno. The next thing he knew I was calling his name. He had fallen asleep on the couch. We have gotten to be the old fart couple some times.

So much for all of my panic. So much for the lump. I am relieved. So is everyone else. Especially M.

This time I got lucky. I expect to be lucky next time too. I know now that there will be a next time. There always is. Way of the world. Next time, I will try not to dish out any lumps to myself. Its bad enough that the nasty things gravitate to me. No need to help them beat me up eh?

I am on call this weekend with the ARC as a Disaster Team Leader. I am well versed in disasters. Lets hope there aren't any.

Ok.....?


xxoo

-L

Currently reading : Night Soldiers: A Novel By Alan Furst Release date: 2002-07-09

3:26 AM - 32 Comments - 28 Kudos - Add Comment

Who’s On First......
Current mood: thoughtful

Well it was an interesting day and evening.....again.

We were invited to two parties. One in the valley, one in Malibu. The first get together a to-do of somewhat Regular Joe's, the second a matching of rarified air.

Here's how it went......

I had a morning of trying....unsuccessfully.... of carpet cleaning. Rental carpet washers are pretty much idiot proof. Unless I am the idiot. I just could not get the dang thing to run properly, and so at wit's end...and that was a short road, let me tell you....I returned the thing to the over the hillside hardware store. They went to run Mr Machine through his paces.....lo and behold......a miracle....it worked. Embarrassed, I did not mention that I had no idea that the handle was supposed to swing up and be used as a latch on the lid of the thing. Who fucking knew?

So...late...as usual....I met M at the first soiree. Carpet cleaner in the back of my SUV. We were the first to arrive. We had planned to get there on time and then away to the Malibu site after an hour. Unfortunately, no one arrived for quite a while. Also unfortunately, the first and only to arrive for some time, was the last woman M dated before me. Sigh.

M and I were sitting at the piano, chatting with the hostess, when in walks "A". She of the oddly pronounced name. I have known "A" for many years. She is a successful singer. Background and voice over mainly. Running to the edge of overweight, and unfortunately saddled with thinning hair, we have never been best buds. Not my doing, her insecurities were the determining factor. I find that happens with a lot of women who have hit middle age. I have not aged in the same form that they have. They automatically loathe me for it.

Not my fault. Seriously. All of the bending over backwards on my part does nothing to assuage. Lately, I have become pretty resentful of females who take this tack. I need to get over it, but having someone hate you for stupid reasons can be painful.

Anyway, I know "A" from the charity choir that I sing with at Christmas time. For years she was an unmitigated bitch to me. However, in the past few years, she adopted an older Russian boy, and that act opened her up considerably. We even had become pretty friendly over time. In fact, at the last Christmas party, she told me about this guy that she had been seeing steadily for a few months. They were in a monogamous relationship, but it was new and she didn't know where it was going yet.

I asked about him. He sounded boring but talented. Overall a nice guy. She just didn't seem all that sure of him. I never did catch his name.

It was M.

I didn't know that until our first date. We were driving along, when M started telling me about who he worked for, and what he did for a living and my addled brain somehow managed to put two and two...or in this case.....one and one....together. Ruh roh.

What ensued was a rather sticky conversation, with me gingerly asking if M was dating "A". He seemed confused. I spelled out for him what she had told me. He started laughing and assured me that they had never been out on what he could call a date. Apparently, she had invited him and his younger daughter out once to go to a free screening of a kids movie. That was the sum total of their "relationship".
For whatever reason, I still felt bad about it. Had I known that M was the guy that "A" had so much invested in, I no doubt would have turned him down when he asked me out. I am stupid like that.

Some years ago, I ran into an old pal's ex boyfriend. They had been together for years. That is, they slept together. She believed that he was "the one". He was clear to her that although she was a pleasant companion, she was not his "one". That continued until he cut it off. No one else, he just couldn't do it anymore. She was devastated. My running into him was almost 4 years later. He asked me out, telling me that he had always liked me. I had always liked him too, but she was a friend, so I told him that I would have to run it by her first before I gave him an answer.

