Moose and Sushi…

one of my favorite videos…from anchorage, alaska

 

What do I want to write about…some thing fun. I enjoyed writing the eagle story so maybe I should tell you about some of the adventures I had up in the Rocky Mtns…Like the time I made sushi. I brought it over to Shawn’s house. This was when he and Liza had just met, before they were married.  Shawn and his room mate were throwing one of those Saturday night parties so Liza and I conferred and we brought some saki and a plate of home made sushi. When I wandered back into the kitchen a bit later, it was gone. There was the empty plate with a few crumbs of rice next to the sink. I congratulated myself on how successful the sushi contribution was. Then Shawn came in  the kitchen and grabbed a mitt and took the sushi out of the oven. He proudly placed it on the table, carefully using tongs to display it on a fresh plate. Cooked. He said he wasn’t sure what temperature it was supposed to be baked at but that it looked ‘done’ after 10 minutes. Was it alright? It actually tasted pretty good.

Big moose with spring antlers.

Or the time I was driving my truck back from Panorama ski resort with my sister. I’d just finished a gig. Back then I was the only DJ in the Valley so I wasn’t allowed to turn down anything. I just couldn’t. If someone was having a wedding, an anniversary, an 85th birthday party for Grandma Bertie Sue and she wanted to listen to Benny Goodman, then you dug up some pre war Benny Goodman and you did it. Refuse? Hah…no chance. You did every gig offered because you simply had to. So, even though I didn’t want to be,  I was up at the ski resort, in February, doing a dance for teens.

It was late by the time we were done and packed. Panorama is WAY up in the mountains, on a twisting, turning road.  A road that requires concentration and nerves of steel. Especially at night.  I was, of course, being extremely careful. I’d learned long ago that any trouble you’re going to get into would happen because you were going too fast or you weren’t watching the road. The WHOLE road, not just what’s directly in front of you, but what was happening on the side of the roads. Where the animals were.

That’s why, when I saw a huge moose coming up the side of the mountain, I wasn’t going fast. I said to my sister, in my calmest voice, ‘There’s a moose. I’m going to stop…’

‘A Moose?! OMG…WHERE!’

She was going to freak out. I knew she was. Moose are big and if you hit one you’re FUBAR. Seriously.  So I start my careful, non panicking, braking. I pump the brake, I keep my hands at 10 and 2. I don’t scream. I don’t let my caveman brain allow in pictures of us cartwheeling down the mountain. I know I can’t afford a slide. It’s winter and there’s no where to go but down.

There’s a drop off on the right, where the moose was coming from, and an almost vertical, tree choked climb on the left. It was going to be close. I didn’t want to slam on the brakes but….ahhhhh…I could see it powering up the slope…it was going to be really, really close. I’m concentrating on the road now. Slowing down. Almost there. Don’t look. Theres nothing you can do now but hope to miss it. You’re doing good. Whew! We’re stopped.

But I don’t see the moose. Either we passed it or…no. There it was.

Staring into the passenger side window at Liza. I stopped RIGHT next to it. It’s peering in the window with its big ol’ moose nose almost pressed against the window. 3″ away. (two inches?) And there’s Liza, still scanning the road ahead for the moose.

‘Where is it?! Where? Are you sure it was a moose?’ She’s leaning out almost over the dash board now. The moose looked puzzled. But interested. Like we were fish in a bowl. Scanning the interior of the truck. Calm but curious.

‘Uh…I’m pretty sure that’s a moose, Liza.’ (I was just being mean at this point. But it WAS funny.)

‘Where? I don’t see it.’

‘Well, its right next to you.’

You should have heard her scream.  She smacked the window and the moose walked slowly around the front of the truck. It was a big bull moose, probably 6 feet at the shoulder.  It didn’t have antlers because they shed them in the winter but the cow moose don’t usually get that big. It stopped in front of the truck to take another look and then it strolled over to the vertical climb and casually leaped up it and vanished into the trees. Leaped. It must have weighed close to 1000 lbs. I laughed all the way home but Liza was not amused.

The Golden Eagle (I know JUST how that Fox feels)

Just when you think you’re going to be able to settle down after a tough stretch and enjoy yourself…

…something always seems to come up.

You can’t just sit back, though. Sometimes you have to fight for what’s yours.

Whether it’s dinner or life itself. You can’t just accept what happens.

Until it happens…

Then you have to know when to quit! Something I’m not any better at than this fox.

And special thanks to the Montana hunter who took these shots with his cell phone. Dang nice work. Bet it was an iPhone.

Today I am going to tell you the story of MY encounter with a golden eagle.

I was new to The Valley, as it’s known among the locals, but I wasn’t really a local yet. I’d come there a short few months before and I was learning new things everyday. Like riding ATV’s. Loved them! They went places a dirt bike could only dream of going. If you wanted to carry cold beer, and I did.

I went out every chance I could and this one sunny day Kevin took me and a pair of exuberant 14 yr olds, Emily and her cousin, out for a ride.

We were WAY up there, on a shelf of the mountain. Kevin and I had brought along an impromptu picnic, consisting of Slim Jims, BBQ Fritos, Pepsi and 6 pack of cold beer. I opted for the beer. Naturally, after drinking the beer, I had to go take a whiz.

Well, it just so happened that we had stopped on the lee side of a cut bank looking down into a beautiful forested valley. Pristine. But steep. No where to go pee in private.

The other side, when I climbed up the bank, was STUNNING! Really. It was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen. An old clear cut from 100 years ago had turned into a meadow of wildflowers and tall green grass. It swept down to a drop off leaving a view of the Columbia River and the entire Purcell Range that enclosed The Valley to the west. And best of all? There was an old fallen tree. It had been blown over and was lying there just waiting for me. Perfect. It’s hard to find that perfect spot to pee. Believe me.

It had only been a week or so since I had been chased out of a bush while not enjoying a pee. I was still nervous back then. To me the Rocky Mtns were inhabited by man eating bears and starving desperate cougars and wolves and…and..you name it! It was going to get me if I wasn’t careful. So I was hyper vigilant. That explains why, when I heard a loud rustling noise right behind me, I panicked. I hit the ground running, with my pants around my ankles practically, thinking (and, unfortunately, shouting) there’s a bear in there. The guys were startled as hell and there was a scramble for bear spray and getting the wives and girlfriends on the machines, and some spreading out and soft talking and swearing by Al that he wouldn’t come out without the danged side arm again. This was the last time Donna, gosh darned it. So everyone was preparing to evacuate that particular area post haste, when out of the bush strolled a grouse. One bitty little grouse.

Gosh darned it.

It was ALL over the valley by the end of the week. Everyone thought it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard and when I heard Al and Donna tell it in company, I cracked up too. Dang it all.

But still it made me wary.

Now, I wasn’t exactly an amateur when it came to peeing outside. I was pretty handy at it. Fast and neat. I even had tp. But who likes crouching, right? Here was this wonderful tree to lean against and the VIEW was to die for and, best of all? No WAY anything could sneak up on me. A 100% 360′ view all around me for 100 yards. And nice and private. I could hear them talking and laughing down on the road behind me. I was by myself. Perfect. I was going to have the best pee EVER!

