"Nature does not know extinction; all it knows is transformation." -Wernher von Braun

A particularly apt quote from dear friend and regular Zantales reader, Heij...especially resonant tonight because I'm on a new adventure, in a new place, preparing for a new project -- unlike anything I've ever undertaken. There was a time, not too long ago, I'd have been daunted. The fact that I am not (only maybe a tad nervous) is revealing: all that has gone before was clearly prelude to this. Its success requires that I establish new habits...and lose a few old ones. Could there be a better time than the new year to embark on such a journey?

Tomorrow, I'll clear my head of cobwebs accumulated over the past six days -- no reflection whatsoever on Mom; we had great fun and several fine in-depth conversations on profound topics -- and beat each other's asses in Scrabble. It's just that the city of Las Vegas is an environment hardly conducive to, well, thinking. In fact, the less thinking, the better.

Tomorrow, I'm taking a solo tour of Santa Fe...just me and this New Mexican mountain town I've been told I'll love. Breathe in the crisp air, critical fuel for my O2-deprived brain. Allow the art and the style and the vibration to elevate and inspire my transition into the coming collaboration.

Life is good.

"Not all who wander are lost." -JRR Tolkien

Arrived in Las Vegas at 11:30p...four and a half hours from Madre Street in Pasadena to Mojave Road. With holiday traffic, a couple of accidents, construction, the requisite stop in Baker, and rain starting just before Stateline (I will never be able to refer to it as "Primm"), that's not bad time. I've done it in three and change on a clear off-season day.

Unloaded the Camry (Mom has learned not to make disparaging comments about my penchant for overpacking), she and I chatted for awhile, I took a Unisom and slept 'til 10:30, when Mom began to rustle about...the drug was still with me, so I napped again until noon-fifteen. Mom's gone out to run errands with her friends on the transport that takes them about town. I wasn't allowed to accompany them...no insurance to cover a younger mobile woman. So I'm waking up and getting my bearings.

My past lines the walls of Mom's home. Photos of the little family of George, Evelyn and Alexandra...photos of the little family of Bob, Zan and Anna...histories that are comforting and disquieting, familar and alien. My soul's essence is, of course, intact; but I am SO not that precious infant, that sweet little girl, that rebellious teenager, that haunted 20-something with the eyes of a woman who wants so much more. Thank God for the challenges that chipped away at the destructive layers to reveal an elegant truth.

As Stacie read my tarot cards, she saw that I'm a complex woman who's lived a complex life. True enough...and now, the complexities are manageable, functional, even enjoyable. And always entertaining.

Now I embrace the process of life. A Christmas gift to oneself I highly recommend.

"Brevity is the soul of wit." -Willie S

Ok. I've gotten the brakes fixed (thank you, Mom) and Linda the Dragon has gifted me with the means to purchase a laptop. PLUS all the continued friendships.

The Thursday afternoon tarot card reading by Stacie M confirmed it: I'm one unbelievably lucky girl.

"The best remedy for dealing with a troubling past is living in the present." -Anonymous

I scribbled that quote on a yellow Post-it several months ago -- maybe it's been a year! -- and tacked it to my computer screen. A little Zen gift from dear friend Patrice, who likes to forward such bolts of wisdom; they appear in my e-mailbox now and then, like buoys in the bay, a foghorn in the mist. It is one of those truths that has served to keep me in the moment when the moment wasn't so much fun to be in...and it is one of the absolute facts that has carried me to this place, in which I am, at last, at peace with the past. A fierce and loving warrior in the present. Prepared -- even excited -- to meet the future, because the future is now. Happier than I have been in a very long time.

I shared this while riding to Griffith Park on Friday with my precious Bananafriend, and she impulsively reached over to squeeze my knee; I caught her wide smile, and heard sincere relief from a friend who has seen me through unbearable despair, and probably often wondered if I'd ever break free from the constant undercurrent of misery. She, and so many other friends (you all know who you are), are sweet harbingers of hope when I forget to believe.

My appreciation for the unique roles you each play in my life brings tears to my eyes -- the best kind of tears, that spring from the deepest part of the heart. You make me believe in everything. You are guides and channels, powerful beyond words. You each gracefully embody the Christ-like qualities of unconditional love and generosity and forgiveness, and I celebrate you this season, with the twinkling lights and shimmering ornaments of my gratitude.

Let our gifts to each other be our continuing, evolving friendships. Oh sure, I could use a DVD/VCR combo, and a laptop, and a new couch, and a year's subscription to Burke Williams, and God knows I really need new brakes in the Camry and an ergonomic office chair and computer desk and someone to come clean my house...ah, but those are mere things, and they will come when they come. And I am not diminished without them.

But I would be bereft without all of you.

Please come to me when you are in need. Please let me do for you what you've done for me.

I love you all.

Favorite Quotes Week presents quotes about change...

"We did not change as we grew older; we just became more clearly ourselves."
-Lynn Hall

"Turbulence is life force. It is opportunity. Let's love turbulence and use it for change."
-Ramsey Clark

"Change not any circumstance of my life. Change me."
-Sri Gyanamata

Favorite Quotes Week continues with those about dreams...

"If a little dreaming is dangerous, the cure for it is not to dream less, but to dream more, to dream all the time."
- Marcel Proust

"You've got to create a dream. You've got to uphold the dream. If you can't, then bugger it. Go back to the factory, or go back to the desk."
-Eric Burdon

"Reality is wrong. Dreams are for real."
- Tupac Shakur

Since I'm writing other stuff for the next few days, I'm declaring this Favorite Quotes Week

My two Favorite Quotes about love:

"Love is an exploding cigar we willingly smoke."
- Lynda Barry

and

"Love is a snowmobile racing across the tundra and then suddenly it flips over, pinning you underneath.
At night, the ice weasels come."
-Matt Groening

And now a message from your friendly neighborhood proctologist...

So, I was shopping at the Ralphs on 3rd Street earlier this week, the first time I'd stepped foot in a supermarket since the strike began (because I, as a member in good standing of the Screen Actors Guild, have been honoring my union brothers and sisters). I observed firsthand the dearth of certain consumable goods: no Quilted Northern bathroom tissue, no Viva paper towels, no Diet Vanilla Pepsi. See, I was holding several coupons for such items, including the one that sliced a dollar (which I was eager to have them double) from the price of any KY product. I sauntered with nonchalance up the personal items aisle, ready to surreptitiously snatch a tube from the shelf and slip it into my cart and, much to my surprise and dismay, THE SHELVES WERE COMPLETELY BARE OF PERSONAL LUBRICANTS.

I wondered if it was it a sign that I, um, shouldn't indulge. Or that it's on my partner to procure said lubricant.

Or maybe it's just the fact that times are hard and there are many more people than I'd realized taking it up the ass.

"How do I get my heart out of the way?" - Anonymous friend

She made me cry when she asked that of me last weekend, and she said she appreciated the empathetic response.

She's in such wrenching turmoil about her fragile relationship of low double-digit years. She asked me because she knows I've navigated the same rapids she's now riding. She's given it all she has -- or all she can give without losing herself completely.

Her ache is palpable. Her fear is uncomfortably familiar.

She poured out to me her murky liquid feelings, knowing I'd almost succumbed in the same mire and could throw out a sturdy lifeline, or at least point her to the shoreline.

She thinks I'm more than a survivor of heartbreak; she's seen me heal from the damage and pronounces me a warrior and a guide. She's watching me open the door again. Through my (brave, she says) example, she finds comfort and hope. She sees me calm, now; fearless and assured. Smiling and laughing with no visible scars. Conversation unpunctuated by tears.

She wants to believe she can endure, and she believes I have the answer.

She knows me well enough to ask, but not quite well enough to know I don't want to tell her.

Self-protection from the pain of recent years has prevented me from plumbing the deep passion of which I am capable. Yes, I'm letting myself feel again, but ever so carefully. Too careful, maybe. Extremely circumspect, like someone who almost drowned but longs for the thrill of the dive. Standing at the end of the board, toes tightly curled around the edge.

I want to let go, let it happen, let it be whatever it is, let it breathe. I want to freefall without asking permission...come on, I want to say, let's just leap! And if we land in mounds of feathers, we'll giggle, and bathe in joy. If we land on chards of glass, we'll bleed a little, dress the wounds, and get up.

I admit I am afraid to bleed again. But I'm much more afraid to miss the possible joy.

Fucking duality.

I told her there are two emotions from which all others emanate: love and fear. Fear prevents us from being completely alive. Love allows it to flow.

I told her, without love -- chasing it, longing for it, having it, losing it -- life is dry as the desert in July. Not a life worth living; not for me. Not if I have to keep my heart out of sight.

That's why I cried. Her question is my question, too.

I told her, the reply to that query is always the same: if you want to live this life for all it's worth, the answer is...you don't.

And then I told her not to listen to me.

