it's good to be bad

Turk and I caught Art School Confidential yesterday, a deeply cynical and very funny look at the dark side of art professional wannabes, and it reminded me of a happy facet of human nature that had hit me while I was blog jogging around the block a few (several ?)days ago.

Everyone, it seems, has an inner artist yearning to breathe free. And what has become increasingly clear is that there is an amazing amount of talent, joy and creativity out there in the world of ordinary non-art-school-confidential geeks ~ enough to fill a very colorful and diverse universe with line and paint, textile and ink.

I've always felt a little awkward about putting very much out here, in spite of my sincerely professed belief that it's not the quality of the finished product, it's the process of creation that fufills true purpose; that contains the element of meditation, a path to enlightenment, or at least a place of peace. Still, the judgement of others is a fearsome foe, and my fear has always been that it would detract from the pleasure of the act itself. And also, frankly, there's the fact that people would know that I suck.

Just as experience has taught me not to sing in public however much I may enjoy the sound of my own voice, I've generally considered it best not to draw with or for an audience either. If everyone's a critic, ignorance is bliss.

But then I saw this post from Robbie, wherein she linked to this inspiring post by Danny Gregory:

Put simply: no one is nearly as interested in what you do as you are. No one is judging it as hard as you, or analysing it, or wondering about it. The only time they really get involved is when your success or failure could effect them...

The man makes an excellent point. Who, after all, gives a damn? So why not, I thought? Just post a couple of sketchbook pics and own your own cheerful suckiness. Beg no sufferance, and make no apologies ~ revel in and embrace it in all it's amateur glory. Because it really doesn't matter how good or bad or indifferent the efforts may be; the point is that they're mine, they brought me pleasure at the time and now remind me of people, ideas and moments I would otherwise have long forgotten. As Danny puts it, live and make art for the only person that matters or truly cares. Now that's freedom, baby.

As luck would have it we're leaving next week on a road trip up the California coast into wine country (on our very own little Sideways tour) and hopefully I'll have a chance to do a little bit of drawing. Tipsy drawing perhaps, but in my case that may be the best kind.

Come to think of it I"ll have to sketch fast ~ if I don't get a camera today, whatever pictures I draw may be be the only ones I'll have. I'd better start practicing.

jet lag

I'm not saying that I've been lousy company lately, but when I got off the plane last Thursday my bag decided not to get off with me. It was a spur of the moment thing, I think, but while I disembarked in Houston, which was 89 degrees and muggy, my suitcase chose to fly on to Newark, which is 89 degrees and in New Jersey. Frankly, I was embarrassed for both of us.

It took a couple of days for Continental Airlines to track down and retrieve my errant bag, and by the end of Day 2 my travel outfit, which had started out feeling so chic and practical ~ sleeveless black tee, tan cargo pants with ruched cuffs; comfortable platform shoes, denim jacket ~ was swiftly morphing into something shabby and decidedly impractical.

We were on the move from the moment I arrived at the airport, and at some point the black leather upper on my right shoe became dislocated from it's man-made lower. The loss of the the 4 inch cork platform had me gimping along like someone who'd just lost a foot. The laces from the ruched trouser leg now dragging untidily on the floor, I looked like the victim of a fashionable farm accident.

On this day we were in search of a new recliner for my mom, my sister-in-law and I, and as I guided my mother's wheelchair into the expansive furniture showroom I could not help but note in the hundreds of beveled mirrors scattered throughout that a mysterious spot had opened between my brows and begun bleeding, and that my eyes had taken on a haunted, desperate quality. A saleswoman approached.

"Can I help you?" she asked. Dubiously, I thought. I chuckled.

"Yes," my elegant sis-in-law insisted firmly. "I'm sure you can." The saleswoman, Kerry, directed us to the recliners in the back of the store.

"Mom has to try them out to see if she can manipulate them herself," I told her. My mother is very old and quite frail, so much so that even the act of reclining is fraught with difficulty.

"No problem," said Kerry.

And so it was we spent the next hour taking turns picking Mom up and putting her down in dozens of fatly upholstered arm chairs, most of which she occupied like a doll tossed casually onto an oversized sofa. I tried out a few myself, and noticed Kerry eyeing my bottomless shoe, still sporting the scotch tape I'd originally tried fixing it with.

"My shoe broke. The airline lost my luggage," I explained. "And my face seems to be bleeding. I don't know why."

"Where y'all from?" she asked.

"California," I replied.

"I understand," she said. Kindly, I thought.

And you know, she probably did.

checking in and out

I promised myself I was only logging on today to print my boarding pass and nothing else. Okay, I thought, I'll just open the blog for a second; maybe just check in, maybe say hi.

No, I heard myself say, don't do it, you fool! You know what it leads to; you'll want to write, you'll open bloglines, you'll never get out! But as so often happens when I know better than to do something, I went ahead and did it anyway. Just to defy myself. You know, to prove who's boss. And now I'm already behind.

I'm taking off for Houston in the early AM and I've still got a million things to do ~ there's laundry to wash, packing to pack, closets to organize and bathrooms to clean. There are hydrangeas to plant and roses to be pruned. I believe that all these things must be done before I go because you never know what life will bring and what if I never come back? God forbid I leave poor Turk with disorganized closets and un-deadheaded roses. I want him to remember me well, as a woman who knew how to keep house and plant a garden. In spite of all prior evidence to the contrary.

All of this should have been done and I have tried to do it but life kept getting in the way, and I'd rather play with pals in Pasadena, where we saw a terrific little show of ukiyo-e by the way, and I really wanted to blog it because it was just so lovely, and there was this wonderful poem written by one of the geisha, but of course I didn't have a camera with me what with losing my mind and all and there isn't time now anyway because it's 3:40 I see and I gave myself 10 minutes to say hey(!) and now it's been 17 minutes and I still have to get to gym and lose 9 pounds so I fit into the good (read: skinny) jeans that are already packed. And the bathrooms still aren't clean and it looks like they won't be now, but you know what? Geisha don't clean bathrooms and neither do I. I choose to be Geisha.


Sayonara and a bientot!

blah blah blog and I'm sorry, of course

I have been terribly remiss in my blog time, as in I haven't been blogging at all. The thing is, I've been really busy, you know? And even now there's no time to say how. But I am so sick of myself coming on and saying I've been really busy, you know? Because, of course, so have you and you've managed to write, haven't you? Right. My point exactly.