So I dropped my drawers and leaned against the tree next to the upended root ball. It was all old and dry and spikey but it was bigger at that end. I wouldn’t have to crouch down too much.

I begin. I hear a sound. It sounds like steam. Steam? hmmm…I look down. No steam. It’s not me making that noise. It’s getting louder. I’m getting concerned, where the hell was that noise coming from? It was a hissing now. Not like a snake hiss. I mean LOUD.

I glance over to my right and theres the BIGGEST FUCKIN EAGLE I’VE EVER SEEN. HISSING AT ME! Sitting on the root boll and the beak was about a foot from my gaping face! A GIANT yellow and pink POINTY gaping MAW! I wasn’t imagining that shit THIS time. Caveman brain took over.

I ran. Of course I ran. Unfortunately I didn’t pull up my pants so I didn’t get far. I tipped over immediately. Then I began an army crawl that would have made any drill sergeant proud. I think at some point I managed to pull my pants up but, between waving a streamer of toilet paper at the eagle, trying to recover some breathe to actually scream my lungs out, the undies were a problem…jeez. I peed on my pants. NOW wait. I didn’t PEE my pants. I peed ON my pants. There’s a big difference.

I rolled over and looked and that golden eagle was just taking off. It must have been sitting there the whole time I was planning my pee. Didn’t move. And it didn’t move while I fell over. Or when I crawled away whimpering with my toilet paper. It had been just sitting there watching my humiliation.  You know they aren’t like bald eagles. That white head and all. You can SEE those suckers. Golden eagles are the exact same color as an old fallen tree root boll.  Take my word for it.

And it gave me a look. It really did. It looked disdainful. I know all eagles look sort of disdainful but this one? He meant it. He swooped down the meadow and made a slow sweeping turn to come back and give me another look. He really did. He flew right over my head,  about 6 feet up. We looked at each, other eye to eye, and he had written me off. I was beneath his notice. I didn’t count. I could have been dinner but I peed on myself and that’s just gross. I felt small.

Jerk. Eagles are jerks.

Then I heard my fellow travelers ‘Oooh look! Look at the eagle! LAURA. did you see the eagle?!’

Yeah. I saw it.

But no one heard that story for years.

“Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, but today is a gift. That’s why we call it the present.” ― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

Why does kindness make you cry? Why do I cry when I should laugh and smile?

It was one of those days. We all have them. Just one little thing after another, building up, until you just want to scream. Little things.

The mop head broke off. The top to my coffee pot is missing. I decided to make tea and the tea bag broke in the pot so I got a mouthful of leaves. I tipped a container of garlic, chopped garlic, a big container, over. Yes. Right in the fridge. Why wasn’t the lid properly screwed on? Because I was probably in a hurry last time I used it. So I had to take everything out and clean the fridge. It still smells of garlic. I locked Otis out of the house by accident, I didn’t know he’d followed me outside when I went to unlock the henhouse this morning. There was poor Otis, in a total downpour, raining buckets, thunder in one continual loop, booming overhead, and Otis was outside the whole time. We don’t even have a roof overhang for him to shelter under. He was scared and soaked. Nice work, Laura!

Otis is very sad and I did it.

(this picture was taken right after he had a bath and climbed on my bed a couple of months ago. I did not take it today while he was so scared. I’m a terrible person, but not THAT terrible.)

I dried him off, he was shaking with fear and kept his eyes locked on mine as if to say “Why? Why did you do that? Did I do something wrong?” I felt like a terrible terrible person. I went to let him lie on the bed in the guest room-normally a no no for the dogs-and ran into a huge spider web! Seriously? A spider web. In the house. From door jamb to door jamb. Face level.

How long has it been since I was in the guest room? Too long, I guess. But the million dollar question?

Where the hell was the spider? Was it ON me? OMG…WTF…IT WAS ON ME! “AAIIEEE!!! There’s a spider on my head, I know there is, its crawling on my bald head…it was there a second ago! Now where is it?! There’s a spider on me…”..jump in the shower, turn on the water, get my clothes off ( in that order) I’m certain there is a giant spider on me. There wasn’t. At least I don’t think there was. I think it was an empty web. I hope it was. I’m not afraid of spiders. Seriously. I pick them up and put them outside when I see them, but today? I freaked OUT!

And then I remember Otis. Poor little Otis who can’t see very well. Who I just finished drying off. He thinks I’m mad at him, while I’m screaming and running around like a maniac trying to find the spider. He is now trying to cram himself under the dining room chairs. One after another. He tries the sofa. Doesn’t fit. Tries the chairs again. Laundry room? Can’t hide there. I’m now chasing him all over the house apologizing to him, pleading with him to stop. He keeps running away from me. Lovely. I finally corner him and DRAG him to the guest room. HAUL him onto the bed. He doesn’t want to have anything to do with me. He hides in my closet. I let him be. I’m a terrible person. Just terrible.

Then I hear the doorbell. I was in the kind of mood where I just had to ask “What now?”.

It was a package from Mr. Sugarbear. From a sweet little family somewhere in North Carolina. They sent me dog toys and lip gloss and a lovely scarf. Chocolates and lollipops and a card with some cash.

The card enclosed said ‘Sometimes we all need a care package.’

Today, I needed one. And out of the blue, somehow, Mr. Sugarbear timed it perfectly. It really makes you believe in a Higher Power. But it was the pictures, drawn by her own family, that really got me. Of all 3 of my dogs and me. Even Haida. I just started bawling. It was exactly what I needed.

But to ask again…why do I cry? I just sat there looking at everything spilling out of that box and I cried. I couldn’t help myself. It was so incredibly kind and thoughtful.
I pulled myself together. Gave Otis a blanket so he’d be more comfortable lying on all my shoes, and took off. Wearing my new scarf. Feeling like a brand new person, even with tears in my eyes. I went and bought a new mop. Now I’m sitting Bainbridge Island Bakery, having a biscuit with honey and butter and coffee. It’s stopped raining for the time being. In fact it’s a really beautiful, cloudy day.

It’s a wonderful day!

And I had to ask myself…why do you cry when you’re so happy?

Back in the beginning…

Thank you Mr. Sugarbear and family!

Be Kind to Strangers: Day One

It’s all good!

http://www.gofundme.com/3yfbqg

Today was my Be Kind to a Stranger day.

It’s a lot harder than you think. Especially when you look like I do. I look like I have cancer and I have people pushing and shoving to get a chance to be helpful. To be nice to me. To let me in front of them in the supermarket line up.

It got to be a comedy routine.

At Safeway, The bag boy carried my groceries out and wouldn’t even let me take the one with the bread in it.

Another girl who worked there saw me staring into the refrigerated case with weird juice in it. The kind that looks horrible and sounds worse. Kombucha Mushroom Mango Life Restoring Organic Reawaken Revitalize juice with chia seeds. Or something brown. A bad brown. And the label assures you that there is NO SUGAR. It’s ALL Green. It has Benefits. I don’t even have benefits anymore so I was thinking ‘hmmm….’ She offered to get me a case of it from the back. In an effort to be kind, I bought one. Fortunately, they were out of the Kombuca Mushroom flavor….but it’s on order.