Her answer was a resounding, "please don't. I couldn't make him happy. I couldn't bear it if you could." I understood how she felt, and so told him no. He was pissed. My friend and I have grown apart over the years since, but I have never regretted saying no to her ex. That is why it was a good thing that "A" wasn't clearer about "her" guy's name.

But there she was in the living room, and we were the only ones there. My reaction was one of guilt. I immediately stood up, physically distancing myself from M. His was one of instant lameness. He perkily volunteered, "Lisa....do you remember "A"?" She and I both turned and laughed at him, reminding him that we had known each other for years before he showed up.

I strolled away , she followed and we chatted about pretty much nothing. Then I went off to help the hostess do something or another. I overheard M admiring her low cut dress, although he didn't put it that way. I resisted turning around or paying further attention, instead, concentrating on arranging shrimp on a platter. My lack of interest must have made M nervous, as he came over to offer help a minute or two later. M hates shrimp. He wouldn't be caught dead touching one.

FInally, more people arrived. Several of the women at once realized that M and I are a couple. Considerable whispering ensued. One woman that I barely know sidled up and hissed smilingly, but somewhat incredulously..."Are you and M dating?" I told her yes. She went on to gush considerably about M and how lucky I am. Although all of the gushing made me squirm, M and I did meet at a party held at this woman's house.

When she realized that, she immediately squealed "oooOooOoo...another love story at one of my parties!" I pointed out that two other women had already staked claim to getting M and I together, so she'd have to duke it out with them for the title. I left "A", who was hovering nearby, out of the mix. We left soon after, telling our composer hostess that we would try to get back later on. I am almost certain my ears should have been buzzing with the shrill, probably scary chitter chatter that must have ensued after we had gone.

By this time, we were late to party number two at BP's house. We swung by my pad, changed clothes, fed beasts and headed out, arriving in the Malibu colony around 7 ish. Most people had already left. However, M's best pal, BM and his girl, "X" were still there, as was a famous musician and his wife, their kids and a few other well known strays. This crowd sticks together.

The house was great. Beautifully painted, stocked with art. I saw Rothko's, Hoppers, Wharhol's, Schnabels, Lichtenstein's...to name a very very few. They had invested well. I was gaga over the paintings.

Mostly, we sat at the kitchen table and talked. I had brought over some olives I had cured, limoncello I had made and a dozen of my chicken's fresh blue, green and pink eggs as a hostess gift. Much better choice than the cow head potholders of the last party.

As I said before, the women in this group interest me. They... and I suppose I can now count myself in this mix somewhat....are along for the ride as it were. Ok, I am not quite the same. I work. I have to earn money. M does not give me a dime. I wouldn't take it if he offered. That would be a bad precedent to set as far as I am concerned. With the exception of M's best pal, the others are married.

M's best bud has a girlfriend. I could feel her bristle the first time I met her. Because our men are friends, she knows she is...at least for now.....stuck with me. She plays her hand well. I can feel her suspicion. Guardedly, she is friendly. Openly so when we arrive somewhere..... but in a group, she pointedly cuts me out. Subtly reminding me that there is a pecking order and I am the new chicken.

I can't say that I treat her any less warily. She has her teeth sunk into a meal ticket, and someone like me could potentially rock her boat. I wouldn't deign to go there, but she doesn't know that. M's pal BM is a very guarded guy. Now that I have met him three or four times, he has softened. I notice that he goes out of his way to acknowledge something I have said and bring me into the conversation. They are little things, but in this crowd, I am grateful for his generosity.

"X" notices too. Her boyfriend's inclusion always has a backlash of a quietly smiling reminder of "my place" from her. Its a complicated dance. One that I am equally good at. But, as I said, we are stuck with each other because of our men. I plan to make the best of it, reassuring her where possible that I have no interest in her guy.

