July 2007 Archives
I don't usually cite specific entries by other bloggers, but both today's and yesterday's over at
http://kickintina.blogspot.com/
are in turn funny, poignant, and very helpful--especially the layman's deconstruction of the 12 steps.
MCO 2007
So yesterday I'm hiking up Griffith Park (how many blogs have I started with that sentence!) and I catch up to Gaza, who has gone ahead of me to take shelter from the heat under the shadow of a tree. As soon as I get there, I'm startled to see this gorgeous red-tailed hawk on a low branch, about 20 feet above me, staring quite intently in my direction. I slowly take out my phone, and turn on the camera function, but just as I raise it to take the shot, the bird flies off. I think, "Dang" but what a nice moment. The bird seemed to a be not yet full-grown, and had some molted feathers, so I assumed a recently fledged adolescent. It would make sense for him to have an undeveloped wariness of humans, or dogs for that matter. In fact, I'm pretty sure he was trying to figure out if Gaza was likely prey.
So we keep going, and I suddenly notice that the hawk is in another tree, about 50 yards away, and seems to be checking us out again. This time I was able to take the picture on the left. Here's when it got interesting. For at least 1/4 of a mile, maybe more, as we wound down the trail/road going down from the observatory, this hawk went just ahead of us, from tree to tree, perching and staring. It was one of those extremely rare moments of interspecies contact not involving a domesticated animal or a zoo. It was so marked that I actually started to wonder if this bird was a reincarnation of someone I knew, late of this world, trying to signal me. So, just in case, I addressed the eagle as my brother Luke, because this strikes me as precisely the animal he would choose to come back as. Who wouldn't want to spend his days coasting on thermal updrafts then swooping down on defenseless rodents and evil snakes?
Interestingly enough, I had attended a meeting that morning on the 11th step (about practicing prayer and meditation) and shared how the closest I managed to come to P & M was when hiking, conciously choosing to be aware of the beauty of my surroundings, of the miracle of trees, of wildlife. Then just a few hours later, a moment that couldn't have more embodied the juncture between nature and spirituality.
It also led to an interesting time-travel moment, because it was easy to imagine how it occurred to the first falconer that he could train these creatures to do his bidding. In fact, according to family lore, the first Olmsteds were mentioned as keepers of the stables of a baron or somesuch (we were neither nobles or peasants.) Since there was very little in the way of litter back then, I think it entirely probable that instead of picking up trash, my great-great (x 10) grandfather made himself useful by developing some kind of particular talent like hawk-training.
Well, okay, "probable" is a bit strong. I can't help it if I have an overactive imagination.
MCO 2007
MCO 2007
Libra (Sep 23 - Oct 22)
You might believe that you are clear in your communication now, for you know what you are feeling and you're sure about what you want to say. But there is a metaphysical black hole lurking between your mind and your tongue, warping the thoughts that surface. If you're writing poetry or telling a story, this can add vision to your work. But otherwise, you'll need to stay aware of your words so that you don't needlessly confuse others.
A Black Hole? Well, I've recently posted a short story and a poem, so maybe I shouldn't push my luck. Besides, my numbers really took a hit with those long entries, so I need to seduce back some of my regulars who are as impatient to get through their daily regimen of blogs as I am. (It's the oddest of addictions, isn't it?)
So, something I never do, but at least not likely to confuse anyone. A movie report. I saw "Hairspray" this weekend. FABULOUS. GO! (And I predict stardom for both Zac Efron and Elijah Kelly. Hot, hot, hot!) Last weekend, I also saw "Lady Chatterley" - my cousins' cousin's film - MERVEILLEUX - GO! And rented two incredible movies: "Nine Lives" and "In the Bedroom." If you haven't seen them, put 'em in your queue.
That's it for today.
MCO 2007
On the way back to New York, I fished with a light hand.
“You didn’t tell me your Mom was almost a movie star.”
Carl was amused. “A seamstress for Warner Brothers is hardly a movie star. Although that was her mother—I think she just helped her a little. I think they let her hang out on a few sets.”
“Still, you know what an old movie nut I am, I’m surprised you didn’t mention it.”
“Frankly, I forgot. I mean, I didn’t forget, but I always got the feeling that the whole topic was little sensitive because my grandmother made more at Warner Brothers than my grandfather made as a mechanic. Wait though, I think my Mom was an extra on a few movies.”
“With Lucille Ball.”
“Is that what it was? Boy you know more than I do. When did you talk about this?”
“Friday night, when I couldn’t sleep. I hung out with her in the family room.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me that before now.”
“It was a busy weekend” I protested, even though it wasn’t. We’d hung out by the lake Saturday, mostly Carl and me. Saturday night we’d taken his folks out to dinner in town, and Sunday when it rained we’d all gone to the movies, and then home for more Scrabble. I watched to see if Marian had made any more references to what she’d told me, and she hadn’t.
I noticed Carl was smiling though. He wanted a new, second son for his Mom. Perhaps I would catch on.
Ironically, one consequence from that conversation with Marian was that it got the craving for nicotine going again. A week later, I smoked at a party, and after becoming one of those annoying people who bummed all the time, I bought a pack and was off to the races. This justifiably annoyed Carl no end, as it meant my endless dipping out on the fire escape for a smoke, not to mention cigarette breath.
Back then, you could still smoke in bars, and the marriage of alcohol and cigarettes kept me out on more than a few occasions. “Just one more” became a common refrain. Carl hadn’t wanted a barfly for a boyfriend, either, and certainly didn’t want to have to have safe sex with anybody he wanted to become a life partner with. When I seroconverted after one of my weekend indiscretions, that pretty much sealed the deal. No way was Carl going to risk his Mom losing another son by getting infected himself.
As luck would have it, we didn’t have to “break up’ in the usual way. I got an Assistant Professor’s job in California, and we could blame our separation on career geography. I also had a journey into alcoholism ahead of me, and Carl ended up in Boston, a published author, with a doctor for a boyfriend. We now exchange the occasional email—I was invited to their Provincetown wedding two years ago, but I was just a few months sober and avoiding all festivities.
His Dad died a few years ago, and Marian lives in an Assisted Living back east. I send her my regards at the end of every email with Carl—he says she still asks about me.
I still have this GPS box on my desk. I think, what if Marian had had such a thing?