I thought about writing. Quite a bit. In fact, I've written a dozen entries in my head, where they languished attractively for a while, poolside, as it were ~ ordering drinks, flirting with waiters ~ but where now, of course, they no longer exist, my head being the unreliable storage facility that it is. And the thing is, I never wanted to write a blah blah blog, but now, of course, that's exactly what I've gone and done.

Blah. And damn, of course. Sorry.

she's too sexy for the office

In an interview for the March/April issue of Hollywood Life Sharon Stone was asked about Hillary Clinton. She replied:

I think Hillary's fantastic. But I think it's too soon for Hillary to run. This may sound odd, but a woman should be past her sexuality when she runs. She still has sexual power, and I don't think people will accept that. It's too threatening.

Oh Sharon, you crazy, beautiful, narcissistic nutcase, you. Why yes, you're right, it does sound odd!

Are you really trying to say that the American male is so wimpy, so terrified of castration that he cannot, will not tolerate a woman in power who still has her 'sexual power'? Are you actually of the opinion that American women are such shabby, jealous, narrow-minded little creatures that we feel threatened by one of our own?

Oh, you poor, wounded bird of a movie star, what have we done to you, that you should think so little of us? That you should despise us so?

If a man had said something so patently chauvinistic we'd have crucified him for criminal idiocy.

What, exactly, does it mean for a woman to be "past her sexuality?" Must she be post-menopausal to throw her (manly) hat into the ring? Or must she merely be post-pin-up perky? Past powder puffs and perfume?

Is it possible that Ms Stone is equating, as so many in society do, sexual power with physical attractiveness? Pretty women are perceived as sexual by the general population; plain women less so. And what of the women who are never 'past-it' ~ might they never run?

Of course, some are never really 'into it' at all; perhaps they are the ideal candidates for higher office. Asexual eunuchs make great presidents! At the very least, they never get caught with interns and starlets. And there's all that extra, non-sexual energy that can be used for enhanced tariff protection, veto power and stuff. Something. The possibilities are endless.

I'm not sure how old La Stone feels that a woman should be in order to exercise the same liberty to run for office that all males over 35 enjoy. Female sexuality and power do not end with the ability to reproduce, and women well into their 80's and even 90's have been known to have satisfying sexual relationships. With whom, I have no idea. Men in their 30's perhaps. But someday, I aim to find out.

Yes, it is true that celebrities have opinions, bless their foolish little hearts, and that is certainly their right. If only people would stop asking them to share.

why I can't have nice things

There's an advertising campaign for Capital One credit cards that features the world's worst guardian angel. The ads show an oblivious angel fiddling around on a mobile or being distracted by a pretty girl as his human charge gets hit by falling objects, tumbles down a flight of stairs and generally encounters one unlucky mishap after another. The spots are slyly subversive and hilariously funny; somehow, the idea of such a blithely indifferent angel never fails to crack me up. Until, that is, I realized he was working for me.

I spent all day Sunday down in Old Town Orange, where the Orange Circle is known for it's quaint atmosphere and abundance of 'antique' shops, most of which are really just used furniture and tchotcke emporiums. It's the kind of place where that sad, characterless little table that sat by your auntie's bedside all through the 70's, and which she sold at a yard sale last month for $5 gets slapped with a coat of white paint and a flowery little tag that pronounces it "shabby chic" and gives an asking price of $129.

And yet I am undaunted, for I am a shopper and a treasure hunter by nature, and there are bargains to be had. If you know where to look.

On this day I was in search of a bookcase to fit an empty, narrow space by the living room fireplace. It's been empty since the day I moved in, but suddenly I was obsessed with finding just the right bookcase fill it. I started shopping for it with my mother when she was visiting and now, for some reason, I was obsessed with the idea. I kept going back.

I found the perfect piece on Sunday ~ an off-white, 6 shelf little number with just the right proportions, style and embellishments to fit my precisely eclectic English/French/Asian-influenced-country home-trapped-in-a-California-tract house decor. The $400 asking price was ludicrous, however, and I was leaving town tired and disappointed. Such is the life of an inveterate shopper on a limited budget. You win some, you lose some.

In the parking lot, I pulled my keys from my bag and dug around for my sunglasses. Unable to locate them, I started pulling things out ~ a tape measure, a comb, a lipstick, my camera. I put the camera on the hood of my car. Horrified, I realized that I had lost my favorite glasses. And it came back to me in a flash; I remembered that I had heard something fall as I bent over to examine a table in one of the shops, but had been too distracted to check it out. My glasses ~ I knew it in an instant. And I knew just where they were.

How proud of myself I was, as I got into the car. Imagine, I thought; as tired and hungry as I felt, to be able to focus, with such laser-like intensity, on mentally locating the lost object. Such a lucky, clever girl. Well done, I thought. As I drove off.

With the camera. On my hood.

My $416 digital camera. In it's cute little gray vinyl carrying case. My beautiful camera. That I got for my birthday less than 3 years ago.

I loved that camera. I loved it's sleek, chic, distinctively furturistic design. I loved the way it's 3 little blue lights would light up when it was charging. Like it was happy to see me. I loved that.

I loved the pictures that it took. I loved that it was a birthday present from my husband. I loved it because it was mine.

I went back, of course, as soon as I realized what had happened, but you know the rest. No sign of it in the lot or on the streets, no one had turned it into any of the surrounding businesses. Jose', of the lost and stolen properties unit of the Orange Police Department, promised to let me know if it showed up ~ an absolute hero of a man, I might add, who no doubt resisted the overwhleming urge to laugh and call me an idiot. Or worse. He was sweet and sympathetic, and for that I am eternally grateful. Because I don't deserve it.

Buddha help me, I am a material girl and I love material things. I don't mind telling you that I wept for the loss of that camera. I wept for the loss of the object . I wept for the loss of the gift. I wept for the loss of the pictures. I wept for the loss of my mental facilities. Most of all, I wept for the loss of my self-image as an intelligent, confident, competent woman. I am disconsolate.

I am too stupid to live.

And my angel is so fucking fired.

no mo mojo

I've been busy as hell lately and getting nowhere fast, much like the treadmill at the gym that I haven't been to in three weeks. It's the old cliche'; the hurrier I go the behinder I get, and I do mean that in the most literal, and unappealing sense.