"Don't be afraid to be in overwhelm; you're moving up the spiral into a new frequency." -Friend of Kate M

For those of you dearly beloved who use this blog to check in on me (and thank you for caring), that's where I am right now: overwhelmed, frequed-out and all a-spiral. I was in a deep one a couple of weeks ago, but I've since been given a fine opportunity to be thankful in this season of gratitude: not only am I being paid actual money to do a little project I enjoy, there are a couple of other cool possibilities in the autumn wind. Which means less time to post commentary. And much less time to sleep. But I slept plenty last year, so I'll draw on that for awhile. Look, you got to shake it it to make it.

Um, I don't know what that means. It just popped into my head. It means whatever you want it to mean. What does it mean to YOU? Yes, you there, with the bloodshot and bleary eyes from too much Internet and 'WAY too much caffeine. Shouldn't you be in bed? Can't sleep either, can ya? Okay, then, report back. You know how to reach me.

Back in a bit...

"Sadness is kind of my religion." -Margaret Cho

One of my faithful blog readers is my dear mother, Evelyn B. This should come as no great shock, as it it a mother's duty to pay loving attention to all that oozes from her offspring. But, since Mom's a writer, too, her interest means that much more to me. It is she who gave me a true love and informed appreciation of the English language, teaching me to read from The New York Times at the age of 3 (by then, I could read AND UNDERSTAND the Daily News), annoying me at every turn thereafter with grammatical corrections and elocution lessons. Thank you, Mom. As much as the smartass kid resented your relentless efforts, the smartass adult is deeply grateful.

Mom aka Evelyn recently sent me an article from USA Weekend entitled "What's YOUR Blog?", containing information of which I, blogger of 3 months, was not aware. For instance, there's a weblog site that actually PAYS their members; a portion of the monthly $5.95 fee goes to the most widely read bloggers in the membership.

Ah...yet another in an endless series of popularity contests, which have long been anathema to me. Admittedly, I gave rapt attention to Miss America Pageants between the ages of 4 and 21. Yes, I have aspired to winning a Grammy, Oscar, Emmy, and Tony and have composed (and rehearsed) eloquent and entertaining speeches for each occasion. A number of my friends and associates have won at least one of each, so I have observed the minimal and fleeting impact it has on the quality of one's performance or, more important, one's personal growth. And I understand, from direct experience, the underlying insecurity that fuels a human being's desperate need to be acknowledged.

It doesn't matter that I was admired by my parents' friends as a bright, mature and always welcome child; I was also an only child and craved their attention, so I'd jump through flaming hoops to get it. (A shame, since many of them were under the influence much of the time, so who was I really impressing?)

Never mind that my teachers regularly lauded my creative approach to studies, my exemplary work habits and thoughtful behavior; the fact that I fooled them into thinking I'd spent hours on a project I'd waited the last minute to start haunts my creative process to this day. (Fellow only child Brian W recently reminded me that we latch-key kids are essentially trained to wait, an observation that explained a number of my poorer habits).

Lucky me, to have a larger-than-life father, whose high-profile, glamorous career as a musician afforded me a healthy dollop of reflected glory; no matter how much sincere encouragement he lavished on me to follow in his footsteps, it would take me years to understand that it was more important to create footprints of my own.

And pay no attention to the fact that I was a cheerleader, the female icon of high school popularity, in my junior and senior years; I was the token zaftig, the girl with the short, stocky legs for which my father periodically apologized (the fault of his genetics). The girl with the woman's breasts that made it impossible to accomplish the airy gymnastics my slender counterparts easily performed. I spent years in therapy dealing with body image issues because of the boobs that no brassiere could contain, bouncing to the merciless ridicule of the freshman boys (and the secret delight of the seniors -- and, I suspect, their dads). Perhaps the misplaced appreciation of my nubile nipples would have been easier to swallow if the Dallas Cheerleaders/Laker Girls precedent had already been set. As it was, it just made me inexpressibly sad. The inescapable infusion of raging hormones didn't help matters, either.

I have been sad for much of my life, though few knew it to be true. People pleaser that I was, I didn't want to let -- or bring -- anyone down, so I kept the secret; as long as there were enough available substances to imbibe, I could maintain the charade. I think I would have been a happier child, a more balanced teenager (however oxymoronic that sounds), a more satisfied -- and probably sober -- young adult, if I hadn't felt the need to live up to unrealistic expectations. If I had been gently guided to simply discover who I am, and enjoy that daily miracle.

But the spilt milk is mopped up, and the tears have been dried; just in time. Now I enjoy kicking propriety in the nuts, wantonly slaughtering sacred cows, fearless in the face of all that is holier-than-thou. Now my sadness is not for myself, but for those who are still trying to fit someone else's bill.

I'm sad for poor little rich Paris Hilton (special thanks to BSW for making me consider her when I rarely do), who apparently put the "casual" in casual sex with her blase encounter, captured on tape for pop culture vultures to devour and regurgitate. It's not her performance's availability to all eyes that makes me sad (although such aspirations inevitably raise questions of character); it's that she lacks the passion that sexual activity should evoke. I'm just saying, if you're going to have it, have it for all it's worth -- otherwise, it's worthless. I wonder what makes her so unwilling to let go. Maybe she's just afraid -- as so many of us are at one time or another -- to be alive.

Yeah, I know: NOW who's holier-than-thou?

"The mind is such a disloyal friend." -Brian Lambert

After a walk around the hill with loyal friend Brian L, during which I shared my various misgivings and disillusions, he spouted that wise observation.

It's quite true: we artfully talk ourselves into impossible corners. We trip grandly over our own insecurities into deep, dank holes. With only one well-placed negative thought, we can be easily sucked into an abyss of hopelessness, rendered completely ineffective. Creative flow staunched. Constructive energy shut down. Wasted.

I'm usually better off ignoring my mind and listening to my heart. It may be permanently scarred, but it invariably tells the truth.

"That's all any of us wants -- a nice person to hang out with until we drop dead." -Lorelai Gilmore

While my fabulously longer-than-usual fingernails had been making my hands look quite elegant for the past several months (a testament to the virtues of nutritious eating, appropriate supplements, and regular moisturizing), they had become a nuisance when it came time to write. I was making so many typographical errors, I began to believe it was the result of a chemical imbalance. In truth, it was my glamorous manicure creating a form of speech impediment, a fashion-forward dyslexia, if you will. Now that the talons are sufficiently trimmed, however, I can click away on the keyboard with ease and clarity of expression (well, one out of two).

I can also passionately dig my more conservative nails into the back of my lover without fear of leaving indelible scars on his flesh.

There's a fine line between lovemaking and bloodletting...anyone who's been in a longterm relationship will attest to that. Hanging with someone who's just a "nice person" (and Lorelai, let's please leave out the "until we drop dead" angle -- it's too "'til death do us part" for me) doesn't usually take you to that incredibly sexy, back-grazing edge. Not that I'm eager to hook up with the Bad Boy. Those guys can really damage a woman, inside and out...besides, they have no discernable character arc. No, I like a nice, smart guy who takes me on intriguing, unique, romantic dates, then gets me home and pulls out the Bad Boy (as it were), taking me right to The Edge. See, I like The Edge -- it's not only an erotically charged destination, he's one of the great guitarists of our time.

I wonder how long HIS nails are.

"I'm trying to get closer, but I'm still a million miles from you." -Bob Dylan

I haven't yet left the house today. Plenty to do right here, in and around the mountain cabin, aswirl in the strong scent of smoke, the acrid odor of people losing so much of what gave them comfort. Now they'll have to find it in themselves and each other -- which is, I believe, the bottom line.

Truth is, I'm not in the mood to see the Camry's odometer flip over to 50,000. We're 11 miles away from that milestone, she and I. We've been down many a road these past 44 months -- to the day -- since my bro K and I found her on a Toyota lot that crisp, crystal February afternoon in 2000.

I had a grand to put down on a brand new car; I'd never bought fresh off the assembly line. I wanted elegant and reliable. I wanted comfort and economy. I wanted unassuming safety. I wanted practical style. I wanted room without taking up too much. I'd narrowed it down to Japanese, to Nissan and Toyota. K brought the requisite male energy to my quest; he'd prevent me from making a girly decision ("ooh! fur-lined cupholders!") and would smoothly negotiate the deal. After taking an uninspiring spin in Nissan's Maxima and Altima, we broke for burgers at Carney's -- then to North Hollywood to peruse their automotive wares.

I almost remember the name of the salesman who spotted us, a nattily-dressed Middle Eastern man with a smooth voice and easygoing smile. As K and I ran down the list of requisites, he steered us right to the dark silver (valets mark it grey, Toyota calls it "sage") Camry with the new body style, the rear that pissed off Mercedes because it looked too much like theirs. This was a CE, not an LE, so the seats were velour, not leather. Yes to automatic windows, no to a multi-CD changer. Yes, of course, to That New Car Smell -- an intoxicating scent that stayed with her for almost a year. A heady $23,000 perfume.

The three of us took her out on the 134, and her pickup made me laugh out loud, after years of lumbering or chugging up thousands of on-ramps in the used '88 Voyager, the used '82 Volvo, the very used '69 VW minibus, the extremely used '68 VW fastback, and the first car I ever bought on my own, the '70 Datsun, stolen the week after I'd made my last payment on the loan.