If she hadn’t stopped for directions, who knows what would have happened with her career, but she would have certainly never met Roger. She would have probably married a different man, and had different kids, and I wouldn’t have met Carl, and Carl would not have met his doctor, and so on.
What happened when, instead of looking back to see the directions on the dresser, Marian checked herself in the mirror one last time before leaving her room to go down the car and the party? Was God nudging her in a particular direction? Or was it all nonsense--destiny, fate, God? Maybe things just happened the way they happened, that’s all there is, all there ever is.
Maybe I was putting far too much emphasis on the directions. After all, she could have dropped Roger off at his hotel after the party, thanked him for the impromptu escort, and never seen him again. Ironically, she could have ended up in another marriage, and perhaps, years after, wondered late at night about that handsome soldier, whether he survived the war and whether they would have been happy together.
As I think about it now, knowing far more than I did then, far more than anyone ever should really, about loss and grief, I think what Marian imagined about the road not taken was not the life of a movie star, but the life of a mother who never knew what it was like to lose a child. It was this alternative existence that she wondered about when she saw again in her mind’s eye the directions left on the dresser.
She’d told Carl the only thing worse than losing a child was never having had the child at all, but when she saw herself there on the screen, forever eighteen, forever unscarred, she must have had her doubts.
I don’t want to feel any more loss either, even though I don’t know if I’d even recognize the person I’d be without it.
I do think though, that I’d like to keep getting lost from time to time. If only for the pleasure of being found.
MCO 2007
She pulled out and lit another cigarette. Suddenly, I thought of “Now Voyager” and gestured for her to hand me one. It was a stupid risk for the sake of the dramatic gesture, but how often in life did you get to hear confession? This was worth a cigarette.
“Well,” she continued, “Lieutenant Roger Weyrich was indeed more than helpful. He told me he was a navigator, so he considered it his duty to help me find my way to the party. I couldn’t very well say no. He was shipping out in two days, for heaven’s sake, I thought I’d never see him again. More than that, I really didn’t think I could find it on my own. And of course, well, it was intoxicating, the way he treated me. As far as he was concerned, I was a movie star.
“We got lost of course—I can’t remember what the problem was, the map was old or something. Roger told me later that he wanted to prolong our time together so took a wrong turn or two--he claims he knew then he wanted to marry me. Anyway, when we finally got there it was the tail end of the party, people were drunk, in their little groups. I talked to a few people but mostly stayed on Roger’s arm. I ended up having my first alcohol ever, and getting rather tipsy. Roger and I looked at a view of LA from the terrace and it was very romantic, but the party was nothing like what I’d planned, obviously.
“We got home rather late, and my father probably would have come at him with a shotgun, except Roger was an officer and he was so polite and charming and it was impossible not to like him. He actually spent Christmas with us, and by the very next day when I put him on the train to San Diego he was practically my fiancé.”
Again, her tone was less celebratory than rueful. It was as if she was explaining how she couldn’t avoid an accident because she had to swerve to miss a child in the road.
“I have to admit he wrote the loveliest letters, really, and of course everything was so intensified because of the war. I wanted very badly to get some more parts, but they were so many girls in exactly the same position, you really needed a mentor or a very lucky break. I’d had one, and I didn’t capitalize on it—or so I felt. I was in two more movies, a chorus girl in a Lucille Ball musical, and a secretary in comedy about a newspaper—neither of them memorable. When Roger came home after the war ended and asked me to marry him, it seemed impossible to say anything but yes.”
She closed the sliding door, the cigarette smoke long since dissipated. She took a sip of wine, as if to fortify her to continue, then seemed to realize there wasn’t much to add. She knew I knew the rest of the story, because it had been discussed over dinner. Roger stayed in the Air Force for a decade. They were stationed in Germany during the Berlin Airlift, and then in Pennsylvania where she got her degree while he trained pilots. He finally left the military and got his own engineering degree. Then they started having kids.
The TV screen had gone black, the timer on the “pause” having ran out. Joan picked up the remote, then thought twice and put it down again. She looked at me, her smile both wistful and somehow apologetic.
I knew why it felt like confession. She needed to tell someone what she couldn’t tell her family, that she wasn’t sure that if she had it to do all over again, she would have stopped in that bar. The truth was that there were times that she wished that she’d grabbed the directions instead of leaving them on the dresser, that she’d gotten to the party early, and alone.
It didn’t mean she didn’t love her kids or her husband. It didn’t mean she didn’t appreciate her life the way it turned out. It just meant that she had other dreams than the ones that came true. It just meant that she wondered: “what if?”
We realized how late it was, and decided we didn’t need to see the rest of the movie. We were both spent, in any case, she from telling her story, and me from hearing it. She didn’t tell me not to mention it to Carl, but I think she knew I would instinctively be cautious in what I said. I was her confessor, after all.
cont
Dear friends,
22 hostages remain alive. But every moment can mean life or death. Since Tuesday, 45,000 of us from 176 countries have signed the emergency petition, calling on the Taliban to honour the Pashtunwali code of "hospitality to all" by releasing the Korean hostages.Now, as the crisis deepens and word of the petition spreads in Afghanistan, it's time to push past our goal of 50,000 signatures--could you send this email to ten friends now?
http://www.avaaz.org/en/honour_the_afghan_code/b.php/?CLICKTRACK
On Wednesday, the Taliban killed Bae Hyung-kyu. It was the day of his 42nd birthday. But they've pushed back their deadline on the other hostages, and talks have begun with local tribal elders and the government--so there's hope the other 22 could make it out alive.
The key to our efforts is Pashtunwali, an ancient moral system that remains a powerful force among the Pashtun people--including the Taliban. Pashtun are bound to practice "melmastia," or generous hospitality, to all visitors who intend them no harm.