And yet, through all the activity I've been oddly lacadaisical. Lethargic and dull-witted, I've been devoid of anything resembling a creative spark. Anxiety about the health and welfare of family members, as well as problems typical of homeownership and far too tedious to relate here have left me mentally competent but completely lacking in imagination. It seems I am missing that certain lightness of being required to write in a public forum.

It isn't that one need be cheerful to write, publicly or otherwise, of course; we write, paint and create as often from a place of darkness as light. Some would argue more so. It's just that any act of creation requires exertion and the blog form, where we ask virtual strangers to take a moment out of their busy lives to spend a moment or two in ours, demands a more measured sort of effort and energy than one intended for private use only. For some reason, I haven't been up to it.

I am, I suspect, only writing this much in order to try and lubricate the joints, as it were. I don't think it's working. Too few martinis and not enough yoga are making Lotus a dull girl.

Goodbye, joie de vivre. Hello, cabbage soup.


*graphic: Anne Taintor Inc.

alone again, unnaturally

My house is silent and in a melancholy mood. I haven't spent much time alone in the past month or so, and as much as I enjoy these moments I am wistful nonetheless. Mom has gone back home, and seeing her off at the airport was a wrenching thing.

I spent the past couple of days baking Irish soda bread for the annual parties and dinner, this time held on Saturday for the benefit of our observant Catholic friends (and their adoring Jewish husbands,) plans for which were made before the special dispensation. And then, of course, there were the get-togethers themselves. Great fun, all. Well, you know. You've been ~ you've eaten the corn beef and drunk the green beer. But now the Paddy's Parties are over, I've picked the last few pieces of shiny green confetti off the floor and out of my shoes, and I find myself mildly hungover and enjoying the comfort of a little aimless whimsy.

As a girl I loved playing with dolls and never really got over it. Now, thanks to the wonders of technology (and a link from Robbie, whose current avatar is wearing a really cute tee ~ can I borrow it?) I'll never have to.

So I spent a foolish amount of time a while ago playing in Yahoo and came away with this brilliant new Barbie dol---I mean avatar. I love it. I can't believe I wasted so much time drawing my own.

We are One, my Digital Dolly and I.

Here we are at the St. Patrick's Day Parade ~ but I expect this scene will change shortly. For here, in Yahoo-based space we can change outfits, hairstyles and environments at will, which is more than I can say for the fact-based me, which requires time, effort, a team of cosmetologists and frequently airfare in order to alter immediate reality.

See how excited we are! And how delightedly St.Paddy's Day Dorky! Just like real life. I even gave us a cool pet wolf, which I suddenly realize we have always wanted but my parents, my husband and my homeowners' association would never let us have. But no one can stop me here, by Jove. Stop us, I mean.

We shall call the wolf Strider. Because we are geeks. Or maybe Jack. Because we are indecisive geeks.

So let us go now, Strider-or-possibly-Jack! For we have things to do and dragons to slay. Maybe meet some more Avatars along the way. Say what you will, I find this alternate reality extremely entertaining. I may never go out into the real world again.

And now if you'll excuse me, I think I need to go try on some more hats.

postcard from CA

Mom's been staying with me for a couple of weeks now, and as we sit here in her sunny blue and white bedroom ~ reminiscing, kvetching, and singing silly old songs together ~ I talk her into composing our very first joint blog entry. Mom searches for something to say.

"Aloha!"

I read back what we've written so far.

"You're going too fast. You wrote the comma, but you didn't act the comma."

I reread the scintillating prose.

"What should I say now?" I prompt.

"I don't know. Nothing's coming to me."

My 92 year-old Mom's looking very jaunty in my baseball cap from 'Turks'; a saloon in Dana Point where we celebrated my birthday a while back.

"I'm older than that," she says. "I think I'm...102."

"No, you're not. You'll be 93 in April."

"I was born in 1913. This is 2006."

"Exactly. Do the math."

We stare at each other for a few seconds, frowning slightly, attempting to wrap our minds around the simple arithmetic ~ Mom slowly because she is 92; me, slowly because I'm just slow. And I even already know the answer. Math is hard.

"Tell them about how cold and rainy it is in sunny California," she says. Mom's a native New Yorker who's currently on the lam from Texas, where last time I visited they were evacuating the state in anticipation of a hurricane. She's been complaining since she got here ~ about the weather, the altitude, how cold my house is and, for some strange reason, how tiny my toilets are.

"Sorry, Mom, but I am the mayor of Tiny Toilet Town, and you're my prisoner. You'll just have to deal." Mom is pretty tiny herself, all 4' 7"and 87 pounds of her, so I'm not quite sure what the problem is. Mom likes to complain.

On the other hand, whenever we go out she keeps wanting to buy me things. Like leather jackets, steak knives, a 150 year-old bronze Buddha statue; a microwave.

"Tell them about how I want to buy you a microwave and you don't want one because you have no room in the kitchen. Put it in your bedroom."

"I just don't need one. I raise my own cattle, grow my own vegetables and prepare everything from scratch. And I don't cook in the bedroom."

"Maybe you would if you had a microwave." That's what I need; less distance between me and food prep.

"But then where would I put the Buddha statue?"

"On top of the microwave." You have to hand it to her. Mom is nothing if not persistent.

We've been doing all the things we love to do together ~ cooking, shopping for clothes, browsing for furniture; watching old movies, entertaining friends and haunting antique stores. Especially haunting antique stores. I walk behind her, amiably pushing her wheelchair into walls as she calls out for me to slow down. Shopkeepers look on anxiously as I misjudge yet another corner.

"We're making them nervous," says Mom, as we head for a shelf containing antique glassware.

"We make me nervous," I reply. She giggles.

In between, we've been living on Entenmann's Cheese Filled Coffee Cake, Hershey's Kisses and Russell Stover's chocolates ~ which means by the time Mom leaves, I'll have gained another 27 pounds, and Mom will still be...tiny. We are nothing if not consistent.

"What do you think, Ma? Can I post it?"

"Email. So he can read it," she says, referring to my brother.

"No, Mom. On the internet. Anyone can read it." She frowns.

"Oh, no. I don't like that. It's private."

"Not really," I say. "It's just a tiny piece of our lives; it's as if we were writing a little slice of life - type story for a magazine or a newspaper column. And no one knows who we are. It's us, but it's everyone really."

She looks tired and a little wan. I've been overachieving as activities director ever since she got here. In my zeal to make every moment a memorable one, I sometimes forget to stop and let her smell the roses of her own choosing ~ like lingering over coffee in the morning, or dozing off in the noonday sun.