I watched the dynamics though. I see that although she is with him all of the time, she is not positive that she has him. BM drinks considerably more than I think he should. If I was her, I would steer him in another direction if I could. For her own reasons, she does not.

Before we left, I overheard her talking to M. Saying cloyingly, "We hardly see you anymore. You have disappeared. You have to come over more often. I want to see more of you." She was clearly not including me in that mix. She noted to the two of us later, and to me in particular, that she was probably moving in with BM soon, but wasn't sure about giving up her own house. I pointed out that I don't think a woman should ever give up her independence. I would keep the house. And so it begins. Bah.

When we left, we said our grateful goodbyes to the host and hostess, walking out with BM and X. X gave M a hug and then immediately got into their car, waving goodbye to me. M and BM said their goodbyes, and BM started to the other side of the car. As I went to get into my side of the car, BM stopped dead and said, "wait a minute!" He then turned, walked back to me and gave me a big hug. That was nice of him to do. I think he likes that his pal has found someone nice that he approves of. I am certain X did not take it that way.

Today, I decided to look X up on Google to try and figure out her story. She wasn't hard to find. She had started as a teenager, marrying one famous rock musician, and then a famous actor. Now she was with another rock god. Hers has been a hard life of hanging onto moving coattails. I didn't envy her life, but it helped me to understand her hardness better. Next go round, I will be more deferential. More complimentary. I will try harder to give X her due and make her having to put up with me easy.

We are thrown together by no choice of our own, but thrown together we are. One reason, I have always avoided dating the famous. You end up as an also-ran. Unless you have teeth and pull of your own you are quickly reduced to being a side-dish. I am used to being a main course.

Don't worry folks. It ain't gonna happen here....

I plan on remaining fully ensconsed on the plate as an entrée.

The blue plate special.....

xxoo

L

Currently reading : The Aeneid By Virgil Release date: 1990-06-16

10:24 PM - 24 Comments - 19 Kudos - Add Comment

Some Enchanted Evening...
Current mood: Musical

Last night, M and I went to dinner at a friend of his. We had "run into" this pal when the pal did a show recently at the Hollywood Bowl. He was the star. I wrote about the same man recently because we ran into him a second time at the Santa Monica Pier when Joan Baez stepped to the stage and sat in. I called him "BC" then, I will continue to do so now.

We arrived a bit late to dinner, but as we live in Southern California, everyone was late. They have a lovely home in the hills of Mullholland overlooking the city. A sprawling adobe with no land that I could see. The house was large and it was dark. I didn't notice if they had a view.

We were greeted at the door by the host who somehow remembered my name which I found instantly charming, as the circumstances under which I had been introduced to him the two previous times were chaotic to say the least. I really like BC's pretty wife "T" who had no doubt made a note of it and reminded him. Gotta love good women.

Urged to do so by M, I had brought a dopey hostess gift that reminded me of our host's funny show. That went over like a lead balloon...or ....a pair of animal shaped (cow) silicone pot holders....which is what they were. Seemed like a bright idea at the time.


A British director had beaten us to the house. I will call him "BD", as you would know his name as well as "BC's". BD was great and chatty. He assumed that M and I either lived together or were married. M, interestingly enough, did not disabuse him of the idea. I found that fascinating, as M has shown a penchant for distancing himself from me at times, when among his buds. What is up with that? I cannot tell you how much that irritates me. BD was single, so maybe that was why M was suddenly so very attached. I long ago determined that one has to maintain a sense of humor if one plans to have the hubris to carry on any kind of romantic relationship.

A bit later, the other guests arrived. The British musician, "BM", a great pal of M's and his small exotic Puerto Rican girlfriend "C". A British music producer, "BP", who's name you would instantly know and his funny wife "W". And the last couple, an American, famous through the 70's for his music, since then making a name for himself as a record producer. I will call him "AM". AM came with his girlfriend K, a blousy comfortable sort given to taking videos of all with her little camera.