We've begun a massive effort to send word of the petition to reporters, bloggers, and NGOs throughout Afghanistan and Pakistan, to make sure that the Taliban know the world is watching to see if they will live up to the Pashtunwali code. The Taliban know that if the Afghan people see them as betraying this revered tradition, they will lose public support. We must shame them into releasing the hostages--every signature counts.So please--think of people who will care, and ask them join us in this last-ditch effort by clicking:
http://www.avaaz.org/en/honour_the_afghan_code/b.php/?CLICKTRACK
With hope,
Ben, Iain, Ricken, Graziela, Tom, Paul and the rest of the Avaaz Team
PS: Read a news story about the petition here:http://english.chosun.com/w21data/html/news/200707/200707270007.html
Here's the petition, translated to Pashto by an Avaaz member in Afghanistan:http://www.tolafghan.com/index.php?news_id=7429
And here are some of the blog posts from around the world about the petition:http://technorati.com/search/www.avaaz.org%2Fen%2Fhonour_the_afghan_code
__
You are getting this message because you signed "Taliban leaders: free the hostages" on 2007-07-24 using the email address alhp@mac.com">alhp@mac.com.
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Oh Lordie, the world is getting all "schplingy" on me. A "schpling" is an odd coincidece, evidence of sychronicity with perhaps a touch of deja vu or Twilight Zone.
Given the title of my short story in mid-posting, I just couldn' help but be struck by the TimesSelect article appearing in my mailbox:
http://scher.blogs.nytimes.com/2007/07/25/lost-and-found/?8ty&emc=ty
At first I thought, omigod, they're doing an article on my story!
That's nothing in the schpling department compared to what happened when I visiting my friend Chris over at http://methedup.net/. He's trying to get over a tough relationship from his past, and has finally started to get angry. I immediately thought of the 5 stages of grief, and quickly googled it. I cut the explanatory paragraph I found, went back and clicked on "comments" and was all ready to paste it in, but saw that it was already there. I thought, 'weird, is this some sort of anticipatory software that predicts your next move?' but it seemed that "Rod" (http://www.kickintina.blogspot.com/) had just pasted EXACTLY the same thing in the preceding comment--which I could not see prior to that moment, as I clicked on "comments."
Holy Freaky Friday! It makes me wonder if 1) crystal addiction rewires the brain in similar ways; 2) Rod and I should be best friends or something more; 3) great minds think alike. (Let's settle on the last one.)
Please feel free to share your favorite schplings. Ex. The person who you sit next to on the plane turns out to be the grandson of a doctor who delivered your Mom in a small town in Idaho in 1935. (No this did not happen to me, but it did happen to someone I met.) If you have enough good stories, maybe we''ll start a new site: www.schpling.com. (It's free, I checked.)
MCO 2007
It may well have been 40 years since Marian had nudged a companion in a dark moviehouse, 40 years since she’d last said to anyone, “that’s me,” breathless with excitement that maybe, just maybe this was the beginning of a career like Joan’s or Bette’s, Myrna’s or Greer’s. I can’t recall a moment I ever went more rapidly from complete surprise to total acceptance. Why not, after all? I actually had wondered on more than one occasion what happened to those legions of bit players, the ones who played the waitresses and the school chums, lucky to get a line or maybe two to stand out from the other eager actors. But I had wondered in the abstract. I hadn’t stopped to think, to really think of what the actually offscreen lives were like, of these Dorian Grays who left themselves eternally youthful for a moment on celluloid, but went on to age in three-dimensions, just like everybody else.
Marian re-pointed the remote, poised to unpause the action, but I stopped her : “No, no, Marian. I’ve seen this hundred times. I want to hear your story.”
Our eyes locked, and she then she smiled wryly, accepting the challenge. She put the remote down, and got up, walking to the sliding door that let out onto to the deck. She slid it open, but did not step out. Instead she reached into a wide-mouthed piece of decorative pottery, and pulled out a pack of Virginia Slims. She withdrew a cigarette and lit it. “Want one? “
I did, but I nodded no. It had taken me too long to quit. But I was gratified she felt safe to indulge her secret vice in front of me. Clearly it was something she hid from her husband and Carl, although just as possibly they just pretended not to know and she pretended to keep it secret.
“My parents were Okies you know. My first memory is the truck ride out here—it was straight out of ‘The Grapes of Wrath.’ We were townies though--my father was a wonderful mechanic, but with all the farmers gone there was nothing to repair. My mother was a seamstress.
“California was good to us. My parents both landed jobs, my mom at Warner Brothers, sewing costumes. Of course I took every chance I had to be taken with her to work, or meet her after her shift was over. When I graduated from high school, that was my first job, a seamstress there at Warner Brothers, just like her.
“You can imagine it wasn’t long before I was agitating to act, even if it meant just being an extra. I was in a few crowd scenes, you can see me walk by on the street in “Mrs. Miniver,” for example. But the way I got the role in ‘Mildred Pierce’ was just plain dumb luck. I was exactly the same size as Ann Blyth, and my Mom had moved up to assistant dresser, and she was in charge of fitting Ann’s costumes, and so she’d try them out on me first. Everyone would marvel at how good my mother was because there was practically no adjustment needed.
“Anyway, in the original script, Ann was supposed to wear the silver lame gown I wore in this scene, but then someone suggested to Michael Curtiz—the director—that Veda sing the same song on stage her little dead sister Kay sang at the beginning of the movie. Curtiz just happened to see me in the lame gown and he noticed me. He asked if I could act, and of course I said yes, and I read for the part and got it.
“I was good too. We did three takes, and I was dead on each time.” I felt like she wanted to add “I was a professional” but thought it a silly thing to say referring to such a short career. “My Mom was not thrilled—even if she worked at a studio, she wasn’t raised on the movies and she didn’t quite get ‘acting.’ It bothered her that I played this trampy part, like somehow people would confuse me and the role. But the money I made allowed us to buy a second car, which I agree to do provided I could drive it.
“It was Christmas of 1944, and a lot of soldiers were on leave, including one of my brothers—who I literally forced to teach me how to drive in one week. I got the idea in my head that I was going to the cast party alone. I didn’t need a date hovering over me when I was trying to catch the eye of Zachary Scott or get noticed by a producer. That was daring for back then, but I was ambitious, I was. You remember what it was like at that age. You think everything is possible, and it is, really.”
Yes I remembered, all too well. I was only recently starting to accept that I was probably not going to do about 85% of the things I thought I was going to do at 18. I was probably not going to live in Berlin or Sao Paulo, probably never going to go hang-gliding, probably never go to sommelier school in Rome and probably never direct a movie. Every year your past got longer and your future got shorter. The road narrowed.