"Okay, you do what you want." She shrugs.

I post.

sweet charity

Valentine’s Day is my favorite holiday ever.

Halloween? One can only take so much orange and black. Arbor Day? All hype. Christmas? Sorry; no holiday that lasts 3 months can possibly sustain it's momentum. Give me good old St. Valentine’s any day.

Following a tradition that dates all the way back to last year Turk and I made reservations at the reservation for a little R & R ~ because, as I’ve said before, nothing says ‘Romance’ like Indian Casino. This time it was just outside the tiny town of Temecula, where the Pechanga tribe plays host to a 4 diamond resort and casino. Although not huge gamblers, we enjoy a change of scenery and the excitement of lots of bells and whistles. Bright, shiny things make us smile.

My goal was to make enough money playing Blackjack to pay for the hotel stay, or at least for dinner. Of course, this strategy pretty much never works. I don’t actually win. The best I can ever do is break even. While I am a very bad card player, I do enjoy the game. Turk’s goal was to make sure we didn’t leave destitute. I thought I’d warm up on the slot machines.

And I promptly won $1000 playing ‘Wheel of Fortune.’ Actually, I won $1072, but when you’re as rich as I am now, you don’t count the chump change.

“Oh, I can SO afford to pay dinner!” I squealed in amazement at my wheel spinning prowess.

“Oh, and you are SO going to get to!” said Turk. “And do not dance around waving that money in the air.”

“What do you take me for ~ an idiot?” I said, dancing and waving the money in the air.

“Yeah, right. Put the money in your jeans.”

“My lucky jeans, you mean.”

“Okay. C’mon, Lucky. You get to buy me a drink.”

I’d brought the soft, teal-colored little somethin’ somethin’ with a deeply plunging neckline to wear under the bright, sparkly little somethin’ else. Unfortunately, I hadn’t noticed the tendency of the draping neckline to drift dramatically apart with movement, revealing a bit more of the girly bits than I was strictly comfortable with. I grabbed Turk by the shoulders and looked him straight in the eye.

“You have but one purpose in life tonight, and that is to keep an eye on my blouse and tell me if my bra is showing.” He wasn’t listening to me. He was watching golf over my shoulder.

“I mean it. I’m depending on you to not let me embarrass myself. This is not Vegas, and I can’t go around with my breasts hanging out. Are you listening to me?”

“Yes. Cleavage patrol. Don’t worry. I’m on it.”

Needless to say, an hour later I was sashaying around the restaurant with my Wonderbra on full display.

“I give you one lousy job to do…” I complained, returning from the ladies’ room, where I’d gotten an eyeful. “I’m not sure you have the dedication required to be my Valentine.”

“I was distracted,” he said.

“By what?”

“By…your beautiful eyes.” He grinned.

“Forget it. You only love me for my money.”

“You betcha. Now get the check. I hear there’s karaoke in the cabaret lounge!”

So we had a truly lovely romantic dinner in an attractive and intimate setting. We played some more and didn’t lose. We listened to terrible amateur singing and enjoyed it immensely. We might even have danced but for the threat of further wardrobe malfunction, although by then it’s safe to say the point was pretty much moot. And not only is everything paid for, but I’ve even got a little left over for a rainy day.

I love you, St. Valentine. Thanks for everything. You have always been my favorite Saint.

almost a post

I haven’t been here, there or anywhere online lately. The fact is that I've been the victim of a recent, unexplained attack of efficiency.

I've spent the last 10 days or so engaged in the most mundane endeavors imaginable, and while the accomplishment of said tasks has been personally satisfying it would certainly have made for some very tedious blog entries. Not that it's ever stopped me before ~ God knows that I am not above chronicling how many calories I ate for breakfast or the number of miles logged on a treadmill. It's just that I wanted to spare you, my imaginary audience, such pedestrian fare. Out of imaginary respect.

But I just got back from the gym (5 miles and an hour of Chi Gong…d'oh! Sorry...habit) and when I realized I had an hour of free time (well, free-ish; there's laundry to do and I ought to pack) I thought, hey ~ why not roll all that dullness into one post?

So: this week I cleared the kitchen counter of the detritus of a couple of years; the result of an indifferent and laughable filing system ~ bills paid, payable; insurmountable or unaccountable ~ all properly filed away now. Gone too are the clippings from newspapers yellowed with age; book reviews and directions to gallery exhibits long past; articles on how to remove red wine and grease stains from the carpets, and spider mites and rabbits from the yard. A column on how to properly wear false eyelashes ~ I'm keeping that one. It may come in handy. Also keeping the Bizarro cartoons. Just because.

I threw out magazines and catalogues I'd been saving for...dunno. The Rapture, maybe. I cleaned the house and hit the garden, finally finishing cutting back the roses and mucking about in the dirt. I found the bottom of the laundry basket and had lunch with a friend. Started a new painting and even dabbed at the epic, never-to-be-completed piece whose working title is now 'Journey.' As in 'Never-ending.'

My car died, not once but twice ~ the first time I bought it a new battery and whispered sympathetic words of love and gratitude in it's ear. The second time I just growled and left it to sulk by itself in the garage for the weekend. Now it's at the shop, awaiting diagnosis. I am expecting a call.

I colored my hair (again) ~ an impossibly, implausibly who-does-she-think-she's-kidding-with-that bittersweet chocolatey brown that makes me want to don a tiny black tee, move to a loft in SoHo and take up smoking again. I had it trimmed as well; chunked up the bangs but kept the length. I'm letting it grow just to see if I can still get away with it.

I can’t.

I went shopping and bought a soft, teal-colored little somethin' somethin' with a deeply plunging neckline to wear under a bright, sparkly little somethin' else at dinner during our cozy Valentine's getaway tomorrow. I already have a pair of strappy black sandals with 3 inch come hither heels. It’s entirely possible that I could injure myself. Long story short ~ I get lucky Tuesday night or die trying.

Happy Valentines's Day!

I feel lucky

I spent Thursday pulling jury duty. Again. It seems to me I was writing about this just a scant 14 months ago. I've been called so often I know all the back road shortcuts to the courthouse, recognize a good number of the attorneys and even have a favorite café for long breaks on extended cases. And honestly, I was happy to do it.