Then there was the tiny little lady, about 93, who saw me getting laundry soap and offered to put it in the cart for me. She looked pretty good, though. I almost let her.

I went for a stagger along Winslow Way, our main drag, all 3 blocks of it, and couldn’t find a single person to be kind to. Everyone was perfectly happy and didn’t seem to need any kindness. I sat and drank a weird juice, the chia seed one, which was actually pretty good (97% Kambocha) but had a strange texture, like tiny little balls of jello were in it.

I had nothing to do now that my grocery shopping was done. No one was crying or even looking pensive. Lots of healthy, happy people walking in the sun. Cute kids all over the place eating ice cream cones and not even dropping them so I could get them another one. I briefly considered taking one off a kid and throwing it on the pavement so I could, but decided against it.

I went to the local espresso joint and got mobbed by people trying to be nice to me. Offering me their table, newspaper, water, a ride on a unicorn…what the hell?! I just wanted to help them. Be nice to them. Then it hit me. Oh…

I WAS being nice to them. By being there and letting them be nice to me. It was a strange feeling. Again. It’s not easy letting people help you. It’s a lot easier to help than to be helped. So I took the high road. I took the newspaper too.

http://www.gofundme.com/3yfbqg

Trying to be kind…

“It takes all the running you can do to keep in the same place.” Alice in Wonderland, Through the Looking Glass’

It was 1991. I spent a lovely week in Paris. Alone and loving it. I didn’t worry about the fact that Europe was exploding around me.

It wasn’t exploding in Paris. At least as far as I could see. Only in Eastern Europe, Russia and where I was heading. And that was okay with me because I didn’t read the papers. And I barely spoke the language. They could have dropped a bomb on Barcelona and I would’nt have known it. I was in my own little heaven. Like some kind of jerk.

But that’s a tourist, right? Oh man. I could go to Syria right now and be placidly drinking coffee and eating fattoush in Latakia while people shot shells across the street because I was ON VACATION! That ticket is NON-refundable and I’m going. Like a jerk. I’d be asking people
‘Pardon me? Do you speak english? Czy mówi Pan po angielsku…no? Not Polish either? Darn it.’ Then I would be sure to shout ‘Where’s the beach? THE BEACH…EL SWIMMING POOLIO…’

‘Oh…I’ll bet they just said that screaming it doesn’t help. That was TOTALLY my boyfriends look when I served the creamed corn spaghetti sauce.’ (HEY! It could have been good. I mixed it with cream cheese and…oh never mind…honestly.)

‘Patiotism is the virtue of the vicious.’ Oscar Wilde.

I am just going to say here that I don’t know what to think about Syria. I think, personally, that Assad should step down. Or be shoved off his perch. But this post is not about Syria. I’ll leave that to the people who know what is going on over there. If anyone over there or here does. Obama and his People seem to think they do. Sending over weapons? Is that good? Is peace at any cost good? Should everyone just let Assad…no no no..I will NOT start spouting opinions as if I know anything or as if I am Jim Nachtwey (have so much respect for him-also tiny crush)

Here is what is germane to this post.

In 1516, the Ottoman Empire invaded the Mamluk Sultanate of Egypt, conquering Syria, and Damascus was made the major entrepot for Mecca, and as such it acquired a holy character to Muslims, because of the baraka (spiritual force or blessing) of the countless pilgrims who passed through on the hajj, the pilgrimage to Mecca. Tourists.

Essentially, they were tourists. Syria is a place I’ve always wanted to go and now I might have to wait!

Did you know that Damascus is the oldest most continuously occupied city in the whole world? As in lived in, not ‘Occupied’. Although they had thier share of that, too. THEY had the first tourists! Poor Damascus…I can imagine them 10,000 years ago.

Some yahoo like me screaming “POOLIO!! EL POOLIO!’
and..
‘Can you draw a PICTURE of me and my husband? Here’s a pen…”
and…
‘Is this SPICY?! I have an ulcer…’
and…
‘Was this fruit washed? WASHED?! DO you speak ARAMAIC!?’

…and there are people there who still do speak it…so there you have it. The literacy rate of Syrians aged 15 and older is 90.7% for males and 82.2% for females. That’s pretty damned good. As a potential tourist I am already ashamed of myself. So…where was I?

Oh yeah…my trip. God what a rube I was. But a rube with a naturally suspicious nature cultivated as a result of growing up in Hollywood
CA and realizing that men were pigs. Sorry men. It’s true. I made sweeping generalizations back then. Now…only some men are pigs. Like maybe 59.87% of them. Don’t give me some knee jerk reaction either. Just read Donofalltrades posts. Sorry Don. Love your blog.

However any European man trying to ‘make the eyes at me’, to quote Granny Mary, was in for a rough time. There would be NO making of eyes.

And then my mix tapes got stolen.

My mix tapes…I don’t have to tell you the magnitude of that theft, do I? This was before cell phones got small and there were cd’s. At least for the likes of me.

I spent months agonizing over songs, the order they played, the cover art. I made mix tapes for potential friends I would make, I made a special mix tape for me and my boyfriend, Leszek, whom I was going to meet up with in Gdansk. Yes…STOLEN!

By some Romany hunk with gorgeous eyes, green as glass, and eyelashes a mile long (I was thinking how like MY eyes they were and wondering if Granny Mary was correct about us being 100% Irish on her side) Yes I fell for the oldest damned trick in the book. As I pointed out the correct train platform (as IF I knew it!) I had my back to my suitcase, with my mixtapes case bungee corded on top, and Swoop! there they must have gone. I didn’t see it. He thanked me profusely and off he went.
While someone behind me stole my tapes. Boy was I mad. Hopping mad. Now I know what that means.

Fortunately, I had one tape in the Walkman and I had two more in my suitcase pocket. One of them was Buddy Holly and Roy Orbison etc…from that era. One of my ‘friend tapes’ to give away. The other was heavy metal, made at the request of Leszek, to give to someone he knew. So I had that. I hated metal. It was hard to make that tape because I had to ask around a lot and find people who had records I could tape off of. Naturally, that one didn’t get stolen. But the Talking Heads did. Van Morrison. Peter Gabriel. Chet Baker…all my JAZZ! Damn, it still makes me mad!

I was in EUROPE with no JAZZ! No music!

All because I didn’t listen to Granny Mary and I fell for the old ‘making the eyes’ trick.

Boy. I am a moron. Because Jazz may have started off in America, but the Europeans took off and RAN with it. There is some wicked good jazz over there. Good music period full stop. Even if they are singing in French. Or Spanish. German rock was…umm..hmmm…scary? They sounded like Rob Zombie, all of them. As if they needed a cough drop. Anyway the jazz was delicious in Germany. I listened to the radio everywhere I went after that and it was brilliant. I want to shake that handsome man’s hand and slap him with the other.

BUt that’s the way it goes. Tourists. I was a tourist and someone out there may have had their first exposure to excellent jazz because of me. And Big Band swing. They may have heard ‘Stompin’ at the Savoy’ for the first time or ‘One O’Clock Jump’ with Gene Krupa on drums and Harry James on trumpet. Or Count Basie or Duke Ellington. Maybe Dinah Washington or Billie Holiday. In return I got Edith Piaf, Djano Reinhardt and Stephane Grapelli in France. Germany I heard about Eberhardt Weber. Spain I discovered The Gypsy Kings and Paco de Lucia.