Did K have to steady my hand as I signed the papers for the biggest single purchase I'd ever made? No, I gave autographs and initialled little boxes just like a big girl -- a starry-eyed, giggly big girl.

Her odometer read 21 miles at purchase. I hadn't even gotten to 100 miles when I gave a friend a ride out to Monrovia to retrieve his Saturn from the dealership...and, backing out of my parking space after he'd blithely driven off, I tapped a car that had parked too closely behind me, giving the Camry her first tiny dent. I called my friend to weep. He laughed. Now is not the time to tell you what a metaphoric moment that was.

The Camry's been dinged a number of times since then, by thoughtless car doors and runaway shopping carts. The bottoms of her front bumpers are scraped from miscalculated curbs. I've long since stopped crying over such inevitabilities -- just as I've learned to limit my weeping over other ineluctable life changes.

There are scads and scads of sage 2000 Camrys on the roads of LA...I defy you not to see at least one a day in your travels. But this one's got a tasteful pearl rosary and unobtrusive new age crystals hanging from the rear view mirror, and a yin/yang bumper sticker to differentiate her from the rest in the lot. And a determined redhead behind the wheel, singing at the top of my voice with whomever's playing on the soundtrack du jour.

This Camry's taken me to beloved friends, to Starbucks and Trader Joe's, to UCLA doctors, Hollywood dentists and Beverly Hills lawyers, to LAX and Burbank, to eat & shoot downtown, to emergencies and rescues, to the beaches of Malibu, Santa Monica and Venice, to the San Gabriel hiking trails. She's also been to the Emmys a few times, and the Grammys, and Spago and The Ivy and the Four Seasons and Casa del Mar. She's been to Vegas in the heat and the sleet, she's been up the coast to a Santa Barbara wedding, down to the Queen Mary for a memorable post-funeral lunch. She's heard forty-four months of loving laughter and angry tears, witnessed all the sorrow and joy, protected me through all the close calls -- and abided the fur and muddy paws of precious pooch Lulu. This conveyance of steel and fiber has been home on rubber. And has been, admittedly, a comfort to me.

And there are 16 more months left on the lease.

Ok, then -- let's flip it over. Where to next?

"You don't feel you could love me / But I feel you could." -Paul Simon

Clock on the wall says 3:02am, but it's really 2:02; is this what I'm doing with my extra hour when I could be sleeping? Shoot, I can always be sleeping.

I was late for my morning bikini wax / but at least it was free / And while I was pumping gas / saw someone I didn't want to see / but the place at which I filled it up / was right there where he'd be / Stomped at old coffee grounds / where they offered the oatmeal cookie / Closed my eyes on the drive home for fun / and installing a new toilet seat took it out of me / But I got it all back at the Starbucks / on my way to a friend's birthday party / Watched the fires from her rooftop / and thanked God for coffee / Looked west for an answer / 'though I know that's crazy / and wondered what I've done to lose it / Nothing, probably.

The last of saving daylight.
So happy to be standard again.

"I do." -Alexandra B and Robert L

ANNIVERSARY

Most of the memories no longer hurt.
Now I can look carefully, objectively, at the wreckage
and pick out from among the charred embers of our structure,
from the crumbles that were our foundation,
a pearl unsinged, a wicker basket intact,
a stuffed bear with only the slightest odor of smoke in its fur.

Soon I will smile back at our smiling faces in a Christmas tableau.
Someday the stone obstructing my heart's view will give way
to a warmer, clearer appreciation of what we had --
not good, not bad --
just the gift of experience.
Then I can absorb and cherish the precious lesson.

Apart from the secret I kept for so long about
what did not work, what did hurt,
I do remember loving you.
I do remember joy between us.
I do recall the comfort of familiarity --
our own language, our own laughter.
There was a certain synergy, but not syzygy,
the ability to be independent as we moved together.
This is what I have craved
and what we could not find.
It was not for us to have --
it was but one of the elements we lacked
in our particular chemistry.

So when we walk past the rubble,
when it comes to us in flashes or dreams,
let us catch the glint of what was the best
of our time together,
a gentle shimmer from under the ash,
and recognize it as a blessing
to grace the rest of our lives.

10.22.00

"Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life is a broken winged bird that cannot fly." -Langston Hughes

It seems easier to allow the expiration of a precious dream than to explore all available measures to keep it alive. After all, you've made every effort, taken each recommended step, even concocted a few snazzy moves of your own, all to no apparent avail. So, what's left? The carcass of a dream? No. With all due respect to the venerable poet Mr. Hughes, dreams don't die; but without them, we do.

Dreams are thought forms awaiting our action in order to blossom, in need of our life support to bear good fruit; they are babies craving nothing more than our utterly undivided attention. Dreams wither in the absence of our complete devotion -- but they don't disappear. True dreams will haunt and tease us until we realize them. Until we do the next thing we haven't done. And the next. And, yes...the next. Our dreams ask us to be relentless; and they require that we love ourselves enough to follow them through to completion. Even though we don't exactly know what form the finished product will take.

Too often we short-shrift our aspirations, deeming them impractical (by whose standards?), pronoucing them impossible (ah there, Don Quixote!), giving up when the challenges pile too high and topple -- often on us. Inevitably causing cuts and bruises...which heal quickly with the antiseptic of new information and the balm of patience. And we stack the volumes again; this time, a little differently. Shorter stacks. Big ones on the bottom, creating a more solid foundation for the smaller ones on top. Against the wall, maybe, for support.

Unrealized dreams leave torn, spiderless cobwebs to festoon the haunted corners of our hearts. But, look: directly across from the damaged web is a fresh net being spun by another industrious spider, tenaciously weaving a new and intricate design, an irresistable dreamcatcher for our hopes and desires (admittedly, not a charming analogy for the arachnophobes among you).

No one dashes our dreams but ourselves. We set unreasonable time limits, we expect certain remuneration, we unfairly compare our dreams to the dreams of others. And we have to stop.

Because this is about the free flow of unlimited energy -- the sparkling Fantasia sweep of Mickey Mouse's magic wand. Dreams do not live in a file cabinet or a storage bin. They breathe as we do, they survive by our wits, their blood flow is through our veins.

I'll spare you the hundred more metaphors I could conjure; I know all you dreamers get the idea.

It is decidedly NOT easier to let go of that which inspires our minds, charges our hearts, and nourishes our souls. It is, in fact, inexpressibly intolerable. Let's not do it! Let's dream away! Let's do that which makes us feel most alive, open our arms wide to every possibility this life offers, fearlessly unfurl our fingers, like the wings of a bird, and let her fly.

"The values of the marketplace supersede the goals of social justice." -Martin Luther King

Last night, I was inspired to action by a small group of gifted people who are out to make positive changes in the world by USING the values of the marketplace to MEET the goals of social justice. They have, in fact, developed a very attractive commercial means of bringing large numbers of people to all manner of pro-social issues via the Internet and all other media, by using their considerable knowledge, talents and high-level entertainment connections. These are smart, resourceful people with good hearts; my favorite kind. I like their bandwagon, and I'm jumping on.

More about this later, as I have to make some calls and get dressed for a lunch date with one of my closest pals, a smart, resourceful man with a good heart.

"Sometimes I believe as many as six impossible things before breakfast." -Lewis Carroll

While I have been casting my job search net far and wide via various friends and business associates (many of whom wear both hats), I have also been accessing several websites in my quest for employment, including old friend Craigslist. I have not visited CL's personals section in many weeks. But, after scouring their job listings late last night in preparation for the morning e-submissions, I decided to check in on the latest requests for LTRs (that's "long-term relationships" for you married folk -- or, as I like to call you, "The Undating"), solely for entertainment purposes. A couple of entries caught my glazed and jaded eye, only because they were so inventive and well-crafted (elements sorely missing in 99.6% of CL posts), and I responded to one, just to hear myself write. I'm quite certain I'll hear nothing back, which suits me down to the nub.

Herewith is the oddest of the two posts, followed by my response in kind:

RAINY DAYS, MONDAYS AND HEAD TRAUMA ALWAYS GET ME DOWN.

First of all, I'm looking for a woman who can be kind, sweet, and give me an alibi. Yes, an alibi. When the cops come to you and ask where I was last Saturday, you say I was watching a video with YOU. Uh...maybe "When Harry Met Sally." I was at your place from about 6pm til uh....let's say 1am. That should do it. Thanks.

I'm very religious. I built my own God out of Playdough. It sorta looks like a monkey holding a huge sword. If you'd like to join my sect, services are on Monday nights and consist of helping me paint my apartment. A small price to pay for everlasting salvation.

For once I'd like to see a post that's something like this...."Hi!! I hate to laugh. My friends would describe me as NOT down to earth. I'm floating WAY above the globe. I have SO much spare time, but use none of it to travel, because I hate traveling. If I get more free time, I still won't travel." Now THAT would be an original post!!

Oh, by the way, I hate to travel.