“I think I told them I was going with a girlfriend to a Christmas party, and even that little lie made me so nervous. For whatever reason, as I left my room, I checked one last time in the mirror how I looked, but then forget to look on the dresser, to take the directions to the party I’d carefully written out.”
Her sigh as she said this spoke volumes.
“Oh God, you never made it to the party” I lamented.
“Oh, no, I made it to the party, Hang on.” She chuckled. “I’d memorized the address, just not the directions. The party was up in Los Feliz, I remember, and I thought if I just drove around I would find it. I lost a good hour just meandering, trying not to cry as I panicked, especially as I was having a devil of the time with the stick shift up in those hills.
“Anyway, I finally stopped into a bar, which seems like an odd choice to ask for directions, but back then you didn’t have 24-hour gas stations. And I walked in, and the bartender was mixing drinks on the other side of the bar, but there was a very handsome man in a uniform right there who was delighted to help me.”
She pointed to the ceiling.
“Roger?” I asked.
She nodded.
cont
MCO 2007
It's my sister's *&%$+#* birthday today.
YAY, SIS! I'm so glad you're older than me!
MCO 2007
There were framed photos of Roger and Marian circa 1945 on the piano, he handsome in his Air Force uniform, and she Betty Grable pretty. Then there were the other photos, with all the three kids, including his very handsome brother Paul. There was one professionally posed photo of him, around 16, I guess, but no photos that I could tell of the family since then.
After dinner came the Scrabble I joked was the real reason Carl had insisted I’d come along. This is where Marian’s fierce intelligence showed itself, as did Roger’s tendency to tipple. Halfway through his second cognac, and about 50 points behind everybody else, he called it a night. Afterwards, we battled to a finish where I ceded 1st and 2nd place to mother and son respectively. I sensed this is where Carl got the competitive streak I’d long bemoaned but secretly admired. (In my house, Scrabble actually wasn’t that different, except for the ongoing debate on whether it was fair for my Mom to play in both French and English.)
Carl’s father was a very successful engineer, his mother a guidance counselor, both just retired. Carl said he’d always felt his Mom wished she’d shot higher, for a doctorate in English instead of a Master’s in Social Work, but that Paul’s illness had taught her a thing or two about accepting reality. (In the car, Carl had also told me she’d told him once that the only thing worse than losing a child was never having had that child at all.)
I thought it was cool that Carl and I were put in the same room, but the bed we did share was a twin, rather less spacious than the queen we were used to. I wondered whether his parents had wrestled with the decision and part of me wished they had. I’d sleep better on the couch.
Once that thought took hold, I couldn’t let it go, and finally figured, why not? I grabbed my pillow, and then gingerly dipped into the hall, checking the hall closet for a blanket, and finding suitcases instead. That’s when I heard the TV on, in the family room the lower floor of the split level ranch.
I crept down the stairs, and found Marian, curled on the couch, a glass of white wine next to her. She was transfixed by what she was watching, and looked up, surprised at my appearance. “Can’t sleep?” she asked, as she turned down the volume with the remote.
I ignored the question, having a far more urgent one for her. “Was that Joan Crawford I heard?”
“Yes”she smiled. “Mildred Pierce.”
“Mildred Pierce! Like my favorite movie of all time!”
She gestured for me to come sit next to her on the couch, as she offered me some of her Afghan blanket for my lap
I had assumed that this was the Midnight Movie, and was gratified at the absence of commercials. I don’t know why it surprised me when she took the remote and suddenly freezed the frame. It was the 80’s, remember, VCRs were still relatively new and video libraries were just starting to delve into and sell their old movie titles. It hadn’t even occurred to me we were watching a tape.
I thought she was going to suggest a pee-break, or ask if I wanted to get a glass of wine. Instead she motioned to the screen.
It was the scene when Mildred—Joan—is visiting her daughter, Veda—Ann Blyth—in a dive where she has become a singer to make ends meet. A peroxide blonde who shares Veda’s dressing room is going on in her “so I says to him, I says” vernacular, until interrupted by Mildred’s knock on the door. Veda asks the other singer to “go see what Wally wants,” so she can have a private conversation with her mother. The blonde is clueless at first, “I’m sure Wally doesn’t want me.” but finally gets the message, mangling polite cliches like “I’m sure I don’t mind.” It’s a great turn.
I looked at the frozen frame, and back at Marian, uncomprehending. Was this her favorite scene?
Instead, she gestured with a nod. “That actress.”
I gave her the smallest of inquiring shrugs.
“That’s me.”
cont
MCO 2007
Anyone is welcome to comment on my blog at anytime. You needn't be introduced, I needn't know who you are first. My stats say I have between 600 and 800 readers a day, sometimes more, and often I think there has to be some terrible mistake because it's seems odd that I get maybe 2 or 3 comments per entry, and often none at all.
This--obviously--applies doubly if you have something nice to say. And if you don't have something quite so nice to say, you can say that too. I can take it! I probably deserve it!
And don't be afraid to leave your blog addresses either--I will happily return the favor of readership.
MOC 2007
Above: one of my fans, and when I got no comments on "Lost and Found," I thought, maybe the only one. Then I asked my sister to read and comment on it, and she wrote this: "Holy Crap! Let the trash pile up in the neighborhood, you have a book to write! This is a great story. Everything else in your life has to take a back seat to your writing. You owe it to us and all your future readers. This IS your career." So I asked her why she thought I was getting no other comments on the story, and she said "I suspect when people check into your blog, it's with the allotted 3 minutes, and when they saw how long the story was [relative to an average entry], they thought: 'I'll come back to it later,' and then of course they meant to but didn't."
I hope she's right. So, I've gotten all Charles Dickens/Armistead Maupin on you, and serialized it for easier reading. Segments 1 and 2 (The first 2/3 of yesterday's Part I) are below, and you can digest the rest over the next 4 days. Please read it. Pleeeeeeeeaaaaaase.
This will work well too, because I can follow my sister's advice, as having the blog handled till the weekend will free me up to keep plugging at my non-blog writing.
MCO 2007
P.S. There's a new entry at "Prison's A Bitch," if you're following.
Two months later, on the way to his parent’s house in the northeast corner of Pennsylvania, I realized that I didn’t know something I should have. Somewhere in the course of our dating history, which involved many a wine-soaked evening, Carl and I had traded family histories. I knew he had a sister who lived in Australia, and a brother who had died. But I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember his name, or for that matter, how he’d died . I was a terrible person. How could I finesse this?