In the past I‘d always believed that it was the duty of every citizen to show up and serve honorably. The American system of justice cannot function effectively if good people fail to participate, I reasoned, and I’ve found both the legal process and the cases I’ve participated in to be fascinating.

Besides, I am just the sort of person I'd want on my jury if I were ever accused of a crime ~ fair, intelligent, open-minded, and a snappy dresser in the jury box.

However, I have not been feeling particularly civic-minded these days, my natural tendency toward public service steadily ground down by weary resignation to a government of brazen corruption, awash in political malfeasance, addicted to Big Brotherly Love and, apparently, possessed of an irrational prejudice toward human hybrid cloning (whatever have you guys got against Mermaids and Monkey Men?) So I decided for the first time in my adult life to try and duck jury duty.

In the space on the form requesting exemption from jury service I wrote, in my best cramped, Unibomber-style handwriting,” I have served on 3 juries and been called 4 times in 5 years ~ most recently in December 2004 (!!!) It’s time to give somebody else a chance.

I received notice that my request for exemption had been denied, but that I might qualify for a postponement. No doubt to allow time for a mental health evaluation. I called the office.

“I am requesting to be exempted from jury duty on the grounds that I keep getting called for jury duty,” I declared. “I know people who have never been called for jury duty in their lives and others who, having been exempted once somehow manage to never get called again. I feel that those of us who stand up and serve are somehow penalized for being responsible citizens by being called on a more regular basis.”

“Have you been called in the past 12 months?” a pleasant female voice inquired.

“No, but I have been called 4 times in 5 years, the most recent being 13 months ago. I think I’ve been put on some sort of sucker list.”

“The jury selection is made from random drawings from DMV and voter registration lists. I assure you there is no ‘sucker list’.”

“Well, I don’t believe that for a minute,” I said, not unkindly. “Look, there are about 610 million eligible adults in Orange County, give or take a few ~ how is it that my number comes up 4 times in 5 years, while thousands of others never do? It’s statistically unlikely. And if I’m that lucky, how is it that I’ve never won the lottery?” Ha. Had her there. You know, I really should be buying lottery tickets.

“I could postpone your service until August, ma’am. You will receive the notice in July.”

I considered. It would be 98 degrees in August, and no doubt the air conditioning would be out. Sweaty lawyers and even sweatier clients. Me in shorts. The picture was unappealing.

“No, thank you. I’ll stay with February, I guess,” I sighed, gracious in defeat. Peevish, but gracious.

“Will there be anything else?” the still pleasant voice asked. I must say she was being an uncommonly good sport.

“No, thank you. You’ve been very nice. See you tomorrow. Goodbye"

“Goodbye."

So it was that I served gallantly and lived to survive a particularly close call ~ a pool of 100 jurors was summoned for an attempted murder case, estimated by the judge to last a week before going to deliberation. After a number of jurors were questioned and released over the course of a few hours, those of us who had survived the first couple of rounds of drawings became tense as the pool dwindled and the deadline 5:00pm drew near. Juror#91 was called. #94. #92. At last both attorneys accepted the jury. The survivors applauded. I was #93.

I have really got to start buying lottery tickets.

do you SOTU?

Matt Wuerker Cartoons

Sartre once said that the state of modern man is incomprehension and rage. Cheerful guy, that Sartre, but when you realize that he said that before he ever had a chance to experience either the Bush Administration, "American Idol" or even Paris Hilton, you see him for the visionary he truly was.

I woke up feeling a bit punkish myself and stayed home sick today, as opposed to my usual habit of staying home well, and after noodling around awhile decided I was in a Sartre state of mind. Contemplating the upcoming presidential address with a general sense of creeping despair, I was happy to discover I would not have to endure the coverage without aid. Apparently, there is a national epidemic of State of the Union drinking games afoot, and thank heavens for them. Two of my favorites:

From Beer and Present Danger by Heather Havrilesky ~

The game is simple enough for even your average registered voter to understand. Basically, every time Bush says "terror," "terrorism," "terrorist," "war on terror" or "Terror Dome," you drink.

Also drink when the president winks, nods and points at someone in the audience in rapid succession; drink each time he refers to 9/11 or uses the word "nuke-u-lar," and drink something bitter when he says that "the state of our union is strong."

Whenever there's a close-up of a sour-faced Democrat, drink. If it's Hilary Clinton, Ted Kennedy or Harry Reid, drink twice. (Full rules here ...)

And from Adam Felber ~

- Whenever the President says “evil,” everyone must raise their glass and take a drink. It’s good form to make a brief toast of sorts, something like “Down with evil!” or “Evil is bad!” “Evil” should be pronounced with a soft “i” [”Evihl”].

- When talking about the progress of the War in Iraq, wait for the President to say “We are winning” or “we will win.” Everyone then says “Yay!” raises a glass and drinks triumphantly. When the President says the words “hard work” or indicates that hard work still remains, everyone should say “Awww” and take a disappointed sip. (Play here...)

There are many, many others. I predict that 54% of the country will be incapacitated by 6:35 pm (Pacific). So, go. Play. Enjoy. Sartre will understand.

let's face the music and file

A chill Santa Ana wind has been blowing steadily all day, spoiling my best intentions to spend the day painting in my cutting edge open air studio. By which I mean the patio, and by which I mean that I would have blown away.

So I spent the afternoon once again transferring files, printing and re-uploading pictures I thought I wouldn't have to deal with again. Tedious stuff, but I don't feel I can safely jettison AOL until it's done. Blimey.

But thank heavens for jazz vocals on internet radio. Right now, the trees are swaying and Ella is swinging "You Took Advantage of Me." Oh, to be young and taken advantage of once again. And again. Two minutes ago Steve Tyrell was crooning "Why Was I Born?" I don't know, Steve honey, but I'm glad you were. "Hey there..you with the stars in your eyes..." ~ sing it to me, Rosemary. And Diana. And Peggy. And Fats. Nice ~ now Nnenna Freelon is crooning "Soulcall," seducing all within the sound of her voice into the realm of bittersweet memory and peace....

Here's "Black Coffee" by Jacintha ~ man, I love this one. All smoke and hope and husky-throated regret.

All in all, not a terrible way to spend a couple of hours on a Sunday afternoon. Julie Christie has just launched into "Make Someone Happy" and you know, I believe I will ~ think I'll toddle off to the kitchen and throw a little something on the fire. I feel a Spaghetti Bolognese coming on. I think that'll put a smile on someone's face.

it's the corruption, stupid

I've been dieting (sort of) and working out (excessively) for the past week, and after a net loss of a hard-fought one (!) pound, had developed a craving for a $5.25 Bucket o' Popcorn with a Butter-like Substance on Top. Only a trip to the local theater would satisfy.