Yes. From bad things come good things.

Right?

So having cancer and sitting here getting a blood transfusion as I write this, Ive been lying here since 8:30 am and it’s now 6:06 and I STILL have blood dripping into me because my white blood cell count is sooooo low, it is a good thing. I know it. I can feel it.

Everything happens so you can learn a lesson. My lesson then? Listen to the radio, stop swearing and watch out for the ‘making the eyes guys.’

My lesson today?

Patience. Soon this too shall pass.

And I STILL don’t have anything to complain about…all I have to do is imagine the day there is peace in the Levant and I can go there and scream

“DO YOU SPEAK ENGLISH??”

It makes me smile.

“You would have to be half mad to dream me up.” Alice in Wonderland

Crying? In public? It’s sure way to get noticed by a mime. Playing ‘Somewhere My Love’ on an accordian.

I got it together rather quickly.

I admired the Pei Pyramid. I thought it looked a little out of place but when there’s THAT much space to fill, really, it didn’t take up that much of it. It’s a big place, the Louvre courtyard. I mean, when you think of the price of real estate…the Pyramid didn’t bother me much at all. The practical side of me applauded it. The impractical side wanted to see raging mobs of rioting sans-coluttes or some French aristocrats doing something heinous.

If it were Hollywood the whole place would be FULL of people dressed up and acting as if thier life depended on it and I were Steven Speilberg. If it were Vancouver, everyone would be planning on how to fit another 40 story apartment building in. Paris? It was empty at that time of the morning and HUGE. Hugely empty. Except for the accordian playing mime.

I made a beeline for the entrance and that’s where the crowds were. Inside the pyramid. Trying to get downstairs and buy a ticket. And figure out which entrance is which. There are a bunch down there and they all go to different places. I bought a ticket from one kiosk and then tried to figure out which entrance led to the pictures. Or the Winged Victory. Or the Mona Lisa. Or even a statue. Anything. There were people in uniforms taking tickets at different places and I wasn’t sure if I could get out if I got into the wrong wing. Its a big place. And I was tired. I was kind of drunk, maybe. I think I was stressed. Okay there’s no excuse.

I lost my ticket.

I approached a ticket man and held out my empty hand. There was no ticket in it. I looked at the floor, at my hand, at my feet, at the ticket guy. I backed off and started looking around. No ticket. I looked in my pockets, maybe I put it in my pocket. No. Maybe it was in my purse…no. Maybe I dropped it. I started looking around at the floor again. I could feel a stupid smile spreading over my face. I couldn’t help it. I was going to cry/smile. It was pathetic.

A man in uniform came over and said something in French and I told him, in english, bad english, that I had lost my ticket. And two big cartoon like tears fell out of my eyes. I told him I was jet lagged and my room wasn’t ready and there was someone sleeping in my room. I took a deep breathe and tried to speak French.

‘Je’m’appelle la horreur. Ju suis desesperee. Jai perdu ma passe’ At least I think that’s how it sounded. Laura=la horreur.
I am called Horror. I am desparate. I have lost my past.’

The man swallowed really hard. I think he was trying not to laugh. He took me over to the lady behind the window who sold me the ticket and spoke French to her while I kept my eye’s really wide open so no more tears would fall out. I tried not to breathe too many white wine fumes at her.

She actually smiled at me. I think the guard told her my name was Horror and I was desperate and without a past. At that point they just wanted to get rid of me so they could guffaw in private without risking me breaking down in public. Who says the French are rude? I had only been there a few hours and I’d met the nicest people imaginable.

He took me over to a ticket taker and they shoved me down a hallway and I think I heard them laughing but I didn’t care. I was IN.

Embarrassed, but in.

I walked around in a daze. Literally. I was operating on a Branston Pickle sandwich from the wee hours in the morning, a nice, crusty roll, a tiny cup of coffee and a quart of wine. I remember standing in front of a GIGANTIC painting of a Battle from Hell. Probably Waterloo, and being fixated on a bug eyed guy who’d had his arm cut off. It was lying in front of him. OFF! It was bleeding and he was staring at it in horror, reaching for it and a horse was about to totally leap onto him from behind and crush him…it was horrible AND lifelike AND practically LIFE sized. I wanted to give him a heads up. ‘LOOK OUT! That war horse is going to land on you. Your arm is the LEAST of your problems right now!’ He was in the right front foreground. I’ll never forget it. I finally tore myself away after what felt like an hour of walking up and down in front of that painting. Jeez…too much.

I stumbled into the room with the French Crown Jewels by accident. They even had Napoleon’s Crown. Very tasteful, I have to say. Very French. How in the world they kept that collection together, I’ll never know. I guess it’s kind of hard to pawn the French Crown Jewels.

There were burn marks on the wood floors which I thought was rather slipshod housekeeping until I realized they were from the fires set by those rioting peasants during the Revolution. They cooked their meals there. Right on the floor! Of a palace. Sheesh…sort of thrilling to see though. Tacky bastards.

I went in search of the Mona Lisa and found it. Just as some yahoo snapped a photo of it and all the lights around it went out, leaving it in darkness. For a long time. Everyone drifted off and I just stood there behind a velvet rope, it seemed like forever, waiting until the lights came back on. Damned if I was going to miss seeing the Mona Lisa. Which is very small. And it looks just like all the reproductions. I don’t know why I thought it would be different. Or thrilling.

I did want to see the Winged Victory of Samothrace though. That was a must see for me. I followed the map. I found the place. No Winged Victory. I went down the stairs and looked around…the thing is big. It’s like 10 feet tall or something, right? You can’t miss it. If you’re in the room with it, you’d know. A headless statue. With wings. Maybe it was off for cleaning or something. But there wasn’t even a plinth big enough for it. I wandered around looking at other things and sort of fuming a bit. All this way and it wasn’t here. I finally got my nerve up to ask a guard.

‘Pardonee moi, mais ou est la victoire la samothrace.’ And I believe I got it right that time because he didn’t look as if he were about to burst out laughing. He just smiled and pointed over my shoulder.

And there she was.

I had walked right past her.

She was just as beautiful as I imagined. Just as powerful. Just as graceful. I’d seen a million photo’s but there was nothing like seeing the original.

Sorry Mona Lisa.

I burst out crying.

“Keep your temper, said the Caterpillar.” ― Alice in Wonderland

The continued adventures of Laura in Wonderland (meaning 1991 Europe)

This traveloge left off with me just arriving in Paris after a harrowing bus trip. Then finding my stalker room mate standing in the lobby of my Paris hotel.

Valerie.

I am such a dyed in the wool phony that I said ‘Valerie!’ like I was happy. ‘Valerie…wow what a surprise. You. Here. In Paris. I thought you were going to Aix.’