If you are asking why I am not using names, it is because it would be a betrayal of people who are so incredibly private. Should my blog fall into unfriendly hands, I would have a lot of 'splainin' to do Ricky. Sounds silly perhaps, but I live in the land of tabloids. They are vicious, and that is putting it mildly. I will let you know that the last couple, Elvis Costello and Diana Krall couldn't make it because of a photo shoot that ran late. Just as well. I would have been awed into a stupor.

We were served appetizers made by the host's cook. Her husband served as the butler. They were quiet, gracious, Thai people. The appetizers, fried taro root, little cups of corn and cilantro, were accompanied by choices of pink or regular champagne, white wine or sparkling water. As I am deathly allergic to champagne, I opted for white wine.

It was an interesting group. They all had music in common, they were all smart. , famous and wealthy. Except for C with her jet black hair and small breasts, all of the women were Blond, buxom and coiffed. I can no longer call myself strictly blond, as I colored my hair yesterday and threw in some red as per M's request. M thought he would like that, turned out not so much. Boo hoo for him.

I was the only one of the "girls" who had to work for a living. That was fascinating. I made sure to wear jewelry that I had made, and that was a hit. A woman with a job was a novelty here.

This was all interesting to watch from my somewhat skewed perspective. I had somehow found myself back to the life of my childhood. Money, privilege, fame. Everyone was relaxed, witty and funny as hell. They had great lives. I remember that sense of ease that comes with not having to worry about how to pay your bills. Although I am nowhere near their level, it was fun to be surrounded by the rich and famous, if only for an evening. Much to my surprise, every one of them was a pleasure.

When everyone was there and the small talk had died out, we decamped to the dining room for dinner. The dining room had red painted adobe walls and wrought iron in keeping with the Spanish-is decor. Although the family's penchant for leopard skin print acoutréments in odd places made me crack up. Think bathroom rug, or easy chair.

The room had inset lighting, accented with loads of candles, crystal and lovely china. According to where our place cards were, M and I were separated at opposite ends of the long table. I had been placed at the head of the table between the host and BP the producer who confided that he had arrived from Australia that morning. I remarked that I was surprised he was able to sit upright without falling asleep.

Across from us were AM and K, the american musician and female pal. Of course where did the conversation go? Politics. I had pretty much predicted that one. Luckily, as is my wont in the morning, I had spent the morning reading several papers and on-line forums. Obama's speech, all about Palin, Biden, etc....The repartee was spirited. I, no surprise there, jumped in. Let it not be said that I do not have an opinion.

We were going at it hammer and tongs at our end of the table. I think they were chit-chatting about music at the other. I had the distinct feeling that I had been set on the griddle and run through my paces to test my viability in the holding tank. I was, in prison jargon...the new fish.

I glanced up once in a while to see M checking out concernedly to see if I had yet stuck either foot in my mouth and might perhaps be attempting to add my hat and wiggle my ears. Alas, no such luck. I was having a great time. M seemed as nervous as a cat. You would have to admit, that I am a risk in a crowd like this, my mouth being what it is.

The dinner was long, the cook and her husband made a lovely meal. There was loads more wine and champagne. I had a glass of red, then pretty much stuck to water. Dessert was coconut sticky rice and mangoes. One of my all time favorite desserts, followed by strawberries, blueberries and clotted cream. I might have rolled home.

We finished off dinner and the discussions and retired back to the living room, where the men each grabbed one of the beautiful guitars that sat on stands around the room. I played one for a bit, but because my guitar skills are so pathetic, I had the common sense to pass it on to one of the nearest music gods. That is however, where my common sense ended....

I was wedged in between M and BM on one of the couches. They with their guitars. As the men launched into song after song and their women watched, I...of course...sang harmony with Mr. Famous guy to the right of me. Hey...I have a gold record. Ok....I got it because I sang on the album of people who were acclaimed well before I came along....but still.

We had a hoot! Singing all-time favorite songs along with the people who had written and performed them, in between listening to their stories of their friends the Beatles was... erm...what would be the word for it? Heady? Surreal? Yeah....that last one.