So we finally caught Syriana, George Clooney's slightly confusing but brainy and brilliant collage of a film about American and Saudi oil interests, and the roles that power and corruption play in the Middle East and within the hallowed halls of our own government.

Told through the eyes of a number of players in a non-linear fashion, political issues evolve from the personal as individual stories serve to illuminate global trends. In one plot line, we see how bone-crushing poverty and oppression can leave an essentially ordinary and decent Muslim youth vulnerable to seduction in the well-funded madrasas of radical Islam; in another, a young American financial planner is beguiled by the wealth and democratic ideology of a Saudi prince.

I won't pretend to have understood all the various threads of the individual plot lines ~ the details surrounding the actions of a young Washington lawyer with father issues were particularly elusive. In an interview with NPR's Terry Gross, Clooney indicated that he didn't want to play down to the audience by taking them by the hand and walking them through everything; that he wanted to drop us down right in the middle of the action, and make us figure it out for ourselves. I personally found it to be a very effective approach ~ this is, after all, how we often experience life ~ and at no point was I tempted to check out, remaining focused and engaged throughout the entire film, which brims with bitter insight into the workings of the American power elite.

"Corruption charges. Corruption? Corruption ain't nothing more than government intrusion into market efficiencies in the form of regulation. That's Milton Friedman. He got a goddamn Nobel Prize. We have laws against it precisely so we can get away with it.

Corruption is our protection. Corruption is what keeps us safe and warm. Corruption is why you and I are prancing around here instead of fighting each other for scraps of meat out in the streets. Corruption is why we win."

Chilling.

Fast-paced and literate, Syriana is a must-see movie for anyone who's not buying into the Bush Administration's happy talk about a war fought to 'free the Iraqi people', thus spreading comfort and joy throughout the land. I know one thing for certain.

Even behind that beard and an additional 30 pounds, George Clooney cannot hide the essential fabulousness of his hunky self. There's a lesson to be learned in there somewhere. If I could only figure out what it is.

blame it on pasadena

I first noticed it a few days ago, as I was passing the bedroom mirror.

I had been deliberately passing by all such mirrors lately for fear of encountering just this very thing, but something odd caught my eye; something foreign, large and following menacingly behind me. Before I could catch myself I had glanced sideways, and there it was.

Baby got back.

Yes, that dismayingly architectonic and cantilevered protuberance I had glimpsed in the mirror was, in fact, attached to my very person. It had been growing, mushroom-like, beneath the black knit sweatpants I had taken to living in, entirely without my knowledge or permission. I do not believe this is my fault.

By my calculations, the holidays started somewhat early this year; right around Halloween, in fact, when the 4 bags of Snickers and 3 bags of Almond Joys, along with assorted combinations of lollipops and Tootsie Rolls went largely unclaimed by the neighborhood children, who are now being subjected to house arrest on the big night to keep them from attempted poisoning and certain death at the hands of members of their own homeowners’ associations. Of course, we do not waste food in this house. Not when there are young women starving right here in Hollywood.

Next came Thanksgiving, followed by a particularly sociable Christmas, which once again surprised me by arriving promptly on the 25th this year, and never allowing me any time to go to the gym, or to clean out all the goodies in the fridge and replace them with cabbage soup. Visions of fruitcake and eggnog, chocolates and sugarplums danced in my head, onto my plate and under my belt. Leftovers, as we all know, make wonderful all-day snacking, and baking for others, such a noble and generous cause, does not count in the calorie count. Ever.

New Year’s Day is, of course, the end of the eat, drink and be merry-go-round that is the Holiday Season, and the annual Pasadena Rose Parade, quite a local spectacle and all around big deal here in California, is held on New Year’s Day. Everyone turns on the parade, which is always followed by the Rose Bowl game, to veg out and recover from the night before. It’s a time honored tradition, just as January 2nd is the traditional beginning of all 86million resolutions to ‘get back in shape’.

Not this year. This year, the Pasadena city fathers threw all that out the window by deciding that the Pasadena Rose parade would be held on Monday, rather than Sunday; (something about a promise 100 years ago to the local clergymen involving frightened horses) a decision which threw everybody, including me, off their mark for days.

Then the Rose Bowl was held on Wednesday for some inexplicable reason, which is why I was still shopping, baking and whipping up appetizers as late as last Tuesday and Wednesday for a friend's football party. Why I volunteered to bring appetizers I’ll never know, since it meant that I’d have to arrive on time and not fashionably late as is my wont, which I do only because I know I look better after everyone else has had at least one round...

But that’s beside the point.

The point is, that the Pasadena city fathers’ reckless disregard for tradition wreaked not only havoc on the parade (it poured) and at the game (USC was trampled by Texas) but, more importantly, it caused me to miss out on that crucial January 1st cut-off date on gluttony. It was therefore directly responsible for about 37,425 additional calories and therefore those 14 ~ yes, 14 ~ extra pounds, most of which appear to have settled in my butt.

The lesson here is obvious ~ it is wrong to fool with parades and Bowl games and indeed, the natural order of things in general. It is not nice to screw with my calendar, Pasadena.

And that, in conclusion, is why my Christmas tree is still up.


*painting by Fernando Botero

farewell, my lovely

At what point do you just give up on a thing and admit defeat?

If you’re me, the answer is not until you’ve beaten it to death with a club, shaken it out and administered morphine. Then you place it your driveway and run over it with your car. Several times. After giving it mouth to mouth, you pour yourself some wine, relax a bit, and go light it on fire. Upon waiting a week or so for it to cool off, you put it back on the easel, grab a brush or any other weapon of choice and start all over again.

It’s not that I have a problem with failure. I am no stranger to failure and indeed, have learned to embrace it as my friend and my mentor; had I succeeded more often, I would probably not be the happy idiot that friends and loved ones have come to know and tolerate. Certainly, I would not have nearly as much time on my hands to indulge in such pastimes as painting and blogging. And blogging about painting. And whining about blogging. And so on.

But this one painting is giving me headaches, and has been doing so for months. I’ve given up on projects in the past, albeit reluctantly, but by god I just can’t seem to let go here. Until today. Today I painted over large swatches of real estate, eliminated some extraneous debris, changed colors and added metaphor. And still no joy. It is much improved, I think, but I know in my heart that while the operation was a success, the patient died.