I made a yo-yo out of manhole covers. Apparently you can put someone in a coma if you hit 'em on the head while doing a "round the world." Hey, it wasn't MY fault, I didn't even see that crippled kid sneaking up behind me.

I wear a HUGE smile everywhere I go. It offsets the middle finger I give everyone. It really shows people's true colors. If you're an optimist, you see my bright smile. If you see my finger, you're probably a Communist.

Write back to me!! Send me a pic of someone else and claim that it's you!!! Write at least 19 words.

...after a hearty LOL, I dashed off this reply:

IT WAS GOOD FOR ME; HOW WAS IT FOR YOU? ON A SCALE OF ONE TO TEN.

If I didn't know better, I'd fall in love with you.

But don't you worry your little pink head about that; I know better. PLENTY better.

And yet...I'm a sucker for the smartass. A kind, sweet sucker, who'll do just about anything for her man. Except whistle. It makes unsightly lines around the mouth. Which is why I just quit smoking crack and try as much as possible not to speak French.

I have been saved. Many times. Often by a still, small voice. Hello? You there again? How ya doin'? Nah, I'm not going to jump off that bridge. I was just looking.

My mother has only one leg. Got tired of walking, so had the other one lopped off. Now people treat her with respect and bring her things. She's very happy.

I believe in the truth, even if it's painful. Even if I have to lie to find it. In fact, the more pain and lies, the better. That which does not kill you makes you a jar of peanut butter. Irreverence is mine, sayeth the Lord. And He should know. He's made a pretty penny off of me with that one line alone.