Although I had met Mr Famous Guy before i had not been impressed. This time he spoke to me one on one. We went back and forth on the musical keys of the songs we sang, and where the chords went. I gathered a much better impression of him. I think he took away a much better impression of me as well, as in prior encounters I may have been a wee bit surly.

BM is a hider...perhaps shy, perhaps just sick of fans. I am not a fan. Prior to knowing M, I would never have thought of this guy, although he wrote so many songs that I know, I cannot count them. I am also not big on wearing sun glasses indoors at night. Its the not seeing the eyes thing that gets me. Next go-round, I plan to ask him to see his eyes...if only for a minute.

Suffice it to say, I had a very good time. It finally grew late, the songs got worse, and we all packed it in. Apparently, I had passed whatever test I had been put to without my knowledge of having actually taken it. BP and W are having a party on Sunday. The rest of the group is going. They invited M and I last night. That should be ...cough....erm....more surreal...? Ok then...fun....that will be fun (repeats to self).

As we left, I went to put my arm around M. He did not put his arm around me. He can be like that sometimes. No PDA allowed. I let it go. The host came up to us to say goodbye. He told M that "he was remarkably lucky to be with a woman that is incredibly smart" He went on to tell M that "having a woman like me should be all that he needs in life. That women like myself are put on earth to elevate men." I know he was being very complimentary, but I felt like I was 12. As he spoke, M put his arm around my shoulder, which made me feel even more child-like. I tried not to laugh out loud. Repeat after me...sense of humor = relationship.

We said our goodbyes, air-kissing our way around the departing guests. Numbers were exchanged. The girls of course want jewelry....at wholesale.

...yeah.....I'll get right on that.

We will see the whole group and then some tomorrow. My sister and niece are in town today. I plan to drive to San Diego to meet them. M can come or not....as he pleases. He has yet to meet any of my family, I have yet to invite him. I am slow like that. I do know all of his, including his ex-wife. Although I have seen his kids, I have yet to meet them. I have no plans to unless and until his divorce is over, or at least dies down somewhere below Falloujah level.

The evening was lovely. Rarefied for a working artist like myself. It was sweet to be included. I was embraced by talented strangers who didn't pick me in the first place to be their new best friend. They can blame M for that one. It was a lucky stroke that somehow, I fit in.

M confided in me later, that it was the first time he had been invited into this group as a friend and equal, instead of as a working colleague. Noted silently to self that it is also the first time M has ever had a pleasant female partner to add to this particular mix, as both his ex wife and his last girlfriend were screaming fruit loops.

Even without a good girlfriend, no one wants to invite an angry, single, divorced guy to a happy little party full of couples. Somehow...I managed to resist mentioning any of that...

You think? ROTF.

The men in this group are powerhouses. The women ...? I hope it doesn't sound too critical, but they seemed to be for the most part only attractively charming accessories to their men. In some ways, they have what many women dream of. The somewhat dubious "prize" of being "kept" . Not my cup of tea, but still.....I hope to learn more about these women, and find there is more to their stories. They really are all so nice. In any case, as most of you know....I would make a lousy accessory.

We'll see how they take it.....

xxoo

-L

4:37 PM - 28 Comments - 24 Kudos - Add Comment

Living La Vida Loca.......
Current mood: tired
Category: Life

I had a plan this week. Damned if I can remember what the hell it was. Yesterday I was busy busy busy. Working in the studio. Four loads of laundry. Trotting around the house making certain that the poop that my three dogs have generated is properly scooped and disposed of. Then there was the mucking of the goat pen, complete with goats reaching their big horned heads up for kisses, or alternately, trying to nibble the hem of my skirt.

There was hay to haul, and the chicken coop to clean. Trash to haul down the mountain and dump into bins. In between, I mowed my small lawn, raked the leaves from the loquat trees abutting the house that perennially drop, and shook out the dog beds. Lets not forget using the leaf blower all around the house and gravel drive. The dog hair that Icy my malamute generates produces enough fur daily to fabricate several smaller dogs. Her shedding ability is a wonder.