But don’t cry for me, Argentina. It felt good to be painting again. I will take these lessons learned, and live to fail another canvas. The beauty is in the process. The canvas is just a souvenir. And even then, only occasionally.

wave watching ~ newport beach

We went whale watching
to see some whales

and what did we see?














We saw the sea.

We saw some sea lions
and even a shark.
But nary a whale,
although the seals barked.

The gulls were all friendly
they stayed with us through,














But we were not fishing;
no fish guts for you.















We went whale watching
to chase our tails.
But that was okay 'cause
we had a swell day ~
it was a great day!

the year grows old

When the Year Grows Old
Edna St. Vincent Millay

I CANNOT but remember

When the year grows old—

October—November—

How she disliked the cold!


She used to watch the swallows

Go down across the sky,

And turn from the window

With a little sharp sigh.


And often when the brown leaves

Were brittle on the ground,

And the wind in the chimney

Made a melancholy sound.


She had a look about her

That I wish I could forget—

The look of a scared thing

Sitting in a net!


Oh, beautiful at nightfall

The soft spitting snow!

And beautiful the bare boughs

Rubbing to and fro!


But the roaring of the fire,

And the warmth of fur,

And the boiling of the kettle

Were beautiful to her!


I cannot but remember

When the year grows old—

October—November—

How she disliked the cold!

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

I do not dislike the cold. It teaches me to appreciate the hearth. The day is gray and the rain has been steady. I welcome the rain and the cold. It doesn't sadden, but brings renewal. My spirit. My hope. My pleasure in the comforts of home.

We have spent the holidays in a cheerful whirl of friends and dinners, wine and laughter, and I am reminded once again of all that I am grateful for. Tonight we will ring in the New Year alone, the affable Turk and I, in front of a cozy fire and a tiny tree, and toast to years gone by and those to come; old friends lost and new ones made; roads already traveled and paths yet to be chosen. We will be melancholy, yet peaceful. Grateful for our good fortune. The year grows old, and so do we. But I do not dislike the cold. It reminds me that I am warm.

Peace, love and prosperity to you all.

Happy New Year!

gone shopping...

No time to visit
no time to blog
there's hardly time for this eggnog

It's last year's card
this happy tree, rushed as always
but then that's me

I wish you love
and joy and mirth
I wish us all some
Peace on Earth

Goodwill to all
to all sweet dharma
But if ye be Grinchey
I wish thee ~ Instant Karma.

Happy Holidays!
(and of course, to Bill O'Reilly and John Gibson, who apparently require more specific forms of greeting)

A wondrous midwinter agricultural and solar observance to you, boys!

peace, babies

xxx ooo Gigi

blissin' in the wind

I like my gym. I really do. It’s clean, well-appointed, relatively free of meat market muscle heads and hardly ever out of toilet paper in the ladies’ room. Most importantly, it’s right around the corner from my house, which means I have to pass it as I travel to and fro from whatever self-indulgence I am to-ing and fro-ing from, and I am easily guilted into dropping in for an hour or so. Eventually. It keeps me honest and helps me maintain the illusion of moderate good health even as I maintain a steady diet of egg nog and fruit cake; at least until I look too closely in a mirror. I tend to favor equipment located far from the reflecting walls.

Not that I love all forms of exercise. I hate lifting weights, which is tedious and painful. No pain, no pain, is my motto. If the weight is too light, I lose count as my mind wanders off in search of weightier subjects (What ever happened to that trial of Kenny Boy Lay?...Does that woman think anyone believes those things are real?…) If the weights are too heavy, I find I can only count to 3.

But I love yoga and I love to run. I love the way my body feels as I push it to bend deeper, reach further and move faster. It’s probably just a chemical thing; a combination of increasing adrenaline, endorphins and serotonin levels that makes it feel so good ~ which just goes to prove that there’s nothing I won’t do to achieve an unnatural high.

Still, I had an odd free hour yesterday after a busy day of doing whatever it is that I do but didn’t feel like hitting the gym. So I did something I haven’t done in ages. I took a walk.

The air was clear and a brisk 50 degrees. The low autumn sun gleamed hard and diamond-bright, and the sky was soon ablaze in spectacular shades of red, pinks, orange and fuscia. My Mp3 Player was tuned to 93.1 Jack FM (motto: “we don’t take requests ~ we don’t encourage bad behavior”) and the ‘Boys of Summer’ was pulsing through my head. I tried to run, but could feel the cellulite jiggling and stopped at once; it was spoiling the mood. Overhead the maple leaves, ignited by the sun, flamed red, pink and saffron. Striding swiftly uphill, I paused at the top to take in the last splash of magenta as the sun exploded over the reservoir.

I tried to stop mentally describing the scene in glaringly awful purple prose and realized, not for the first time, that I am a very bad writer, even when only talking to myself. I decided I didn’t really care and, grooving to Steely Dan’s “Do it Again,” fully understood that I was just one happy little idiot. Let finer minds struggle to be good ~ I would be content to be colorful.

Trotting downhill to the strains of “Stray Cat Strut,” I tried not to grin too broadly as motorists sped past, lest they recognize me as simple. By the time Queen hit their stride with “Somebody to Love”, Christmas lights were twinkling on against the now dusky mauve sky and I didn’t bother trying not to smile, or even let slip a skip and a stray strut or two. I grinned and nodded at neighbors staring back at me from garages and behind the leashes of dogs. When I finally hit my own front porch, John Fogerty was wailin’ “Born on the Bayou,” and I was blissin’ ~ winded, happy and at one with the universe.

You know, I hardly ever get that from the treadmill. I really need to get out more.

christmas noir

‘Tis the holiday season so, having just skimmed John Gibson’s thriller,” The War on Christmas: How the Liberal Plot to Ban the Sacred Christian Holiday Is Worse Than You Thought” we were naturally in the mood for a story of greed, power and corruption in the hallowed halls of government and other such worlds of unimaginable privilege and excess.

Unfortunately, “Syriana” didn’t open until today, and since it was yesterday, we went to see “The Ice Harvest” instead, which proved to be a story of greed, power and corruption in the seedy suburb of ‘Wichita Falls, Kansas’; a world of unimaginable tawdriness and excess.