So, if you care -- if you REALLY care -- you'll leave me be and go on about your business. Otherwise, let's meet at the next available Starbucks and order random fish.

~~~~

Unlikely as it is that I'll get an answer, I promise to report back if I do. But what lunatic would want a woman who'd offer such a drugged-out Gilmore Girls comeback?

No, really...give me a name.

"...and I-ee-I will always love you-oooooooooo..." - Dolly Parton (as sung by Whitney Houston)

This is especially for my musician readers...

Most of you know I'm also a singer who has gigged around New York and LA. Mom grabbed this bit of Internet humor for me in the midst of its cyber-rounds, knowing I'd be able to relate all too well; she and I have both known too many "girl singers" (as we're STILL called -- FYI, we prefer "female vocalist") who'd be paying BIG fines for these offenses:

SINGING OFFENSES AND ACCOMPANYING FINES
Singer's Name __________________________________
Singer's Real Name _______________________________
Date of Offense(s) _____ /_____ / _______

PREPARATION/PERFORMANCE OFFENSES
Doesn't know how to adjust mic stand-$15
Can't figure out how to connect cable to mic-$15
Takes over an hour getting EQ setting on monitors-$50
Still gripes about EQ setting on monitors-$75
Lays mic down on stage and walks offstage-$15
Lays mic down facing kick drum-$20
Lays mic down facing guitar amp-$25
Lays mic down facing monitor-$50
Points mic toward monitor, causing feedback during song-$75
Straight-arms mic when singing-$15
Drops mic-$10
Leaves lipstick all over mic-$100
Doesn't have set list-$10
Doesn't have keys on set list-$15
Doesn't have original songs charted-$20

SINGING OFFENSES:
Doesn't know key to songs-$10
Doesn't know when to come in-$15
Modulates without informing band-$20
Continues singing in old key after song modulates-$30
Forgets original singer of song-$10
Dances great but sings off key and out of time-$30
Goes off-key while singing acapella-$200
Stands onstage but doesn't sing harmonies-$30
Sings bad harmonies-$35
Sings harmonies already contributed by band member in song-$40
Stops song halfway through and starts over-$25
Forgets to sing bridge-$20
Forgets words-$20
Sings verses out of order in song-$15
Makes up 4th verse to 3 verse song-$100
Holds words to song while singing onstage-$20
Looks at pager while singing song-$10
Sings consistently flat-$25
Sings consistently sharp-$25
Sings too softly-$5
Just plain ol' CANNOT SING, but buys band a round of drinks - N/C
Sings "Stand By Your Man" in the key of A-$30
Wants to sing "Crazy" by Patsy Cline more than once a night-$100
Thinks that "Poor Poor Pitiful Me" is a new Terri Clark song rather than the old
Warren Zevon song-$50
Thinks that "I Will Always Love You" is a new Whitney Houston song instead
of an old Dolly Parton song-$100
"Dolly who?"-$50
"Patsy who?"-$75

STAGE PRESENCE OFFENSES:
Leaves stage when not singing lead vocal-$20
Holds guitar, but doesn't play-$15
Plays guitar but plays wrong chords, not plugged in-$25
Plays guitar, wrong chords, plugged in-$250
Plays tambourine-$10
Plays tambourine out of time-$50
Leaves tambourine, drink, charts lying all over stage-$25
Plays harmonica solo during song-$100
Tells jokes over mic-$5
Tells bad jokes over mic-$50
Tells bad joke and then laughs hysterically about it over mic-$500
Leaves stage to argue with boyfriend-$35
Argues with band members onstage-$150
Argues offstage with boyfriend musician-$175
Argues onstage with boyfriend musician-$200
Gripes at band onstage-$20
Gripes at band onstage over mic-$75
Walks offstage to use cell phone on gig-$15
Uses cell phone on stage during gig-$30
Powders nose, sprays perfume, sprays hairspray, freshens up lipstick
onstage-$15
Thousand dollar outfit, ten dollars worth of singing lessons-$60

OTHER MISCELLANEOUS OFFENSES:
Late for gig-$30
Dates a musician in the band-$50
Dates the drummer-$150
Sets foot on a Karaoke stage-$20
Sings on a Karaoke stage-$50
Uses fictitious last name-$50
Falls for so-called producer she meets on gig, "Hey baby, I'll make you a
STAR"-$20
Dumps management, band, etc. after making the big time-$100

"Always believe that tomorrow is your day." -Billy Wilder

Lately at loggerheads with my professional life, I've grown weary of meeting the myriad daily challenges, constantly raising my fists to knock them down -- or at least redirect them. Hellbent on finding solutions to problems massive and minute, I had a small epiphany in the car tonight, on my way to dinner with dear girlfriend Christine, her honey Matt and her Boston bro' Steven. A thought that maybe there's a sea change at hand, and I just have to watch the tides; that there's little else to be done when they pull but ride them. That there's something I'm not seeing because my vision is blurred or obstructed by what I think I should see. That it's time to be the listener in the ongoing conversation with The Universe.

There were a few phone messages when I got home from our little Thai meal; one from my mother, just checking in, telling me she loves me, wanting to know how I'm doing. Sometimes I opt not to immediately return her call while I'm particularly vexed and perturbed; why upset her when there's nothing she can do?

Ah, but I mustn't underestimate Mom's powers -- for tonight, she came through, as good moms do when they're allowed to do their motherly job. As I tentatively, then wholeheartedly, spilled my current anxieties, Mom kindly and firmly offered the above-quoted wisdom, from one of our favorite film directors -- a little man whom she used to see quite often when she worked in Beverly Hills. Although it smacks of Scarlett O'Hara, it sounds more like a determined immigrant whose belief undoubtedly came out of his own difficult life experiences. Whose ultimate success was realized out of the understanding that he'd earned it. That tomorrow was his day. And all those tomorrows add up.

Several months ago, Mom found a wise way of giving me perspective on my temporary financial state vs. my capacity for right livelihood by quoting producer Mike Todd: "I've been broke, but I've never been poor."

I love having a mom who makes her daughter feel better by quoting great filmmakers.

"Widescreen, take the world away, break me from the day, make me be what's not for real..." -Rupert Holmes

I like to seek solace in escape -- and in the forbidden. Since no such comfort was being offered from any other source, I gouged myself out of the cabin on the hill, drove the Japanese chariot to Crown City, ensconced myself for five hours in a dark theatre and treated myself to images flickering on a large screen.

The story for "Out of Time" was no better than a 2-episode "NYPD Blue" arc -- except that it offered the eminently enjoyable DenZEL. I'd be happy to watch that man pump gas -- preferably mine. I often remember the year I was working on the same lot as he (CBS on Radford in Studio City) during his last "St. Elsewhere" days -- whenever we'd cross paths, I'd wonder from what heaven he'd been dropped.

Got a large bag of popcorn to accompany my viewing -- forbidden in my eating program, but, hey: how often do I drown my sorrows in puffed kernels soaked in faux beurre?

The Diet Coke kicked in in the last act, and I wasn't yet ready to leave Paseo Colorado's movie house...so I got the free popcorn 'n' beverage refill, and on my way to the Ladies', checked for the next available screening. "Underworld" at 7:10, "Under the Tuscan Sun" (which you loyal readers will recall I'd seen at a press screening) at 7:50. Under the influence of caffeine, I opted to steal a seat in "Underworld", and was underwhelmed after 15 minutes. While it had a sexy, dark "Matrix"-like look I liked, it gave me no story to hang onto -- the limp opening voiceover that wanted to pass for a setup sounded very much like so much "Blahblahblah"...after the first vampire vs. werewolf shootout in an unidentified subway system (looking much more like London or New York than, say, the BART), I just didn't care...I was outta there. A good-looking film with no story is as unsatsifying as fucking a hot guy with no brain or sense of humor. Quelle waste of time.

Still too Coked up to leave the cinema sanctuary, I slid into a perfect center seat for my second helping of Diane Lane's luminous, humorous portrayal of a divorcee reclaiming life and love in Italy. Didn't matter that I already knew each beat of the story; the deliciously cinematic, warmly drawn paean to hope and romance turned out to be just what I needed to refocus and refuel.

Except for one more forbidden dip: a single scoop of the best coffee ice cream in this here county, at Buster's on Mission in South Pasadena. The smiling guy behind the counter dished up a little extra for the redhead with the waning blues, and his small kindness -- plus the luscious confection -- did the trick. Tonight's a chilly night not quite right for frozen desserts, but I licked happily as I window-shopped on near-deserted Mission and ducked into the Videotheque, where they display their DVD rentals by director, star, or country of origin. Better than a candy store -- so much I must see, and revisit. I really need a DVD player. And a laptop. Oh, yeah, and an income.

On my way back to the mountain, I had to switch on the heater for the first time since -- when? An evening in April? In a bit, I'll snuggle in my cozies and burrow under the comforter...and dream about what I can chisel out of tomorrow.

"If only you believed like I believe, baby, we'd get by." - Marty Balin, "Miracles"

I know who I'm voting for on Tuesday. I'm not telling, as I consider one's political preferences to be as personal as one's spiritual/religious choices, but I will say this: the California gubernatorial recall process has pried up a few squeaky, even rotted, boards that have long covered the foundation of my political beliefs, and I am punching a hole I never thought I'd punch. Only one candidate has assured me they have viable solutions to the problems Californians have endured for years, not only under Davis' ill-fated regime. And, although this person and I would have to duke it out about a couple of critical issues, they are issues which do not directly inform or impact the state's current dysfunction. However the process was initiated (if I'd had an extra couple mil lying around, I might have done the same), we are recalling Davis because he fucked up, and we've been paying for it, and I'm ready to make another choice. Because, if I'm anything, it's pro-choice; there's one hint.

Another Hint: To my knowledge, my candidate's face has never been featured on a billboard or in the TV Guide.

Hint #3: I can't tell my mother. She'll threaten to cut a switch and spank my bottom raw.

The Fourth Hint: Friend and fine screenwriter Ted H. is very proud of me.

Final Hint: My candidate is not likely to win.

"Eez a puzzlement." -Yul Brenner, The King and I

I don't know why my earlier post produced in triplicate. I've contacted the mothership, Blogger.com, and it's all fixed on their end...but not out in cyberspace.

All these little -- and big -- frustrations make me wanna get completely mindless and do reckless things, like curl up in bed and immerse myself in NBC's entire Thursday night lineup for the first time in, er, months and months. Or eat copious amounts of, say, Haagen Dazs vanilla ice cream. Or go for a walk in the dark and chase random skunks. Or, speaking of random skunks, vote a very recently "recovered" mysogynist into gubernatorial office.

...I'm back from a few minutes of viewing in the bedroom, and it's just as I've been warned: The Friends aren't funny anymore.

If this posts thricely, you'll all hear me scream. No matter where you are in the contiguous United States.

"Don't forget to breathe." -Alexandra Leh

...whoever the hell SHE is.

Never mind that the deal on one of my television projects has reached Critical Mass, and there's only ONE POINT that can break the deal, and the Big Guns have been called in to get this thing done -- one way or the other. It's like watching two Warner Brothers cartoon bulls in the big face-off, smoke snorting from their outsized, be-ringed nostrils, eyes narrowed and bloodshot, stomping their hooves in the ground as they prepare to charge.

And here am I, frozen on the sidelines, knees knocking and fingers crossed, future as a producer hanging in the balance, wondering what it might be like to make venti lattes as a Starbucks barista in, say, beautiful Vancouver.

