Baseball season is over: two strikes, and you’re out.

Last night, I gave a second chance to a blind date who stood me up earlier this year (see blog entry dated 5 June 2006). He'd called me on my land line just as I’d thought about leaving a Studio City Halloween party and was checking the home voicemail: “Hey, it’s (insert name of agent from Big Three talent agency here). Sorry it’s been so long, but I just found your number, and thought you’d like to meet me at a rad Halloween party in the hills!” Huh, I thought – guess I should be flattered that he kept my number (perhaps on a random empty envelope stuffed between his car seat and gearshift box). Guess the woman he’d lined up had slurped one too many mojitos the night before. Or maybe she knew better.

Returned his call from my mobile, expressing my surprise at his reappearance. He danced pretty deftly around the issue, sweetened it with smooth charm, and gave me the address of the party, complete with detailed directions. I assured him of my familiarity with Beachwood Canyon, and that I’d call him if I got confused. He was coming from the Miracle Mile, so we agreed to meet at the house in question in 45 minutes.

I made it in 20. The party was in a hillside mansion on a narrow street in the higher elevations, and I could see/hear it in full swing as I slowly drove past. Luckily found a parking spot nearby and called the guy, who said he needed to stop for gas, would be there in 25. “You wanna go in? The friend who invited me is (insert name of Big Three Agent Boy’s friend here)...just tell him you’re with me.” I declined, for two awkward reasons: one, Agent Boy and I have never met. And two, I was wearing a rather risqué costume, along the lines of Elvira. Not as revealing as the previous evening’s wench outfit for the Pirate Party in Pasadena, but still a little too suggestive to parade in front of a bunch of drunken strangers without an escort, no matter how unfamiliar the companion might be. Even if I'd opted for the June Carter Cash costume I'd considered earlier that day, I would not have been comfortable making a solo entrance without knowing at least part of my audience.

As I waited, I took in the considerable panorama, heard the pounding music accompanying the laser light show from a party a mile across the canyon, turned back to watch the assorted goings-on in the agent’s friend’s – or friend of friend’s – house, each window on each level offering a sliver of the festivities; I could make out assorted superheroes and other such fantasy characters in attendance. Remembered that someone at the earlier Ghosts & Goblins party had asked me who I was, in my black velvet shroud and garish makeup. Hadn’t thought of it while I was making up, but I told them on the fly that I was Ghoul Girl, in the unflesh. At this gathering, however, I thought I'd introduce myself as the late Lois Lane.

I waited for that opportunity. Paced in the street, side-stepping passing taxis (for those smart partiers who knew they’d be imbibing far too much to navigate the hills, I suppose). Sat in the car and refreshed my lipstick. Checked my voicemail, lest my cell reception had cut out for a crucial minute.

After 30 minutes, I rang his mobile. Straight to voicemail. Okay, maybe he’s winding around the mountain right now. Be here any minute.

Any minute but the next 30. After which, I got a call from Agent Boy (later, I imagined his costume was last season’s Armani and a Blue Tooth on each ear). He’d had to pick up a friend who, on the way up the hill, upchucked his dinner in AB’s fabulous automobile and wasn't looking so good. He was taking said sick friend to the ER. “No way can I make it to the party, now. Sorry.”

Which is the word I used when he called me at home at 2am, to see if he could have a raincheck.

And so the holiday season begins.

Banging Your Head Against A Brick Wall?

This is UK graffiti artist Banksy's "Guide to Cutting Stencils" -- but I think it's an appropriate manifesto for many aspects of art. And life.

• Think from outside the box.

• Collapse the box and take a fucking sharp knife to it.

• Leave the house before you find something worth staying in for.

• It's easier to get forgiveness than permission.

• Spray the paint sparingly onto the stencil from a distance of 8 inches.

• Be aware that going on a major mission totally drunk out of your head will result in some truly spectacular artwork and at least one night in the cells.

• When explaining yourself to the Police its worth being as reasonable as possible. Graffiti writers are not real villains. I am always reminded of this by real villains who consider the idea of breaking in someplace, not stealing anything and then leaving behind a painting of your name in four foot high letters the most retarded thing they ever heard of.

• Remember crime against property is not real crime. People look at an oil painting and admire the use of brushstrokes to convey meaning. People look at a graffiti painting and admire the use of a drainpipe to gain access.

• The time of getting fame for your name on its own is over. Artwork that is only about wanting to be famous will never make you famous. Any fame is a by-product of making something that means something. You don't go to a restaurant and order a meal because you want to have a shit.

"If the world were merely seductive, that would be easy. It it were merely challenging, that would be no problem..."

"...But I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world. This makes it hard to plan the day." -E.B. White

New York City naturally seduces and challenges, and I was happily caught up in the maelstrom yesterday, finding it unnecessary to plan, simply awhirl in the chaotic urban tides...

"Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion...

...it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things." -T. S. Eliot

There is no escape. I am on a whole other coast and the feelings are right here with me, watching the verdant leaves rust, startled by acorns hitting the roof like random artillery shells, eating Milano cookies I never eat and drinking caffeine as if I didn't need to sleep, telling stories I've told a thousand times and hearing them with fresh ears, looking back a week and wishing nothing had been said, knowing it had to be said, hoping it won't make a difference, certain that it has.

Writing, T.S., whether it's poetry or prose, is the exact opposite of escape for me. It is full-out, no-holds-barred, get-over-yourself examination. Stand right there and take it like a woman. What doesn't kill you...

Escape is not an option for those of us who stay awake this late without the benefit of mind-altering substances. Escape is for the weak, the fearful, the covert. Escape means never having to say you're completely responsible.

Except for sleep, movies, and death, there is no escape.

"There is no coming to consciousness without pain." -Carl Jung

I am flying today, to my hometown, where it all began for me. But I can't fly if I'm tethered. And I want so much to soar.

*snip*