I went back inside, finished the dough and baked the loaf of bread that had sat rising overnight. While that was firming up, I used up a bunch of the eggs on a chocolate angel food cake that I had been meaning to try. It really looked gorgeous when it was done. Only after the kitty litter was scooped did I finally get a much needed shower, after which I swept the floors. Ahhh...its a heady life.

I finally sat down to some tea and toast at about 4 pm. My usual morning fare that had somehow gone by the wayside in the whirlwind of the day. I don't eat lunch. If I do, I am not hungry for dinner. Totally retarded metabolism, but there you have it.

M and I had plans to go out to some music thing on the Santa Monica Pier last night. We had both totally forgotten the Anita O'Day movie premier that I had sort of promised a pal I would attend. At around 6 I got a call from my Red Cross Manager reminding me that I had forgotten that there was a monthly meeting that night. Way it goes some days.

I was busy getting dressed, tossing unhappy outfits around and fielding calls from friends and family. What a silly day it had turned into. I finally settled on a newly taken in pair of black velvet pants with dull brass buttons that ran up the sides of the legs. I have an ass like a 12 year old boy, ergo, almost all non-jeans trouser have to take a side trip to the tailor, as my time to sew is so limited. Yes, I do sew. Can't say I am great at it, but I am passable in a pinch. Embroidery? Now that I am a whiz at, but alas no longer find the time.

I paired the pants with a wrapped black top, snug with a v neck and longs sleeves as we were going to be on a pier over water at night. Brrr....I tossed on this cool slim belt with a nifty silver hooked clasp and a pair of black rock and roll high buckled boots along with a bitchin' leather jacket and called it good. I went into the bathroom to slather on the mask...erm...I mean makeup when the phone rang, It was M. He was in a sharp edged panic. M tends to do that. I have as of late taken to verbally smacking him about the head for it. My legendary patience wears thin with unnecessary silliness.

He was still at home. Running late because of the usual complications of which we will not speak of here. Suffice it to say that they are myriad, heavy duty, and life altering. I have mentioned that he is at the tail end of a seriously miserable divorce? Lets leave it at that shall we? Neck wringing is in order, but I don't have a dog in that fight.

As I said....M was late, panicked, and as he can do at times, winding up into a froth. He was now calling to tell me what to do and how to do it. Baaaaad idea. He wanted me to hop in the car and meet him at the venue, or between my house and the venue, or between the freeway and the venue...or...or...or..... AAAARRGGGHHH... WTF!!?

While he was busy twisting himself into a knot over what I considered to be nothing, I was attempting to put on mascara without poking my eye out in the process. While wanding...(.that is a word...can you believe it?) I tried quietly to talk M off of the ledge with little luck. Let it be said here and now, that ranting is not the method of choice when one wants to sway my opinion.

I suggested he look up the traffic on Google to plot the most sensible route. That suggestion only served to further twist the panties. M launched into a stream of what he had due the next day, the pressure, why he was late etc...etc...etc....I suggested that if he was that overwhelmed that we not go. He pointed out that the guy playing was a personal friend who had provided us passes and it would be a huge (he practically shouted the next words), "faux pas" if he didn't show up. Good thing he couldn't see my face. I was both incredulous and cracking up. I am dating a man who uses "faux pas" in a sentence....and while angry yet.

Pointing out that it was after all, "only a stupid concert at the damn pier, not life or death", did nothing to endear me further to my paramour. In the end, M settled down slightly, and then abruptly decided that he would pick me up after all, (I had pointed out that going through my canyon to the beach WAS the most direct route after all was said and done.) He, exasperated with my nonchalance, hung up with a very short, sharp click. By now, I was totally irritated. Who needs this shit?

Several things went through my mind. The smartest move I thought was to call him back and tell him to go to the concert by himself. That way he wouldn't have to worry ab