Meanwhile I was freaking OUT! Valerie found me in Europe. She must have been paying attention when I was making plans. Somehow. Like by listening to me yak and yak about it before I left. Even down to the hotel I was staying at. Me and my big mouth, right? But she SAID she was going to Aix en Provence. To improve her French. I didn’t even really believe she meant to go, honestly.

She’d already been in Paris for quite awhile at this point. Turns out she left Vancouver before me and I’d spent a week in London. Or more. It’s all kind of vague. I think I was hyperventilating. While remaining polite. I’m a Proud Canadian.

Meanwhile, I wasn’t fooling the guy behind the desk. He was Algerian. He was good at reading faces. He said ‘So, you need a room for two now? We have one room with one bed. You want that? Right?’ I could have murdered him-even if he did say it in French and I sort of understood him and was TOTALLY thrilled. Valerie took charge. Of course she did. She switched my cute little room at the top of the hotel with a twin bed that overlooked a courtyard to a cavernous room on the street side. Valerie insisted that we see this room before we commit to it. So up we went, me still expressing some sort of half assed surprise, stunned.

It was a chopped in half living room or dining room. Probably in it’s illustrious past it had been quite something to see. Now? It was scary. One bed. That’s right. One bed with a big dip in the middle that we were going to share. One toilet in the room, with a bidet and NO WALLS around it! Not one wall. Just sitting out there, flapping in the breeze. A sink and a linoleum table that someone had cooked on. And chopped on. And slept on, maybe. The windows were heroic. Nothing to do about the windows, except perhaps only curtain the bottom 1/4 of them and make sure they had towering buildings that looked into the room from across the street.

I took one look and died inside.

But I didn’t say anything. The Algerian guy was staring at me. I could feel him staring at the side of my head. Like willing me to SAY SOMETHING. Complain. Say NO. But I didn’t. I said ‘Wow. Look at the toilet. There are no walls.’ He said I had to pay extra for a toilet in the room. And the extra person. I had to pay MORE for a horrid room. So I said ‘um…’ and Valerie took charge again. She said we’d take it. Just for one night. Then we were going to stay at a youth hostel.

ME!? In a hostel? Youth? I was 31. I had money. More importantly, I had reservations! Valerie may have been on a tight budget but I wasn’t. She assured me I was going to love it there. Really. Why spend money on a ratty horrible hotel if you were only going to come back to it long enough to sleep? Right?

Valerie started unpacking, it seems you have to take all your stuff with you when you leave the hostel for the day (What?!) and I went downstairs to pay for the room.

Remember this is like 6 am or something. The Algerian guy filled out the paper stuff and took my credit card and I just stood there silently. My thrilling smile was gone. My feeling of being in Paris for the first time was gone. Valerie was in my room and she was going to dog my footsteps all through Europe. I just knew it.

Algerian guy said, in beautiful English, ‘This is a friend of yours?’

I blurted out the whole story of her wierdness. Clinging to the front desk like it was a life preserver, I told him the mouse story, that my friends didn’t like her and even though she was perfectly nice and all I was having a hard time liking her too. That’s not like me, I said. I like everyone. Basically, I said ‘Help me!’

He pointed at a chair and said ‘Sit’ so I did. He did the exchange of the night to day shift thing with some guy and then said ‘Come’ and we went out for coffee.

He took me to a place right by the Sacre Couer, which was close to where I was staying. I was in Montmarte! In Paris-the artists quarter, right? I read ‘Nana’ and ‘Germinal’ and all that Zola stuff. I was starting to feel better. He showed me how to order coffee in Paris. Leaning against a scarred wooden counter, under an awning, the smell of bread baking, he bought me a coffee and a roll and pointed out The Moulin Rouge and the Sacre Couer up on this hill. I was feeling better and better. Then we went to another cafe, almost next door, so I could practice how to get a waiter myself.

You see, there’s a trick to it. You ignore the waiter. Don’t turn around. Don’t look for him. He knows you’re there. They are like sharks, he said. And the blood in the water? You, looking as if you are going to stay a long, long time. So spread out your papers, open a book, set up an easel, take off your shoes and stare off into space introspectively. You’ve got time. Lots and lots of it. Paris waiters are special. They are like beautiful women, he said. Ignore them at your peril. The more you ignore them, the more they want to be noticed.

I opened a book. My friend stared majestically off into space with his feet on a chair.

Within moments a waiter was there. My friend, I can’t for the life of me remember his name, I’ll call him Al, said, in english, ‘Don’t order in english.’ I panicked. All my french was gone. POOF! Well, most of it. I said ‘Duex vin blanc, si vous plait’ which almost gave the show away, that ‘si vous plait’. Plus ordering wine at 6:45 am was a little weird. Al continued to stare into space and I did too. The waiter was puzzled. He was SURE I was a tourist, sure of it. But I was ignoring him. He fired off a question in rapid French, which totally went over my head. But I remember Al saying to me ‘If you don’t understand, stare at them as if THEY don’t understand and repeat yourself very very slowly.’ So I turned and gave the waiter my best 1000 yard sniper stare and said ‘Duex. Vin. Blanc.’

It worked. Except we both had a whole carafe of white wine to drink. At 6:45 in the morning. Al thought it was funny and he drank it even though I don’t think he wanted it. We talked and talked for 2 hours and drank our wine and he told me about Algiers, which he loved and hated and missed, and I told him about Los Angeles and Hollywood and Vancouver, which I also loved and hated and missed. We talked about politics and when he heard I wanted to go to Russia he laughed and said I should and good luck with that. But he wasn’t sarcastic. He was my life saver, Al. Finally we got down to Valerie. This guy should have been a psychologist. Maybe he was. It was brilliant. He said tell her the truth. Nicely.

He saved my little room. He really did. I had it reserved for a week. He told the day guy I was checking into it tomorrow morning. He had faith in me. He knew that I would be able to explain to Valerie why I wasn’t staying in a youth hostel and why I wasn’t traveling with her. It was crazy, but he said, tell her the truth. Spend a night, if you have to take that long to make it clear, but tell the truth.

So simple. I told him I would let him know how it went when he started work that night and I went back to my weird room. I was tired from the bus ride and the white wine but when I saw Valerie asleep in that awful bed, I left her a note and took off again. I had Paris at my feet. And no Valerie.

I went straight to the Louvre. Of course I did. I found it too. First try. I never had a problem again while traveling. Never got lost. It was London that threw me. No other city in Europe, only London. It’s all court yards and side streets and oddities. I loved it. It made every other city look like a grid. Paris was easy!

I got off the bus and walked into the courtyard of the Louvre and all of a sudden the whole morning caught up with me. I was at the LOUVRE museum. I was going to see the WINGED VICTORY OF SAMOTHRACE. I was going to see the MONA LISA! I was in PARIS. Oh my GOD!

I started crying like a baby. Really. I just sat down on the ground and started crying. I was here.

I made it.

Ramblings…it’s the Drugs. I don’t expect ANYONE to read this. I’m afraid of the word count.

So, I’m going to apologize in advance for the length. I am just pretending that someone is sitting here letting me talk their ear off. Some of you read my post yesterday and I have to say it was a good feeling to be able to say what I said.