In “Ice Harvest” John Cusack plays Charlie Arglist, a mob lawyer who’s been sleepwalking his way through life, pausing only to drink and hang out in strip bars until he attempts to pull a Christmas Eve getaway after having stolen millions from his bosses. Billy Bob Thornton plays the amoral pornographer accomplice, who may or may not fade away into the night with the loot. Oliver Platt is the drunken buddy and fellow nihilist Pete Van Heuten, a man ravaged by the misery of having gotten what he wished for, and now longing only for a brand new start.

I absolutely enjoyed this movie. Recalling the best of 1940’s film noir this comedy/thriller is bleak, violent and consistently funny. In Connie Nielsen, who plays the femme fatale Renata whom Charlie is pining for, we have a Lauren Bacall for the 21st century; from her long, side-swept locks to her ruby red lips; down to the gams that seem go on forever, as Sam Spade might have said. Even bound to a chair and threatened with a pistol, she speaks in a low, husky Bacall-like whisper, when a lesser dame would have screeched and howled like a banshee. That’s style. Noir style.

This movie isn’t for everyone. My viewing partner, the unflappable Turk, did not care for it and did not at all appreciate my dragging him along.

“That’s not my idea of a Christmas movie,” he said later, glowering at me over margaritas. “Too depressing. I’ve had too many Christmases like that.”

I must have looked a little alarmed.

“Well, without all the violence and the…you know…blood and all.”

I continued to stare.

“Oh! The strippers. There were never strippers.”

Good to know.

“Christmas should be happy,” he continued. “And if it can’t be happy, it should at the very least not be that dark.”

“Oh, I don’t know. It's pretty dismal for a lot more people than anyone cares to admit. Besides, did you see the footage of the 6 AM tramplings in front of the Wal Mart and Best Buys? They were stepping on old people! Rioting for X Boxes. I think that’s pretty dark.”

“Shameful. But you don’t see them making a movie out of it.” He paused. “Yet.”

Alright. He has a point.

Still ~ if you, like me, are beginning to feel just a wee bit of an overload from all the gingerbread, tinsel and enforced merriment of the yule; if you too are, shall we say dispirited by the cloud of raging consumerism that permeates the air while the Gibsons and O’Reillys of the world attempt to make political hay of the spiritual ho-ho-ho…

Well, then just think of “The Ice Harvest” as a quickie antidote; a nice dry martini in a season of sweet, and sometimes sour rum punch.

Ho ho ho!

it's all about the housekeeping

Okay ~ this page went a little wonky for a bit there but it seems to be better now. I am on a very steep learning curve here.

I've been trying to save the AOL Journal to my hard drive (thanks Trish)as well as print it out (yes, I know, I'm getting obsessive about the whole thing, and wish I'd never started.) But I have, and now I'm stuck with the neurotic behavior I've so foolishly triggered. I no longer trust AOL to host my graphics with any reliability, and have been trying in my spare moments to shift everything over here. And there. Pretty much everywhere. Suddenly I'm a compulsive saver. It's becoming a problem.

I've found that if you do try to print out old entries you must, in fact, print out all those terrific AOL ads we've all come to know and love. Andi, over at Unhinged, suggested I copy everything into Word and print from there, which turned out to be a great idea. The only exception is that some photos won't copy and paste (those hosted by an AOL UK site) and if said photos are no longer on your hard drive or saved to CD, then you're out of luck. Most likely, you're not as nuts as I am and won't care. Congratulations on your excellent mental health!

It's at times like that I miss my handy little spiral bound journal. No one had to host it, no one wanted to delete it, censor it, advertise in it or even, for that matter, read it. At least, not to my knowledge. Although my cousin did give me some funny looks that time I left it on the dresser when I was staying at her house... But I digress.

Right. So I've been working on that and I'm slow; in fact, until I organize myself and just quit copying things hither and yon like a rabid squirrel I can't seem to actually write anything. Or concentrate on anything else.

So if I haven't been around to read, write or answer mail, it's a time and mental health issue, not a lack of interest one, and I'm sorry about that. 'Tis the season fa-la, and although I'd rather blog than clean bathrooms, which are getting rather...hairy, I'd also rather doodle in Paint than copy blog files, which is what I feel I have to do whenever I'm online, at least until it's done.

And there are errands to run, shopping to do, lunches to be...lunched, and the gym to be gymed. Or avoided by going shopping, as the case may be. Speaking of which, I'm off to Sportsmart for running shoes (25% off today only!) as I'm pretty sure my old ones are conspiring to cripple me.

And I am so freaking late right now; I'll bet this doesn't even save by the time I need...to...be...gone...

Oh, damn. Later!............

scenes from purgatory ~ part two

Outside in the hallway, Mom is instructed to propel herself as far as she can by rotating the wheels on her chair manually, as part of her upper body work.

Alongside her is a set of parallel bars where a tall, dignified woman is making her painful way down the length of the ramp. Mom turns to peer up at her before beginning her own course, and they both struggle along at a snail’s pace. Watching from behind, it is a slow motion marathon taking place between a heron and a gnome.

Suddenly, without raising her head from her progress, my mother announces to no one in particular, “She doesn’t know it, but we’re having a race, and I’m gonna WIN!” Everyone in the hallway breaks up, including her startled rival. Leaning against a wall, I’m laughing so hard it brings tears to my eyes.

Back in her room, after the nurse has put her in bed, each little shift of the sheets brings pain and moaning and she begs, again, for more medication. “You see, I do try, don’t I?” she says, peering up at me.

She tells me about how she hates to wake up in the morning; that when she opens her eyes she feels only wretched disappointment. “I pray to die,” she says. “Why am I still here?” I tell her that she’s here for me.

“Because it’s all about me, Mom. I’m not ready to let you go. None of us are.” I half believe this; that I am keeping her here against her will. That I somehow have this much power in the universe, and that I am using it unwisely. She gives me a ghost of a smile. “There is such a thing as living too long, you know.”

I stay with her until she becomes quiet, long after visiting hours are over. When I leave, I tell her I’ll see her in the morning. “Just call,” she says. “In the night, when I wake up, I feel like I don’t know who I am. Like I’m adrift. Alone….you know?”

I tell her I know. Alone in the dark, caught halfway between restless dreams and an unwelcome dawn, it’s easy to become untethered ~ adrift in the existential void. To forget who you are. I do know. But I don’t want to.

“I just feel lost” she says, “until someone calls.”