“Honey, what’s the rule about you brother.”
“Paul? What about him?”
Oh my God, that almost sounded like he was alive. Was there another brother? Damn that Merlot. No, I was sure that he’d died. I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t a suicide.
“Like, do you talk about him with your folks? Or is it too sensitive?”
“Of course we talk about him. But we tend to talk about the earlier years, before the cystic fibrosis got really bad. It was really tough near the end. He basically spent most of high school in the hospital.”
That was it, cystic fibrosis. I vaguely remembered it ran in families.
“And your sister, she doesn’t have it, right?”
“No, but she is a sensitive topic. They’re so not happy she’s living in Australia.”
Tanya was a producer for Australian TV news. She had helped bring Eyewitness News down under, and then gotten married and stayed. “If she gets pregnant, my parents will have a cow. Her husband’s an actor—we keep hoping he’ll land a part here.”
And so it went, a pleasant 3-hour ride where I got clear on family history and dynamics.
“Basically…” I surmised “you want me there so much because it takes some of the pressure off you as the de facto only child.”
“Matt!” mock protested Carl. “That is absolutely true!”
I loved this about him. If I called him on something, he owned up to it, and was funny about it to boot.
“So you better be so charming,” he warned. “Don’t say yes to the second martini.”
“This is me, muttering under my breath” -- I muttered under my breath.
Of course I didn’t refuse the second martini, but neither did anyone else. A pleasant conviviality descended on us as we proceeded from the living room to the kitchen. Carl’s dad insisted I call him Roger, and was fascinated to find out my French Mom had huddled in the basement of her father’s shirt store in Avignon during the Allied bombings of 1944, when the Germans still occupied France. It was a dramatic moment, indeed, when he mentioned that as a navigator on a B-43 during that very campaign, he may have very well “bombed” my mother.
I got a laugh when I toasted to poor aim.
Carl’s mother, Marian, did not finish her second martini—neither did Carl. They had a special rapport, clearly, a sort of shorthand by which they anticipated each other’s needs. With a glance Carl knew to fetch the next course from the kitchen, and with another glance he knew to go back for the ladle. They seemed to anticipate in tandem when it was time to shift the conversation away from Roger’s control, to ask me about my studies, where I grew up, my parents and my brothers and sisters.
At one point Marian and I discovered that we’d both minored in Theater in college.
“I didn’t know that Mom” noted Carl, impressed that I had drawn it out of her.
“I am a far more mysterious woman that you’ll ever guess, son” she smiled, as she passed the salad. To which I added: “I hope that doesn’t extend to sharing the secret of this dressing” – which had the perfect little tang to it I couldn’t quite identify. Rule #1: Always compliment the cook.
continued
MCO 2007
Below, the winner of the Best Short Story written by Marc Olmsted in July 2007, an elite award if there every was one. This is Part 1.
Recently I was in an electronics store, and I found myself hesitating at going through with the purchase of one of the G.P.S. systems, that little box you affix to your dashboard if you’re one of the great unwashed with an old car made before they were pre-installed. I found myself dawdling, looking at all sorts of other things I didn’t need, and this was not like me at all. I’m a Libra. I get overwhelmed by choice. I like to get what I need and get out.
I did buy it, finally, but it sits on my desk, still unopened. The advantages of such a device are unquestionable, at the same time, what about all the things that happen in life because you end up in a place you weren’t supposed to end up? And I remembered, specifically, one such occasion, although it did not occur to me.
Back in the mid-eighties, my boyfriend at the time, Carl, had been nagging me for a while to go home with him for a three-day weekend. We were both in grad school, me in French, Carl in History, and I used the inevitable work I always had piled up as an excuse not to go with him on many occasions
One President’s Day Weekend, I made the mistake of getting incredibly specific about needing to get through Zola’s “L’Assommoir” for Professor Beaujour’s 19th century “Realism and Naturalism” class. I can’t remember what I did on Saturday, but on Sunday, I went to see “Out of Africa” with my best friend Eric, after which we got thoroughly drunk at not one, but two beer busts. Three sheets to the wind, not surprisingly I took advantage of my agreement with Carl that when one of us was out of town, the other was allowed a minor sexual peccadillo, with the strict understanding that no questions would be asked and no explanations expected.
Unfortunately for me, Carl had taken the precaution of taking a look at my copy of Zola’s story on the rise and fall of Gervaise Macquart before he’d left on Friday, and said book was sitting precisely at the same corner of the coffee table on Monday night as it had been three days earlier, clearly untouched.
Carl was nothing if not observant.
I had meant to pick up L’Assommoir that morning, but all I could think of through the hangover was the need to do the laundry. Even though fresh sheets were going to pique Carl’s suspicion, better that than having them confirmed by the residues of lube, spilled poppers, and sticky towels. This discreet infidelity thing was a delicate business. If you were too discreet, it amounted to telling.
So when Carl noted that “L’Assommoir” went uncracked while he was gone, I made things worse by telling him it was no biggie, I’d actually already read it and done a paper on it as an undergrad. This completely punctured my rationale for not going to his parents in the first place.
“So what’s the story, Matt?” Carl asked as he put some pasta in to boil, which was our usual Sunday night ritual, now deferred a night. (I hate the way three-day weekends threw off the following week. It’s like jet lag without the travel.) His question momentarily panicked me. Did he mean what was the story with the guy from last night, whose name I couldn’t even remember—Eddie, Freddie?
“Why do you say no every time I want to take you home to meet my folks? Cause it’s not so you can do work, clearly. Is it so you can go out?”
“Eric and I went to the movies,” I parried lamely, knowing full well that’s not what he mean by “going out.”
If Carl had worn glasses, he would have been peering over them skeptically.
“Yes,” I added, with an unnecessarily defensive tone, “we had a few drinks.”
“Here’s my surprised look” countered Carl, feigning a yawn. I almost took offense at his apathy, but figured, why push my luck. “Listen,” he went on, “my parents are completely harmless. My Dad drinks a little but never gets rude, just a little stupid. And my Mom—well I get my looks from her.” He flashed what I called his “movie star” smile. If his eyes had been just a little father apart and his nose a bit straighter, we would have been having this conversation in L.A instead of New York, cause he’d be an actor doing toothpaste commercials instead of the future author of “First Brothers: A Fraternal History of Presidential Siblings.”