It goes against the grain for me. I had to force myself to complain. To whine. I usually just internalize it – a little – and decide how to gone on. That’s why I called this blog Kicking and Screaming. It used to be Whining as well but I took that out when I realized my title was running into 2 paragraphs. No. I started this so I could complain and no one who knew me would know what a coward I was. What a complainer and a totally mean and bitchy whiner I was. I usually would channel this stuff into other outlets. All I needed to do was prioritize. What has to be done right now. What can be done tomorrow. How do I do this without troubling people? God forbid anyone feel sorry for me. I have my pride, right?

So wrong…on so many levels.

First off, thanks to the wonderful person who responded to my whining, no. I’m not going to call it that anymore. It’s not in the title. I’ve learned my lesson. The person, the lady in all senses of the word, who responded with a list of things I can do for myself. I wrote some things down which made me feel good. I took notes, people!

I did well at chemotherapy and the nurses were all in fine form. We were sharing YouTube videos and horrid tattoo websites and laughing so hard I had to sit down.

I got there early and was able to start early and we caught the 1:00 ferry home. I bought the dog food and cat food and milk for tea. I went to HelpLine House and got 2 eggplants and tomatoes and pears. Fantastic.

I’m all jacked up on dexamethasone so there will be no sleep tonight. That’s okay. I’m used to it. Saturday is my sleeping in day. These Friday posts are a reflection of the drugs. A little disjointed. A way to keep myself company without relying on surfing the internet.

Surfing. I am a terrible surfer. I wrote a stern letter to our Senators from Washington and our Congressman regarding gun control and the filibuster. I went to some political sites and some health related sites and, in a totally mean spirited way, I made fun of the people who were just asking for it. In my opinion.

Because who wants to spend hundreds of dollars a year on Sharpies?

or what about this brilliant job…I think face tattoos are the worst and this guy? well…just in case he ever got out or wanted a job…now there is no need for a background check, right?

Yep, he’s a keeper!

Oh boy, two in the morning…

I look like crap and I’m trying to get used to the looks I get. I forget sometimes that I look sick. People look sorry. Not mean or even curious. Just sad. Sorry. I wonder why they look at me and their eyes slide up or over and then I remember.

Oh. Right. I look like a cancer person. Bald and eyebrows and lashes going. I look like that. hmmm…I try and smile if I can catch their eye in time. I’m okay. Don’t feel bad. Smile at me. It’s not catching.

It was weird in the supermarket today. I am so easily distracted and, like I said, I don’t get out much so when I do…I didn’t want to stop. Mom kept giving me Purell for my hands and I know she was worried a bit. But I have to use my brain. Doctors and Nurses orders. So there I was with Mom who could have gotten and paid for everything in 15 seconds and I was staggering around going

‘Wait…wait…okay. Hold on. Don’t say anything. What aisle is this? No. I can’t go down the soap aisle. It smells. ooh look, sausage. Wait…don’t tell me. I’m getting some…Corn?! It’s corn season?! Where is this corn from? Aren’t bananas pretty? Wait…don’t tell me. DOG FOOD. We’re here for dog food. What aisle is this? Did I bring my coupon? Should I buy a lotto ticket? I have a dollar. Wait…where are we? ooh look is that a free sample of sausage?

Poor Mom.

Rose, my favorite nurse, told me I have to read. Follow things on TV and understand them. Bleh. I watched a not very good, really really LONG movie. I was so mad. Everyone says this is a MUST SEE. It’s an essential movie. It’s pivotal. So I watched Giant. I was terrified it would never end. That I had died in the chair and my hell was going to be watching this never ending movie. 3 hours and 49 minutes. God I hate tv sometimes. Watching Liz Taylor ham it up. I could see Grace Kelly in that role. And maybe..oh whats the use, but damn it that role was so wrong for Liz Taylor. And not even using Sal Mineo. Although seeing him standing there next to Rock Hudson was funny. The two most flamboyant gay guys in Hollywood. hee hee…And Dennis Hopper? Really? In a Gee Dad gosh I wanna be a doctor role? arrghh…I kept seeing him in Blue Velvet. It was such a good book. They killed the best, most complex character, Luz Benedict, early on.

I thought Alec Guinness. You can’t go wrong…I’ll watch Our Man in Havana. Is it me?! That movie wasn’t funny. Now the one with him as the leader of the gang and they move into that old ladies house…what was that called? Hilarious…

God I was mad last night. Sitting on that sofa like a true sci fi geek and watching Giant. Watching a bad movie and it was Star Trek ‘Into Darkness’ opening night and I am a big fan of Star Trek. Well, I loved the tv series. And I even liked the movies, at the time. Now I watch The Wrath of Khan and I wince. And that’s considered the best one. It was great at the time though. And this new series with what’s his name and you know who, the first film in this new series was really good. So pissed. They had all the old movies on. Wrath of Khan. Star Trek V. Oh that was bad…

‘Written by Shatner. Directed by Shatner. It’s a big pile of Shatner. This was supposed to be the capstone to the big-screen Trek enterprise, at least for the original crew, wherein they went searching for God. Literally. On a god-planet. That nobody can go to except it’s easy to get there. Oh, and Spock suddenly has a brother, who’s a space-televangelist. And we learn McCoy killed his dad. And Uhura has the hots for Scotty. And Jim Kirk wants his pain. He needs his pain! Apparently, the actor playing Kirk thought we all needed his pain, too, creating the film against which all badness is measured.’

Just the best bad review ever. I remember walking out of that movie going ‘WTF?!’

And Star Trek; Generations? Oh god…I watched that in lieu of Into Darkness tonight so I was just sitting there FUMING.

The central plot device of the film — a time warp of giddiness called The Nexus — works only because the main characters are idiots. You can’t fly a ship into The Nexus because it’ll blow up the ship? But isn’t that how Dr. Soren got there in the first place? And who cares if the ship blows up so long as you get to where you’re going? And if you leave The Nexus, you can go anywhere, anywhen, so why does Picard jump back to a time when Soren already has the advantage, rather than go back to, say, a week ago when he had a full security detail and just arrest the jerk? (And why doesn’t Kirk go back to his time and stop Soren then, and also pick up where his life left off?) This is why Trekkies can’t have nice things.

But now we can. That’s right, we got some good actors. They blew up Vulcan. That’s right. Every time I think of the fact that they got rid of all that weird shit by the simple expedient of just changing the whole time/space thing and turning Vulcans into an endangered species. It was so shocking. I walked out of that movie thinking…HEY, can they DO that? Can they just kill every single time line and whoa…they did. So cool. All those bad movies I sat through are now gone from the timeline…what a gigantic sigh of relief that was. You aren’t Star Trek fans. I know. I’ve watched that show and it’s spin offs since the 70’s. It was like a huge burden was lifted when they killed every single thing about the old series. Whew.. good. Lets start over and pretend that all that never happened.

And I’m sorry but I LOVE Benedict Cumberbatch. He’s dreamy. The best Sherlock ever. He’s the villain. Can’t wait to see it. Soon. On Tuesday I am going. I got my check today and once I pay the electric bill and get chicken food and hay I have enough left over to see the movie. I am taking my nephews. Not to the 3d version though. I haven’t ever seen a 3d movie and I am afraid it will make me motion sick.

