Sunday, October 26, 2003

"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.

Wednesday, October 22, 2003

"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

Sunday, October 19, 2003

"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.

Wednesday, October 15, 2003

"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.

Friday, October 10, 2003

"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.

Wednesday, October 08, 2003

"...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

Monday, October 06, 2003

"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.

Saturday, October 04, 2003

"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.

Thursday, October 02, 2003

"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.