I felt so guilty. What was wrong with me? I was skipping a chance to spend time with this smart charmer who loved me, just so I could get my ego stroked by strangers, and if I got “lucky,” deal with a hangover in the laundry room and a fistful of Tums. Still, I clung to my gay liberation theology.
“You know what it is? I’ve always liked the ways we get to do things differently—I mean as gay people. Do you know how many straight couples would love not to have to deal with their in-laws? I’ve always thought it was one the advantages we had. Usually parents are delighted not to meet the boyfriend. What’s wrong with yours? Where’s the shame, the desire for secrecy? Why can’t they be normal? ”
“I’m sorry, they’re fucked up that way. My parents would sincerely love to meet you. And we need a 4th at Scrabble. Plus the lake house is great. I really want to take you up there on Memorial Day.”
“No Fire Island?”
“Like we can afford Fire Island.” As if I didn’t know. He stirred the marinara sauce, an expression on his face on the border of frustration and disappointment. “Is your reluctance because if you met my parents you would feel obligated to introduce me to your parents?”
“I’ll introduce you to my parents when we’ve been together a year. It’s bad luck to do it before then.”
“Oh yes, the famous Christmas fiasco with Antonio.” It was a stupid thing to tell your present lover about your past ones. They always used it against you. “Maybe it would have helped if you had a boyfriend who spoke English. You guys were so doomed.”
Carl was completely right of course. I was out of excuses.
“Okay, okay. If we’re still together on Memorial Day, I’ll go to the lake with you.” I relented.
“If we’re still together!? I oughta pour this boiling water all over you for that!’
“You can’t. We’re too poor to waste the pasta, remember?”
continued
MCO 2007
Sometimes the best motivation comes in the form of negative inspiration.
Like 2 days ago, I was talking to my ex-roommate David about why I seemed to be perpetually relationship-less. He said "no one wants to be involved with someone on disability. Get a job, girl!" I actually think he's overstating the matter, but at the same time I wasn't sure he didn't have a point. This might be an issue for some guys. (The truth hurts, but it is the truth.)
Perhaps his remark had something to do with me putting in 4 hours at Highways yesterday. Even if it's only part-time, when someone asks what I do for a living, I can at least cough up "Membership Coordinator" at a theater. It's not my fault if they assume I actually make more than what they pay their cleaning woman once a week.
Point in fact, on the drive home I calculated I'd made a grand total of $50 for the time I put in. However, this did constitute more positive negative motivation, if you're catching on to my line of reasoning. If I want to make more money, I'm gonna have to do something about it. The book ain't gonna write itself, and what is not written cannot be sold, making me rich and famous and the object of attention of a bevy of hot admirers.
Then, last night, on a complete whim because it sounded sort of like a cute idea in the Calendar section of the L.A. Times, I went with a friend to see a new "musical" (okay, "play" with like, 3 songs) called "Loosely Lysistrata" - billed as a gay updating of the Aristophanes anti-war classic.
Normally, I have too much respect and affection for those engaged in the creative process to be this harsh, but this show was dreck--we even left at intermission, and making it that far was a chore. Everything about it--acting, writing, directing--was just awful, especially the writing. I can't begin to understand how this dreadful, completely unfunny script actually got produced. Ergo, more positive negative motivation. If Stewart Zuckerbrod can do it with this kind of material, I certainly can with what I got. (Sorry Stewart, I'm sure you're a nice guy, but you have no talent. A little hint. If you write a musical, the first song should be the opening number, not meander in halfway through the third scene. "Women, Unite" -- a real toetapper, that one. I particularly liked the witty rhyme scheme-- "land" and "can" - how ever did you come up with that, Stu?)
So today, I'm on a creative rampage. I'm finishing that short story and will post it tomorrow. And I'm doing some other things. But emphasis on "do," not "talk."
MCO 2007
P.S. Carpenter Smith asked for my number. I won't even mind if he doesn't call, there's a lot to be said for keeping it all on the level of potential and fantasy. Besides, he'd probably be calling me to ask for advice on how to seduce a guy he has a crush on. At which time I'll have to deck him.
"Pocket Pool"
I always blog in the late mornings, when I'm usually in an excellent mood. After I finish, I do some writing, eat lunch, make phone calls and answer emails, and then, invariably, I take the dog to the park for exercise and trash-picking.
Most days, this activity manages to forestall or blunt the blues that invariably descend on me with each approach of 2:00--it's something about the afternoon, I 've felt it for years. I even hate General Hospital because it's at 2:00. So I manage to tucker myself out with hiking and trash picking, the latter of which invariably makes me feel useful. I come home, and take a nap. When I wake up, I'm okay. I write or do email or read blogs until David comes home from work. He makes dinner, we watch TV, at 9 or 10 I take him home, walk the dog and then watch more TV or write until Jon Stewart and bedtime.
Today, for some reason, the blues descended with a vengeance around 1, and just got worse and worse. I dragged myself to the park with Gaza, and there was no pleasure in cleaning up. All I found of interest was this priceless shard of Incan pottery pictured above. (Okay, perhaps more like 9.99 at the Garden Center at Home Depot.) I couldn't even find a set of keys a poor lady had lost.
On the one hand, I think I could really use some changing up in my routine. On the other hand, I wonder if this depressive attack occurred precisely because I skipped the blog this morning--which is why I'm writing it now. Working on the story should have been an anti-depressant, but it proved no defense.
I feel better now, but I'm still dreading the weekend. Usually this brand of blues settles in for about three days. Either that, or I just need some romance. Or need to need it. I'm a little scared of how unwilling I am to put forth any effort to find it.
MCO 2007
I've been plugging away at the short story, and that's where my creative brain is today. So you guys get a day off!
MCO 2007
I found two envelopes on the street, addressed to different names but at the same address. I put them in my trash bag, and then thought I should make sure they weren't what they seemed to be by touch--new credit cards. I thought they'd be fake, promo cards, but no, they were the real deal.