"...would you like something to eat with that?"

Perhaps the cooler weather will allow for cooler heads. We all know those always prevail.

Breathe, dammit.

"And now for something completely different." -Monty Python's Flying Circus

*deepbreath*
fuckreligionfuckparenthoodfuckgoatcheesefuckLAfucktrendoidsfuckM&Ms
fucksexfuckmoneyfuckchristmasfucksarcasmfuckstarbucksfuckNYCfuckthemoon
fuckdemographicsfucklovefuckhiphopfuckyogafuckwolfgangfuckfaithfuckTV
fuckbrilliancefuckvoguefuckDCfuckmadonnafuckpoliticsfuckcubafuckfoodies
fuckdepressionfuckBMWfucksuicidefuckbotoxfuckanarchyfuckrollingstone
fuckbirthdaysfucksupermanfuckfraternitiesfuckdeathfuckpeacefuckconservatives
fuckliberalsfuckketchupfuckadvertisersfuckmemoriesfuckthelawfuckrocknroll
fuckmercyfuckAOLfuckgunsfuckrosesfucklawyersfucksushifuckiraqfuckagents
fuckpainfuckforgivenessfuckonionsfuckpracticalityfuckluckfucktenderness
fuckdreamsfuckroyaltyfuckvowsfuckmarijuanafuckivyleaguefuckfilmfuckshrinks
fuckgracefuckU2fuckperfectionfuckdrugsfuckpatiencefuckbeautyfucknostalgia
fuckearthquakesfuckfearfuckdiamondsfuckheartbreakfuckcraigslistfuckparis
fuckplatofuckadvicefuckplansfuckFMfucksuccessfucksleepfuckblogsfuckme

We now return you to your regularly scheduled program.

"It's easy to love your dog, because your dog doesn't have opinions about you." -Don Miguel Ruiz

Today (no, yesterday -- thank God it's not Friday anymore), I was on one wrenching business call after another, culminating in a conference call between three good people who really like and respect each other. But much had gone awry in the past weeks, and we'd found ourselves in a malfunctioning situation that was decimating the team's spirit. We collected to mop up the mess, take responsibility for each of our parts, and move to higher ground. The only viable choice.

The business of entertainment has no business being so emotionally, physically and spiritually draining; it's ENTERTAINMENT, for crying out loud, not heart surgery. Hell, it's not even plastic surgery. But for the inflated egos and rampant greed, we might just have ourselves the kind of good time people in Peoria believe we enjoy; I dunno for sure.

What I DO know for sure is that my stupidly miserable day was measurably improved by the simple presence of Lulu, the Best Dog Ever Made. As I paced the house during one emotionally charged conversation, I was followed like a bouncing ping pong ball by her sympathetic brown eyes. Each time I'd hang up the phone and let out a long breath, her tail would wag in encouragement. And at one point, when I took a fetal moment on the couch, she crossed the living room to snoodle my dangling hand with her slightly wet muzzle.

Some of you will snort derisively that she's just a dog, for God's sake; all she really wanted was my undivided attention, a quick afternoon romp, a nibble from my bowl of cashews. But I know better. This sweet, odd-looking 35 lb. Basset Hound/Akita (my ex, with whom I share her custody, insists she's a Welsh Corgi/Norweigian Elkhound; actually, she looks very much like a sea lion with ears and a tail), this precious rescued soul from Downtown LA, is my furry savior, my canine confidante, an unconditional friend who melts my heart and makes me giggle, whose pooch perspective reminds me of the pure joy to be found in a game of fetch or tug; a little being who really just wants me to abandon my angst and play for awhile.

Not a bad philosophy. Biscuits all around!

"We are being pummeled by a deluge of data and unless we create time and spaces in which to reflect, we will be left with only our reactions."

A quote from Rebecca Blood, whose essays on the blogging phenomenon give clear historical perspective on, and credence to, this relatively new means of e-communication. For those of you who are just becoming familiar with the form, go to http://rebeccablood.net/essays/weblog_history.html for edification. And perhaps a little inspiration.

As for me, the past several days have been filled with a wonderful whirlwind visit with Mom, being a chicadura (that's Spanish for "tough girl") in hand-to-hand combat with my chosen profession, continued development of the income business, and many enjoyable hours in long late-night phone conversations with BSW, providing us both with entertainment, stimulation, comfort, and perspective.

Genuinely open communication can only be achieved with a troika of open heart, open mind, and open soul...I'm always happy to run into another who is willing to be that fearless. And who makes it a safe journey.

One from the 1992 Collection

CHALLENGE

We can all use a kind word these days,
especially in the midst of madness.
So many afflictions from which to choose,
and the deadliest are malice and fear;
So, shall we whisper love in each other's ear?

We all need healing now and again,
with germs and bullets flying about our heads.
So much loss, so much disgrace, and no time
taken to learn this truth from our misdeeds:
One soul will flourish while another bleeds.

What in us cares more for a dog or a dolphin
than for a human?
Does the competition confine our compassion?
It's the ego that makes us behave so badly;
makes us enslave, isolate, and slaughter gladly.

Do we see in the dog or the dolphin
the innocence we lack?
Do we resent each other and deny it after the fact?
Do we really think we can get away with hate?
Do you believe we'll come to love too late?

We can all use a kind word these days,
especially in the midst of madness.
So many afflictions from which to choose,
and the deadliest have yet to appear;
So, shall we whisper love in each other's ear?

I dare you : Whisper love in each other's ear.

4.13.92
for Jack

"The mother's heart is the child's schoolroom." -Henry Ward Beecher

Evelyn (fine poet and longtime mother of Zan) arrives at Burbank Airport this evening for a 6-day visit. To honor her considerable influence on my love for the English language, here is one of her creations. The poem was written about her only child, then 7...a little girl who, when beseeched by her harried mother to please stop whirling around the room for just a minute, said, "But Mommy, I gotta dance!"


ALEXANDRA

Terpsichore!

You took her while still a fresh damsel fair;
Fashioned her with wild and ardent care.

Charged her to be a cyclonic storm
Amenable to you, inspired to perform

Odd creations from Russian lore,
To dance excitedly for the Emperor.

Then, like a spool unwinding silken thread,
With golden braids ribboned atop her head,

She curtsied deep, alas and in truth;
You abducted her breathless spirit of youth.

"Humor is the great thing, the saving thing." -Mark Twain

Although I'm facing a few daunting life challenges, and I'd only slept a few hours (oh, but for very good reason!), I laughed all day today -- which might not have been the case without the considerable contributions made by Brian & Margaret. There was post-meditation breakfast levity at favorite Eagle Rock bistro Camilo's with B, cheer in an afternoon tete a tete with M, then gales of raucous laughter between B, M & Z at dinner in Silver Lake, followed by a trek to Mashti Malone's in Hollywood for the most luscious ice cream in LA (so it correctly says in the August Los Angeles Magazine -- an issue which also quotes Margaret with regard to her color therapy technique).

Never mind that we had to wait almost an hour for a table at Alegria, and longer than usual for the actual (ever-fabulous) burritos and chimichangas. Or that Hollywood Boulevard traffic was everything you might expect on a Saturday night. We let it go and embraced the moment, delighting in each other's company, and making a few memories to scribble in our diaries for future enjoyment.

One of those days, and two of those friendships, that nothing could spoil.

"Do not fear death so much, but rather the inadequate life." -Bertolt Brecht

I am on a television news fast, but that's not to say I don't know what's happening beyond my cabin walls. I only listen to music and NPR while in the car, see bites from AOL or Yahoo! when I get online, and read the LA Times in hardcopy and the e-New York Times.

This morning, two Yahoo! headlines caught my eye: the deaths of Johnny Cash (not unexpected, but sad nevertheless) and John Ritter (what? how can that be?). Two on the same day, after the loss earlier in the week of Warren Zevon. There's our three, I morbidly thought. And immediately heard in my mind Cash's tremulous baritone, "...because you're mine/I walk the line." In fact, it won't leave my head. That, and snippets of his deeply affecting version of "Sunday Morning Coming Down", which I happen to know is friend Michael's favorite rendition of the Kristofferson song. VH-1 has already run -- and will likely air it a few times more in the next days -- his remarkable video, "Hurt", featuring clips from past music and film performances, visually punctuating such mournful lyrics as, "Everyone I know goes away in the end." You want to enfold in your arms this older and wiser Johnny; but with his darling June looking on, you know he's receiving plenty of comfort. I like to think her beautiful soul greeted his early this morning...

In his last Larry King interview (a clip ran on CNN earlier), King asked Johnny if he was angry at God for his various conditions. Johnny kinda smiled and humbly replied, no, "I'd really duck if I shook my fist at Him." My attraction to, and affection for, Cash nestles right there in that statement.

Then, a memory from July 16, 1998 (any close and longtime friend will tell you I have the brain pan of a pachyderm when it comes to dates and events): I was hanging at the Pasadena Ritz Carlton with a close CBS associate -- we had attended two days of CBS Summer Press Tour, a maiden outing for both of us, and were enjoying the lavish party at which personalities and producers mingle with press to promote a new season of programming (any close and longtime friend will tell you I adore alliteration).

My associate and I had partaken of the plentiful feast, had dutifully and delightedly met with various luminaries (Jerry Stiller leaps most clearly to mind; my friend and I were both so excited to chat with George Costanza's father), curled up on a couch for a long, revealing conversation, and shared a faux Cuban cigar (he waxed eloquent about its missing virtues).

We suddenly realized it had gotten late, close to midnight, and my friend walked with pre-cellular me to the public telephones so I could call my spouse. As we reached the elegant phone booths, awash in the buzz of the highly charged event, we were approached by the smiling face of John Ritter, who was on his way to the men's room, and was similarly high on the evening's energy. His cute romantic comedy, a 2-hour movie for us titled "Chance of a Lifetime", with Katey Sagal (his co-star in "8 Rules...") had aired to good numbers earlier in the year, and he'd recently shot the firefighter-sees-a-miracle drama "Holy Joe". We'd just seen the roughcut, and complimented his fine performance, talked about the contrast between that role and his appearance in 1996's dark CBS telefilm "Unforgivable", about the press, the party, and the life. He was every bit as charming as you know Jack Tripper to be...but warmer and sweeter, as you'd hope John Ritter would be. He wished us a good evening and a great season, and we parted company.

Ritter put a perfect cap on our first press tour experience; my friend and I referenced that memorable evening many times in the following years, and we always recalled the encounter with John as a highlight. In fact, the next year, John starred in my friend's second TV movie for CBS, "Lethal Vows", offering a cool, diabolic portrayal of a man slowly poisoning his wife (Marg Helgenberger)...the dailies were great fun to screen, especially when he took his character a little over the top, just for sport! On that set, he was his usual well-prepared, professional self, a good-humored and generous actor...and a kind soul.

As far as I can see, neither of these men lived inadequate lives -- their fine examples are their legacies. Their work as entertainers was a service to us, gave us opportunities to access the deepest reaches of our souls and the brightest aspects of our sensibilities. In this indifferent and volatile world, there will always be a need for Johnny and John and Warren and all those artists who have left their physical bodies, and leave a body of work for us to revisit and remember.