Oh yeah…sunday. Sunday is the fundraiser. God. I don’t know what to do. Here’s my plan.
I’ll walk up and there will be this ENORMOUS silence. Everyone will be wearing cool looking clothes and there I’ll be.

In my blonde Jessica Simpson wig with lipstick on my teeth wearing two big balloons stuffed down the top of my WalMart size 2 electric blue tight tee with the oil stain on the front and a pair of green lace short short shorts. And my sandals. The teal green cork sole high heel sandals. With a hot pink plastic belt and a big RED purse. And a flask. A metal flask with what could only be vodka. I’ll call it ‘tea’. I’ll have a tuna fish sandwich wrapped in squishy plastic wrap. Maybe a couple of hard boiled eggs. Unpeeled, of course. And lots and lots of make up and perfume.

Oh wait…that’s my friend Dharsea who is a model.
HAH!!!

LOTS!

Oh if only…

It’s good for a laugh but I can’t. Can I? Would it be in bad taste? Do I really have to ask that? Wouldn’t it be funny? No. Of course not. I’ll be good. I wish I knew what the sense of humour there is. I mean, it could be my contribution. I’m certain some people from work would laugh their asses off. No. Better not. But the curly wig? Yep. It’s only 8am it’s starting so…maybe just some Bailey’s.

On Monday I am going to be back to the paperchase and I couldn’t be happier. Until I get put on hold by the 7th person and then disconnected and…nah…that couldn’t happen again. Right?

Today is fun friday. I am having fun. Thank you to all of you. Now go and get some balloons and stuff them down your shirt. It’s actually pretty FUN!

“If you don’t know where you are going any road can take you there”

“I can’t go back to yesterday because I was a different person then.”
― Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

It was 1991. Now I KNOW there are those of you out there who are already clicking off this page, but let me tell you…1991 was NOT the year to plan an idyllic European vacation.

Operation Desert Storm had begun, not to be confused with Operation Desert Shield. That was 1990, when U.S. troops were sent to Saudi Arabia. Supposedly to prevent Iraq from invading. Or something. This “wholly defensive” maneuver was abandoned when Iraq declared Kuwait to be Iraq’s 19th province and So Damn Insane named his cousin as its governor, or some such happyhorseshit. I just remember my brother was over there for part of that and it freaked me out. He could have been hurt! Yes, 1991 was busy.

Russia collapsed. Like, immediately. So fast it was almost unbelievable. It still is. Boris Yeltsin was elected, then not, then Gorbachev took over and Lech Walesa was elected in Poland and Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan, Azerbaijan, Ukraine, Moldova, Lithuania, Latvia, Belarus, Estonia and probably more (I had to look it up and now I’m sick and tired of typing those weird ass names -whatever!) got their independence. There was a cyclone in Bangladesh that killed 200,000 people. Jeffery Dahmer was discovered with 11 guys in his freezer. Rodney King was ‘arrested’ and that eventually sparked the LA Riots and my return to Canada. The internet was made available to geeks and there were 1 million users. ONE WHOLE MILLION GEEKS.

Nirvana was awesome and still are.

Yes. It was quite a year. I decided it was the year I would visit Poland with my boyfriend. Maybe Yugoslavia, too. 1991. The year Croatia, Bosnia, Macedonia and Slovenia declared independence. Did I forget them in all the ‘stans above? Did Iforget to mention the shelling of Dubrovnik by the YUGOSLAV ARMY!? Or the method used when the Parliament voting doesn’t go your way?

The Bosnian Parliament building in Sarajevo in 1991

I went to the Canadian embassy in Vancouver to get a Polish visa and maybe a Russian visa too. Just in case I decided to pay Mother Russia a quick visit while I was in Gdansk. Oh, and can I get a stamp for Yugoslavia too? Lesek has friends in Sarajevo and they said come visit. So that was good, right?

You should have SEEN the guys face.

He thought I was kidding. He was not kidding when he said no, though. No and absolutely not and get the fuck out of here and don’t you read the papers and why not visit Bangladesh too while you’re at it.

Jerk.

Nobody puts Baby in a corner! (HAH! Who remembers Dirty Dancing? I’m such a geek)

Anyway, there’s an embassy in London for all those places, right? I’ll just go to London and get my visas there. Spoilsport Canadian bureaucrats…

I called my friend, Lyra, who was working in animation there and living in, lets see, what was it called, way out in the boonies, starts with an M? Margate? I think it was. Well. I was coming and she was thrilled to pieces. We were best friends and she’d left the previous year to take this job and what could be better? Right?

Then she found out where I was trying to go. Don’t I read the papers? Get the fuck out of here? Are you kidding? Why not visit Bangladesh too?

(and I would like to say I am NOT making light of that tragedy…it happened on April 29th, 1991 and it was horrible to see. I think it is still on record as one of the most devastating cyclones in recorded history and I feel like a shit but, it really was what she said.)

Still, I was going to Eastern Europe. Oh yes I was. But first London. London was, for me, the home of the literary GIANTS. Shakespeare. Bacon. (mmmmmm bacon…oh sorry) Dafoe. Swift. Fielding. Webster. Milton. Sterne. And that’s not including the ‘modern writers’ such as Dickens, Austen, Yeats, Pound, Thomas, Auden, Elliot. God, just writing their names gives me shivers. And there I was. THERE. IN LONDON. Lyra was working nonstop but that was okay. I could get around by myself. It was a city. I was a city girl.

Boy. It was sure big. And confusing. WTF…where IS everything?

I rode busses in circles. I tried the tube. I took taxies and walked and walked and walked and got lost lost lost. I would just find a place and sit on a bench and marvel at how much it was NOT like the London I envisioned. Mostly cuz I was lost somewhere in a suburb. Sitting on a completely modern bus stop bench with my copy of Collected British Poets that I bought in an excess of enthusiasm from a second-hand store. It weighed about 10 pounds. And cost about the same.. I think I got ripped off. If there was a bus, I’ll guarantee you, I’d take the wrong one.

But whatever. I was in London. Sort of. I remember being driven past the Victoria & Albert Museum and gaping, just GAPING, at it because I recognized it. I tried to get off the bus but it was an express or something and I was swept along. By the time it stopped I was miles away. I tried to get back to it by walking, all to no avail. It was a huge one way street, going the wrong way, naturally. I did find the park. A BIG park with a statue. I stayed there most of the day just happy I was somewhere I’d heard of. It could have been Hyde Park. Or something. It was very pretty and green. I was afraid to leave it. It was only when I got hungry…I did this for 3 days in a row. Just trying to find something, anything that didn’t alarm me. I was so shy I couldnt open my mouth. I would freeze whenever I tried to talk to a Londoner.

‘Pardon me?’ I’d whisper. ‘Ummm…’ and they’d sweep past. Of course.