So I took them home, put them in a bigger envelope with a note suggesting that the recipients dispose of their assumed junk mail more carefully, and brought the envelope to the address on the envelope, a block away. There I found out they were no longer tenants, at which point I brought the cards home and cut them up.
I only fantasized about using the cards for about 5 minutes, I swear. Let's make a deal. If you don't think mean things about me for having those thoughts, I won't expect applause for doing the only sane and right thing anyone should do in such a situation.
(I'm such a liar. I think I should get loads of credit. Mountains of praise. A parade. A medal of honor. A reality TV show. A cult based on me as a living God. Etecetera, etecetera.)
MCO 2007
So this morning I pass, as I do every morning, a man whose little white dog is always running ahead of him, leashless. This man always gives me a huge smile or wave, nodding appreciatively at my trashpicking. I smile and and say good morning, but frankly, I've been suspicious at never, ever seeing a plastic bag in his hand. And though I'd never seen his dog poop, every day I encounter at least a few piles of evidence that someone isn't doing their doody-duty and I've suspected he and his dog were two of the culprits.
Of course, I could only wait until I caught them in the act, and this turned out to be the morning. From right across the street, I spied his dog doing the do. Mr. Man saw that I saw, and watched my reaction of pulling one of the plastic bags from my pocket. "Do you have one of these?" I offered.
At that he dug into his pocket, deep, pulling out the scrawniest little bag imaginable. "Oh yes!" he stated proudly. "I have." "Oh good," I forced a smile, "because I never see you with one." Then quickly, just in case: "I appreciate it." Now I would bet a shitload of cash that said bag has been sitting in his pocket unused for months, at the ready only for precisely this kind of situation. Of course, I couldn't accuse him of it, but what, pray tell, had he done with all the bags he's supposedly filled? Invariably, one is forced to walk at least a couple of blocks before finding a trash can. I'm pretty sure he wasn't stuffing the full ones back into his pocket, and I have never, ever seen a filled bag tied and swinging from his hand.
This little encounter was symbolic of another relationship in my life, a friendship in which my fear of confrontation and calling someone to accountablility has put me in a position of having to scoop his poop on several occasions. I veer between wondering if I'm trying to be "right" about something, if it really is about my need to control, or if I need to say "no" much earlier on in the process or simply not get myself in these situations in the first place.
This is the battle between AA and Alanon. As a sober alcoholic, you want to be of service. to extend yourself to other alcoholics who, early in sobriety, often have a lot of challenges. As an Alanon, however, (someone who has also had relationships with/grown up around alcoholics) you tend to have trouble establishing and sticking to healthy boundaries. You fix, save, put the needs of others before your own. Sometimes it's hard to know what's selfish and what's taking care of yourself, what controlling and what's a legitimate expectation of accountability.
I wish it was as simple as just making sure you keep your side of the street clean. Sometimes the wreckage created by others impacts you. I wish figuring out how to manage that wasn't so uncomfortable.
MCO 2007
Neocons on a Cruise: What Conservatives Say When They Think We Aren't Listening
http://www.alternet.org/story/57001/?page=1
MCO 2007
The above is a close-up of a new ad campaign designed to lure British visitors to Paris. According to Andy Towle,
"The French tourism site, 'C'est So Paris,' notes that the 'ad uses offbeat wit and the Rugby World Cup to show the world that Paris is also the capital of humour. The Paris region will be hosting several World Cup matches, including the final at the Stade de France.'"
Can you even begin to imagine in a million years a similar American ad campaign using NFL players?
Do the French know something about fans of British Rugby that I don't?
I await the revelation that this is a hoax. One that has me reaching for the smelling salts.
MCO 2007
Whenever I wake up wondering what the hell I'm going to blog about today, all I have to do is pick up trash.
First I found this pink "Note to Self (Help)" as I call it. It's a bit hard to read, so I'll give you a sampling.
\\1) FINANCIAL (I'm not financially independent yet)
2) CAREER OR BUSINESS (I don't have an agency yet)
3) FREE TIME/FAMILY (I don't see them often)
4) HEALTH AND APPEARANCE (I need to lose weight)
5) RELATIONSHIPS (I need to be less jealous)
6) PERSONAL GROWTH (I need to realise myself)
7) MAKING A DIFFERENCE (I need to achieve my goals to help others)\\
I am going to restrain myself from sharing the multitude of sarcastic asides that cluttered my brain as read this. But of course when I then retrieved from the gutter this discarded Sidney Sheldon book cover, I was struck by Mr. Sheldon's prodigious achievement of the kind of success Miss Pinknote aspired to by means of his fictional depiction of women whose idea of self-help, evidently, is surviving escape from a convent while fighting mysterious attractions to swarthy villains, (all without dying from really bad prose.)
These musings all occcured over the soundtrack of the homeless man pictured on the right defending his life to an invisible interrogator: "I studied in high school! Then I graduated and started working! I was going places! Got to go places! Now I take care of my responsibilities! I get up and go to work every morning as a recycler!..." and so on. It sounded like an interview with the God of the Hapless Homeless, a supplicant trying to prove that circumstances beyond his control had delivered him to this fate.
I wanted to give him an extreme makeover then and there, especially as I could see beneath the wild-eyes and wilder beard the face of a man who had once been handsome and no doubt loved. Probably still was, by some family who had finally despaired in the face of too many demons.
So Miss Pinknote, you have no idea I am writing this, but I pray that your spiritual crisis resolves more along the lines of Sidney Sheldon (or his Nuns on the Run,) then the Roofless Recycler, who, I fear, will only find peace on The Other Side of Midnight. Still, who knows what the effect on him might be just because for a brief moment, a few hundred complete strangers have been made aware of his existence.
It's a terrible thing, to be invisible.
MCO 2007
My life, like everybody's, is a study in contrasts. This is not big news, but I do find it a helpful context from which to consciously operate. Our natural tendency, well, my natural tendency, is to view the day's disappointments as somehow detracting from the day's successes--sometimes the bad stuff is all you end up seeing. When I chant the mantra in my head of "contrasts, contrasts, contrasts" then I am more likely to get into the dips as well as the peaks of the day, precisely because they are different. The negative ends up framing the positive.
Above, two examples of contrast. The first speaks for itself, a most adorable little pug puppy nestled in the bosom of a lady at a cafe. What a sweet opportunity take some pleasure in all that is good in life.