Thanks, gentlemen. Safe travels.

"If you don't make any mistakes, there won't be any." -George Barnes

Thank God Dad's perfectionism only applied to his (and everyone else's) music! His other favorite quote was the last line of Billy Wilder's "Some Like It Hot", in which Jack Lemmon, dressed as a woman, reveals his true sex to the amorous Joe E. Brown; and Joe E. cheerfully shrugs, "Nobody's perfect." Dad quoted that often, acknowledging his understanding of human nature.

Dad's classic admonition against flubs still floats among studio players in New York and Chicago (of whom there are fewer than in my father's heyday). Time is still money in their world -- you can't be late for the gig, you must be tuned up and ready to go on the downbeat, and you have to be able to read fast and have the facility to replicate whatever sound is asked of you. Now.

I've been writing on and off about life in that world for the past four years (started as a screenplay, has morphed into a book). Soon (as soon as a few other projects get off the ground) I'll focus entirely on the story, a child's eye view of growing up in the New York City music scene of the 60's and 70's.

In the meantime, Mom and I have decided to sell Dad's Guild Acousti-Lectric guitar (the guitar he designed in the early 60's and the only instrument he played until his death) via a lovely San Diego couple, Richard and Annetta Glick, who own and operate Fine Guitar Consultants and who have had custody of the guitar for a little over a year. A new push is afoot to find the right home for the Acousti-Lectric. Paul Simon wanted to buy it the year after Dad died; we weren't ready to sell. Larry Coryell, who played it in a jam with Joe Beck at NAMM earlier this year, wants to record with it. It's an incredible instrument with a rich background. Take a look at the list of rock 'n' roll records on which this guitar appears (www.fineguitarconsultants/guildgb.htm) and you'll get an idea of George Barnes' place in music history. But wait: there's so much more...

...and someday, I promise, you'll read all about it. But it has to be perfect.

Two Poems from the 1999 Collection...

On the Ninth Day

Don't ask me where this leads.
I haven't the proper rudder
for such a tenebrous ocean.
Let me be rapt in this
golden moment,
alive and awake
and deeply aware
that these encounters
are rare.
Sit close to me, that
we'll be undisturbed,
unfettered and
certainly beloved.

You admire my wisdom
('though I now exhibit none?).
You acknowledge my beauty,
each time stealing my breath.
I see your heart glow
in your eyes,
lit all at once with joy
and sadness.

When a soul connection
is clearly made,
is that not a gift?
Then, why should it taunt and torture so?
Oh, pull up the anchor -
we'll sail this deep sea
'til the shore finds us.

7.10.99


Chimera

We chase the wind and
parry with the waves
on a northern beach.
Skip a stone, steal a shell.
Laugh back at
squawking gulls
who float smugly above
our afternoon spun of
sand and seafoam.

Tell me this is no dream,
if you can.
And if you can't, then
run with me along the
hard sand shoreline
'til we find cool shelter
from the beating sun.

Of course, you can run.
Close your eyes.
You'll see.

9.24.99

"All life folds back into the sea / We contemplate eternity / Beneath the vast indifference of heaven." -Warren Zevon

After staying earth- and body-bound months beyond expectation, he's moved on. I'm happy he was given enough time to make his last music -- and perhaps his peace -- before entering what I like to think of as the Next Great Phase.

I imagine VH-1 will rebroadcast the special...please look for it and watch. It's a fine and pure testament to his life.

"Talking much about oneself can also be a means to conceal oneself." -Nietzsche

My cable provider (the one whose principals face prison sentences) has at last brought Internet access to those of us in the Los Angeles hinterlands of Mount Washington; and they made me an offer I couldn't refuse. Because of their promotional largesse, I'm now paying $7 less per month for my cable TV, with the addition of cable modem access. The caveat: the price will shoot up at the end of January, but I'm a modern Zen kind of consumer: Be Hooked Up for Cheap Now/Pay or Cancel Later.

It's delightful -- I can be online AND talk on the telephone AT THE SAME TIME, right here in my OWN HOME! Will 21st Century wonders never cease? No, they will not. The evolution of convenience in communication will continue until we are each implanted directly into others' brains, finally in constant chat mode, whether or not we have anything of the slightest import to say.

Wouldn't Freddy N. have a choice thought or two to share about the blogging phenomenon, this opportunity so many of us take to "talk much about oneself" and make our experiences and opinions accessible on a global scale, at the mere click of a mouse button? Would he beseech us to "conceal" ourselves a little less? Is this, in most cases (and I'm not excluding myself, here), just a lotta blahblahblahgging?

He'd probably compose something pithy about how we deserve the current plague of viruses. Thus Spake, um, Blaster.

"There are two great tragedies in life. One is to not get your heart's desire. The other is to get it." -George Bernard Shaw, Man and Superman

ZanSurvey Question:

How do you think your life would change if you got your heart's desire?

"The lights are much brighter there, you can forget all your troubles, forget all your cares..." -Petula Clark

...which is exactly what new friend Brian (commercial director and student of architecture) and I did this past Saturday night. We met downtown in Little Tokyo, conveniently parking in the Office Depot lot (for free!...except Brian got hit up by a well-spoken vagrant and generously slipped him $5) across the street from one of my favorite sushi restaurants, Sushi Gen, in a mini-mall on 2nd Street between Alameda and Central. You must go, if you love fresh, well-prepared and quickly-served raw fish items. They cook things, too -- expatriate Linda M and I frequented the place on our Eat 'n' Shoot Thursday nights (tale to come) and tried 'most all their delights.

Brian and I nibbled (rare treat: Spanish mackerel!) and chatted for a good while before he whisked me off on an impromptu tour of some of the more fascinating Downtown LA architecture. I've spent plenty of time in the area, and have a pretty keen sense of design, but enjoyed seeing it afresh through the eyes of a director who is an architect at heart.

I hadn't seen the Walt Disney Concert Hall since it was completed. It is a magnificent Frank Gehry creation, an unexpectedly graceful sweep of stainless steel that looks to me like a ship mid-storm, a sea vessel bursting from its moorings, fluid and alive. And even though our up close inspection revealed sheets of metal not meeting at various corners (maybe, we mused, it's not quite finished?), and the guards wouldn't allow us to climb the steps to peek at the interior, it is quite breathtaking. I hope the acoustics are as stunning.

Just down from Disney on South Grand is the Water Court, nestled between the twin skyscrapers of California Plaza...it was after 11, so its dancing fountains had just retired for the night, but the stone pavement was still wet. I removed my Cinderella pumps so as not to slip down the granite steps and walked barefoot through the court, the sentinel eyeing me as I tiptoed into a smaller, ground-level fountain still flowing that was surely designed for such activity; if it wasn't, he didn't let on.

Behind the Omni hotel are a few little fountained parks I'd never visited, and we strolled through them, too, as Brian pointed out from the heights the various parking structures and scaffolding he fancies. I giggled at first, but the more he highlighted their particular points of visual interest (say, the perfect alignment of long flourescent lightbulbs, or the varied grids, grates, cement textures and shadings), the more I came to appreciate them as unplanned works of art. As we drove around, I heard myself exclaiming, "Hey, look at THAT parking structure!" (a phrase I assure you I'd never before uttered) and extolling its attributes. A fine-pointed reminder to make a habit of finding the beauty in the mundane...

We ended up past midnight in one of my favorite LA locations, Union Station. Two architectural styles, Spanish Revival and Art Deco, are put to grand use here, with soaring, carved woodbeam ceilings, Spanish tile inlays and stainless steel trim, still mostly lit by elegant chandeliers; it's a cathedral of the rails. The vast waiting area, with its generous leather and oak seats, had to have been a passenger's delight in the 1940's, the lamented LA heyday. We were warned by the guard stationed in the waiting area that one must have a train ticket in order to take a seat -- he wasn't inclined to let us non-travelers tarry. I sweetly asked for two minutes; he winked and gave us five, which was actually just enough time for us to be transported a bit, to a time when Union Station must have seemed like the entrance to Paradise.

LA isn't Paradise, of course...but, as long as we're here, it's good fun to pretend now and then.

"What is it about love that makes us so stupid?"

I just went to a press screening of "Under the Tuscan Sun", in which Diane Lane's character asks this of us in plaintive voiceover...a question I have asked myself often enough in my own life -- several times in the past WEEK alone -- that, if I had a dollar for each time, I'd have none of my current concerns about money.

In spite of the emotional uplift I received from the beautifully produced film, I still came away with the same melancholy that has plagued me for what is now too damn long.

I have been a single woman for almost four years, if you don't count the torrid-but-unrealistic relationship that took place for the first two of them. Well-meaning friends have encouraged me to get back in the game for the last two, and the Internet has become everyone's first suggestion for taking such a step. In the past few months, I've actually met a few men of interest via the AOL Member Profiles (they looked me up) and Craigslist (I responded to them). A girlfriend recently invited me to join her on Friendster.com, a pyramid-schemish people-matcher. In order for it to work, apparently, you have to invite friends to hop on with you, and somehow we all interconnect. It's meant to create a safe e-environment in which to meet your next best friend or lover or soulmate. Fine. I filled out the form, which asked me for vitals (as if it were their business) and a few of my favorite things, and I'll probably recruit a few appropriates to come along for the ride. But, cheery Friendster testimonials aside, I'm still not quite sure how this thing works. I do know they have live Friendster gatherings occasionally -- just to get us out of our cages and burrows, I suppose.

It's a dangerous business, opening up one's bruised heart after keeping it in hiding for so long. Especially for an easy mark (some call it "romantic" -- go figure) like me, notsomuch a prime candidate for random fucking around. And I'm not sure I wish to don the pink veil of love again, when it so effectively obscures true vision of the one who might be my all-time beloved. If I'm going to love and be loved, I want everything out in the open, scars and warts and all other manner of flaws. We each have them in varying degrees and assortments and, to the extent we know our shortcomings, we should simply lay them out on the counter for our potential partner to peruse. It's easy to match up your best attributes, your likes and wishes...but if your faults match those of your possible spouse, well, now you've got something on which to build a lasting relationship! If we can love each other because and in spite of these character defects (to use one of the more unfortunate AA phrases), how much stronger will that make the bond?

But what the hell do I know, when it's after 2am on a school night and I'm prattling away to an ice-cold blog, for God's sake, instead of contentedly curling up next to a warm-bodied lover?

"Everyone ought to go careful in a city like this." -Popescu, The Third Man

In the volatile business of entertainment, an industry centered in Los Angeles, scripts are dealt death blows on a daily basis, often destroying meritorious projects for the most insipid reasons. No need to list the gazillion examples of films that weren't worth the celluloid on which they were printed; besides, my "Citizen Kane", "The Third Man", "The Apartment" or "My Favorite Year" (films which eat most others for breakfast) might not resonate for you as does, say, "Ishtar" (OK, I went for the easy target; it's been a hard day, and I'm tired). And we, the writers and producers who carefully craft stories from outline to script to (one hopes) film -- tales spun from our own notions and others' notes -- are admonished not to take it personally. It's just business.

But, as the song goes, it's like no business I know. It's VERY personal; one's success is often contingent on having the right relationships, making the appropriate appearance, and being in the right location at the right moment. It's the stuff of which dreams are made...no, it's the stuff made of dreams.

When I was an actor, I experienced rejection daily. Not because of who I am, but based on my ability (or not) to deliver the character they sought via my acting skills and physical attributes...not necessarily in that order. Many times, I was too short too heavy too curly too soft too whatever they weren't looking for. The reading was good, but she's got that NOSE. (Hey, what's wrong with my nose?)

Then I found refuge, and got a valuable education, at a television network. I was on the buying side, snug in the cozy catbird seat for years. There, one must deliver well and consistently to the honchos-that-be, but (unless you REALLY fucked up) there was always a paycheck at the end of every two weeks, medical benefits, a pension plan, stock options, and (because we had a senior VP who enjoyed treating us like a family) parties and outings and such. I knew, from my daily dealings with independent producers, theirs was a tough and insecure life. But I had no idea HOW tough until the past year and 5 months of swinging without a net.

Another important project was killed today. Important to me, as it was the first movie I had a hand in selling and developing as a producer. It was bought by a prestigious cable outlet, where my associates and I guided our fine writer diligently and lovingly in fashioning the script we were told was EXACTLY what they were looking for. It tells a story that has yet to be depicted in film, a subject which has great social and political import, a controversial topic that deserves fearless exploration and national exposure. But, as well as the beautifully-written script was received, we've been told it no longer fits the cabler's mandate. No matter what powerhouse agency or high-profile personalities are behind it. After 18 months of hard work and high hopes -- pass. I saw it happen many times at the network. I never felt it until now.

And this news is all the more disappointing since the real-life protagonist is in a battle for his own real life. We had hoped to get a pick-up so he could see his story filmed and broadcast...and so we could all get paid...especially our hero. I suppose it may yet happen. But I know better than to count an unhatched chick.

I've lived in LA a long time, but will always be a native New Yorker. It's not that I wasn't ever smacked around in that city, too...tales for another time. But tonight, I longed to escape to the relative comfort of my hometown when I spoke at length with my dear Linda M. It's amazing; even though she's now living in and about New York, she can still reach through my dejection and agitation with her kind, measured voice and her clear vision, fettered only by her affection for me, to give me the necessary perspective. To help me shake it off and continue. Made me wish I was there, hanging with Linda and her beloved Paul, who are renovating their new house in Connecticut and going to the US Open on Saturday.

In the latest episode of Sex & The City, Carrie Bradshaw closes with the voiceover, "Love is possible -- anything is possible. This is New York."

Well, love -- and anything -- will have to be possible in LA, too.

"Enjoy every sandwich." -Warren Zevon

If you didn't catch last night's commercial-free presentation on VH-1 chronicling Warren Zevon's last days -- which, as of this writing, he's still living, much to the amazement of his physicians -- check for a rebroadcast. The man who wrote "Poor Poor Pitiful Me" doesn't invoke those sentiments in this documentary. It's an elegant appreciation of life on one's own terms, an affirmation of love in its highest forms -- not maudlin, just matter-of-fact. We see his last recording foray, titled "The Wind", for which he's lovingly joined by legendary fellow artists Ry Cooder, Jackson Browne, Don Henley, Tim Schmidt and The Boss Himself (after Springsteen executes a positively smokin' solo on "Disorder in the House", a morphine-wasted Warren beams up at Bruce and says, "You ARE him!").

It's perfectly in character for the sardonic Zevon to cover "Knockin' on Heaven's Door" on his final CD -- obvious acknowledgement of his condition, but also a tip of his cap to a man who copiously covered him on his 2002 tour, with versions I wish I'd heard of "Accidentally Like A Martyr", "Lawyers, Guns and Money", and "Mutineer."

At one point, he's laying down a vocal on "Disorder" and his time's off, owing to the effects of morphine -- his producer, Jorge Calderon, joins him in the studio to cue him. Later, during playback of the ragged vocals, Calderon suggests they come back the next day, refreshed. Zevon: "Jorge, I'm dying -- I have no 'fresh.'" But there isn't one smidgen of self-pity in his tone. It's just what it is.

"Never thought I'd have to pay so dearly for what was already mine..." This CD is going to be a hard listen; but I can't wait.

"It's a sin not to want to live." Okay, Warren. Then we'll hang on. And, when we catch up with you, we'll let you know how it turned out.

"Just because you're smart doesn't mean you can't act stupid." -Christopher Lloyd

Full day yesterday: I had a potentially fruitful morning phone conference, made an embarrassingly silly error in judgement concerning a new friend, and enjoyed a harmonious lunch meeting at the Studio City Gaucho Grill, at which I introduced my esteemed series partner and fine friend, Mike, to the aforementioned writer Michael (who ordered a frighteningly black blood sausage as an appetizer, about which I had a mild nightmare). If the tumblin' dice come up seven or eleven, we could all be standing on the Shrine stage in our tuxes and gowns, gleefully accepting Emmys for our Showtime series. Mark your September 2005 calendars. Ah, but there are hurdles to leap and moats to cross before we thank our agents and moms.

"The future will be better tomorrow." -Dan Quayle

The week may have started with a boss concert by Bruce, but that didn't stop it from being brutal. Loss of one moving client and one mentor gig, ergo loss of critically-required income. Two betrayals of trust (one wittingly against me, one unwittingly by me). Still no definite answer on the HBO project. Business affairs holding up creative affairs on the Showtime project. Planes lined up on the runway and the fog won't lift.

I can only blame it on Mars, the planet of communication and conflict, coming so close to our fragile little Earth and wreaking havoc on otherwise sound plans and relationships.

And yet, the blessings of loving, golden friendships continue to flow freely, even as I question my value as a storyteller and my sanity as a human being. You all know who you are. I'll never stop thanking you. And never stop striving to be the woman you believe me to be. The need for perfection is a disease best treated by generous doses of forgiveness.

Let's all get a good night's sleep and see what the morning brings; Mars be damned.

"I want to guard your dreams and visions." -Bruce Springsteen

The Blues. It's a style of music I enjoy. It's a mood I don't. I've been experiencing a serious case of the latter the past couple of weeks, triggered by multiple professional and personal stresses and The Ongoing Oppressive Heat. I was not built for temperatures over 80 degrees...especially not in combination with 80 percent humidity. Which is one reason I chose LA over hometown New York. Yeah, it's good for the skin, but it sucks the life force from me, and how attractive is a luminous complexion on a sweaty lox?

My blues antidote today? St. Agatha's Church, a progressive Catholic parish in a sketchy part of LA with a slammin' gospel choir. Heard about them a month ago from an acquaintance who'd seen them at the House of Blues' Sunday Gospel Brunch -- then again from dear friend Jolene (another fine omni-woman: reality producer, writer, wedding planner, gardener...), who planned the wedding for one of the singers in said choir. Turns out new friend Michael (screenwriter, novelist and all-around wordsmith par excellence ) attends St. A's Sunday mass, as well. I've come to believe God likes to keep the world small.

My first visit was July 27, and I was immediately hooked -- on the soulful music, on the welcoming energy generated by the multicultural congregation, and by the energized smile and well-placed humor of Fr. Ken, who later told me I could bring my spirit there anytime; guess he could see I was moved right to the place God wants us to be. So, I've added a little progressive Catholicism to my Hindu-based meditation practice and Zen Buddhist studies.

Truth is truth. God hasn't ever said we can't have it all.

And, as further illustration of that fact, friend Linda P (killer attorney and advocate for the elderly) called earlier with an extra ticket to tonight's Springsteen concert in Chavez Ravine! Much as I've always loved The Boss' music, this will be the first time I've seen him in the flesh...which I've also always admired.

Hallelujah!

"Everybody knows everything." -Jack Kerouac

I have a friend named Brian (not his pseudonym), who is one of the brothers my parents never gave me. (They never gave me a spiritual path to follow, either, for which I'm grateful...so I made my own way as an only child through the maze of religious dogma, and found my own damn personal relationship with God.)

...but i digress...

I (television producer and resourceful entrepreneur) was recently in career update conversation with above-mentioned friend Brian (musician/composer and master electrician), who lives next door to me with his beloved wife Margaret (holistic healer and one of the sisters my parents never gave me). I was telling Brian about the status of my HBO movie project, giving him a blow-by-blow description of who the players are, why it hasn't yet been picked up, what needs to happen to make it happen, where it could go if HBO foolishly decides not to produce it after 16 months of development, how frustrated I am about it all, and exactly when I plan to crawl on my belly to the Century City twin tower which houses HBO, find Mister Big, and beg like a dog.

Mid-tale, an amused Brian interrupted with the observation that I can't just say, "We're waiting for the guy in charge to make a decision." Oh no. Why, when life is so entertaining? There's always a whole scenario available. My friends have come to expect full disclosure from me; they wait for me to careen around every detail and bounce over each bump in the day before arriving at the destination. Look, I was born to, and raised by, storytellers; I didn't have a chance. This body contains a singer, songwriter, actor, dancer, poet, graphic designer, producer. "You're Story Girl," my next-door brother laughed, insisting that I make something of it in print. Okay, Brian. I'm taking the bait like a trout.

I have followed many a blog in the past couple of years; even started one last year that dealt with the end of my last love relationship (appropriately, it went the way of the man who "inspired" it). And I've recently met a screenwriter who has a most entertaining and often edifying pop culturish blog.

So I'm thinking perhaps it's time for me to dip toes in the blogging pool again. Make some observations. Share some experiences. Try not to be too metaphorically masturbatory. But there's another "Story Girl" in the BlogSpot system; no surprise. However, there are no ZanTales being told. Until now.

I am Zan. And these are my Tales. Read at your leisure, at your own risk, at bedtime, at the first sign of a cold.