And the next, well, if you see these burnt soda cans in your neighborhood in the morning, it means tweekers are getting high outside while you sleep. There's this whole thing they do with cans when there is no pipe available. Which is sort of ugly, but also, an opportunity fo me to be grateful that my life is no longer about chasing that dragon.
I 'm working on a new short story, which I will post as soon as I finish it. I'm gonna get back to it now.
Nothing feels as good as getting into that creative flow. I love it. Love it.
MCO 2007
Yesterday was Bastille Day, and I forgot to acknowledge it. Today, I hope to go see Lady Chatterley, my cousine cousine's film, which just opened. (Check your local listings.)
Meanwhile, here's a sort of rough translation of the French National Anthem. My French is a bit rusty, but I think I got the gist of it.
La Marseillaise (or The Salad Dressing from Marseilles)
Allons, enfants de Patrie,
C’mon, children of the Pastry
Le jour de gloire est arrive;
The soup of the day has come
Contre nous de la tyrannie,
Between us is the tureen
L'etendard sanglant est leve,
Use the ladle to scoop it up
L'etendard sanglant est leve,
Use the ladle to scoop it up
Entendez vous, dans les campagnes,
You two, come camping with us
Mugir ces feroces soldats?
We’ll put on some old hats
Ils viennent jusque dans nos bras,
We'll stuff our juicy bras
Egorger nos fils, nos compagnes.
I’ll molest the girls, you the boys!
Aux armes, citoyens!
Let’s get drunk in Citroens!
Formez vos bataillons!
Then twirl some batons!
Marchons, marchons!
Merchant Whores, Merchant Whores!
Qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons!
Don't you dare shave your legs!
Admittedly, it's an odd anthem. But it does reflect the main preoccupations of the French, food and sex.
Still for a battle hymn, it's not that inspiring. No wonder they've needed some help winning the last two wars.
MCO 2007
I took at look at the plastic bags in which all the friggin circulars come in that constitute a giant blight on this neighborhood--and maybe yours as well. This is no doubt one of many companies that do this, and I'm sure they aren't run by evil people, this is how they make their living. Unfortunately, in this, the world's 11th Hour, it's pure insanity that ecosystems are dying so we can get a discount on toothpaste at Walgreens.
So I looked up their website, and left this comment. I doubt anything will come of it, but I feel a little better having expressed it. Maybe it will be passed on to someone with a conscience who starts to question what they've never questioned before.
COMMENT:
I am so sick of your flyers circulars etc. polluting my neighborhood. The vast majority of them do not get used, they get thrown out, a huge proportion of them on the street. The waste and litter are appalling. In this era of global warming, it is a matter of obscene irresponsibility that any corporate entity should be raping our forests just to create trash and clog our sewers. Shame on you and your clients.
MCO 2007
Yesterday started out with me getting up at 4:45 am, because I had to drop David at Kaiser Permanente for 6 am surgery (cosmetic but due to HIV lipodystrophy--fatty deposits in weird places because of the meds). Then when I was picking up trash, I found myself getting really irritated at that everloving couch full of crap, and thinking, "why am I doing this? I'm just enabling these people to not be accountable for their actions. This is nuts!" and right then, this Korean guy gets out of his car and looks at me and says: "Are you picking up trash-u?' I smiled and nodded that I was. He nodded, and we kept on (he was on the other side of the street, but we were walking in the same direction) and then I saw him turn to me and clearly he had something he wanted to tell me. "You...make me...feel...good" is what he said.
I made HIM feel good!? Oh, no, quite the contrary! He made me feel like a million bucks. In fact, I'm good to go for another 6 months on the trash. Plus this morning the couch was gone!
Interspersed with getting David back from the hospital was a meeting with a producer about a script she'd given me to consult on, and the news that Craig's presentation for the management at Michael's work went very well. Later in the day, I took Michael to his audition (for a part in drag) and talked him out of his nervousness. He would have definitely bailed without me there, and now he might have a part in a play.
So I was very satisfied with the day--I felt productive, helpful, of service and creative all at once. And then, minutes before bed, the phone rang.
It was Molly, in Tennessee. It seems the cancer was not confined to her uterus--it has spread.
On the one hand, I am scared for her of course.. On the other hand, I am extremely grateful. If I wasn't sober, she wouldn't have turned to me as one of the people she was depending on to help her get her through this. And I am a pretty good person to talk to, because I know what it's like to face your fear of sickness and death. I'm also clear that getting depressed or worried ABOUT her doesn't do anything at all FOR her. It just makes for two worried people instead of one.
So, as upsetting as the news was, I'm not upset. This is an opportunity to love and support my friend and help her walk through whatever she has to walk through. What a blessing that is.
MCO 2007
\\Dear Angela:
Hi babe. Right now you are sleeping in my bed. I just wanted to say that today has been the best day ever. I love you so much I love watching you sleep. You look like a Dark Angel resting. You are so Beautiful babe you really are. Am sorry I can't be the best boy friend. But I'll try my hardest to be.
I know I disappoint you from time to time but you have to believe me that I don't do it on purpose. I love you so much. I don't ever want to lose you. You mean the world to me.
Thank you for the greatest 6 months together. Your the best babe.
LOVE YOU
Love Armando
I love when I see the smile on your face. I love when I see that star in your eyes. I love everything about you and I never want to lose you. I love the fact that you love me to. Thank you. Remember when I told you it's time for a new begining. Well we are still a life time away for the end.\\
Lordie, Lordie, Armando, can you stuff more cliches onto one page?
On the one hand, it's sorta sweet. On the other hand, somehow this note landed among the pine needles in Griffith Park--seems a bit careless for a love letter. What's up with that, Angela?
It could be that Angela and Armando are now engaged, or it could be that she's got a restraining order on him cause it freaked her out that he stared at her while she was sleeping. Of course she might have been passed out because of all the heroin she does, and he might be up while she's sleeping because of all the meth he does, which would constitute a very mixed marriage--doomed to fail, trust me.
If I sound cynical, it probably because I haven't gotten laid in months. I haven't even gone on a date. I really have to examine my unwillingess to make much effort in this area.
Okay. I examined it. I'm still unwilling to do anything differently. It'll happen when it happens.
MCO 2007