You should have seen me circling the British Museum like it was some dangerous animal. I eventually approached and was told they didn’t have a cloakroom and I couldn’t bring my, admittedly large, bag in with me. Nowhere to check it. but but but…really? Because of bombs or something. He said so. The guy with the charming accent at the door. So I went out again and happened upon Baker Street. Like Sherlock Holmes Baker St. I’ve never been a fan. Sorry. But it was a writer’s creation. That was kind of like seeing where Milton wrote or the Globe theatre district, or ANYTHING! Anything at all…so I walked up it. And down it. There was a hospital there I think. I remember cuz I wanted to kill myself on the front step of it. How depressing. To be in London and I was so inept I couldn’t even get in a museum. I sat down and started crying outside a falafel shop.

Then a miracle happened. The guy who owned the shop came out and sort of looked at me sideways and asked if I was okay. It was his chair I was crying in after all. So embarrassing. But the miracle was that this incredibly nice man told me I could leave my bag behind his counter and go to the museum. He told me there was an entrance not too far away and that they had the rough draft of Alice in Wonderland written in Lewis Carrolls OWN HAND on display under glass. This wonderful kind generous man gave me a cup of tea and a napkin to dry my tears and took my bag and told me he closed at 6pm so be back before then. And he didn’t even have an english accent. He was a Sikh. An East Indian. An angel. I think I ran through that museum I was so happy to see something. And I got back on time and I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t offer him money so I gave him my book. I was going to Eastern Europe, I told him. I couldn’t carry something that heavy with me. I wanted it to have a good home. And I think he gave it a good one, don’t you?

I think back on it and I could KICK myself. Still, I was jet lagged and OH I was so over excited and completely overawed. It was like London was a famous incredibly talented writer and I was Barbara Cartland. I spent 3 days feeling small and shy and then, just because of one mans kindness, it all was alright. I also discovered Harrods and Selfridges and the grocery stores?! and the restaurants…suddenly I could just waltz in any old place and eat or order a drink. Oh yes, very cosmopolitan, I was. I even bought a hat and went to the Theatre. Yes, I did.

But more on my travails, I mean travels, tomorrow. Tonight, I sleep. Happy in my bed and remembering to thank my lucky stars (or Whomever) that I got that visa to Poland.

Oh yes I did. NO one puts Baby in a corner.

The Razzie Award for Worst Movie of 1980 Something goes to….

I don’t usually make up stories because Mom and Dad called it lying. I was about 5 or 6 when I discovered fiction and to say I loved it is a gross understatement. I ADORED it. I wallowed and lurched and stumbled my way to The Greats. Soon, I was basking in Fiction. Luxuriating in Greatness. God, it was wonderful. Writers were my heroes. Reading my homage. Writing was so wonderful that I wanted to do it.

What a bummer.

Yes. Bummer. I was young and lacking a natural talent for anything. Regardless of what they say, perseverance does NOT pay off. It just gets you frustrated. And you grow to be super critical of yourself. Plus, I was around naturally talented people. I mean, these are famous people who became famous.

I went school with actors and the children of actors and singers. Should I drop a few names? No, I hate that. But I will just to illustrate why, for instance, I didn’t go in for singing. I went to elementary school with Michael Jackson. He became the most famous person I used to know. Singers are, generally speaking, nice and he was no exception. Really nice kid and he was famous at the time. Never seemed to know it. I went to school with Louise and Sherri Goffin whose nice, normal Mom was Carol King. This at the height of her fame and fortune. Carol King sang at my Jr. High graduation. But enough of that.

Yeah, singers are nice, but so are the actors I’ve known. Mind you they were all pretty much failures. Except for Radames. I was buddies with Radames Pera, who played Grasshopper. Poor kid had a bald head for that role so he got teased a lot. Yeah, even in Hollywood you’d get teased for a bald head. This was the 70’s, remember. The era of long, beautiful hair.

Anyway, I didn’t think much of actors. I’d watched them filming shows around Hollywood for so many years that it wasn’t new or interesting anymore. How many times can you watch William Conrad get out of a 1972 Chevy and walk into the building across the street before you start to despise acting. Cannon? Remember that show? It aired for 4 or 5 years or something. I could look it up but I still don’t give a shit. Car chases? Ho hum…the car peels around the corner. Someone yells ‘CUT!’ and the car hooks a u turn, drives around the corner and they do it again. And again. And again.

But that’s not what I’m writing about. I think what I want to illustrate, if anything, is that some things aren’t as desirable as you think they are. Some talents are quite a lot more admirable from a distance. Like acting. It’s an interesting job, a hard job I came to realize. But for me, it was yet one more thing for which I failed to exhibit a natural talent.

And it looks so easy.

I’ve done it, the acting ‘thing’ and I felt awful. Like a lying liar. Like people were snickering behind their hands and saying ‘Oh my! who TOLD her she could act?’ I thought it would be easy. Radames never said it was hard work. No one mentioned talent, drive or luck, the things I learned later, were essential components of being a successful actor. Terrible thing for someone as smart as me. Thinking something was going to be a breeze and…well. It brought out a side of me I didn’t like. The side that thinks if everyone would just STOP for a second and listen to me it would be better for everyone.

It’s embarrassing.

I found myself arguing with the director. Criticizing the actors. Correcting the lady who did costumes, searching out and offering valuable advice to the makeup man. I even stood by the catering truck too long and too often and defended Balkan style yogurt with the caterer. I just purely loved an argument. In fact if there ever was a natural talent that I could offer up,it would be arguing.

Not rancorous yelling. I mean persuasive, convincing argument.

You see, a good argument can bring out some great stories. That’s how you fish for a story. It’s the bait.

You have to start carefully or they’ll just walk away. So you say something nice. That’s easy. Like, for the director I said ” Who’s lame ass idea was it to hire actors as cheerleaders. Because I have to tell you, not one of those girls can cheer. Not one.”

He gave me a look, but I get those all the time. Even when I was 21 and hot I’d get those looks. The ones that say ‘Who the FUCK are you?” And ‘I can’t believe you just walked up to me and SAID that!” And “Look at the size of her knockers!”

He tried a frosty look but hell…I was IN this movie. I was about to be made to look foolish. When you’re 20 something it’s a BIG DEAL. I was tip toeing around embarrassment and I bloody well had friends that KNEW I was going to be in this movie. I’d called in sick to work. I bloody well drove to Downey. You may not know where Downey is. Shit, are you lucky!

I had to do something. Aside from being immortalized in a crap movie. How do you live that down? It’s not like its going away somewhere.There were still people who called Radames Grasshopper. People who should have known better. I knew I’d get drunk some night and say ‘I was in a movie. I played a cheerleader.” And they’ll get the movie. Friends do that. Cuz good friends always have a mean streak that they call a sense of humor. I have that. So do you, probably.

Anyway, I told him I was one of those actors who had never actually been a cheerleader. So, like, what now, Mr. Director. Gonna direct us? Because telling that guy with the big teeth and bad breath over there to tell us to “Cheer. get ’em to do a practice cheer behind the principals while we…blah blah blah.” Whatever, isn’t going to work. Where’s the second unit director? Here? No?

He acted shocked and got all screamy. Like he had bigger fish to fry. Which he didn’t because the principals were still in makeup. So grow up, asshole. (I didn’t say that.) Big Teeth was upset. I went over to the catering truck and ate yogurt. See, I grew up in Hollywood. None of those other ‘actors’ had. I’d already checked. Kansas, Indiana, Florida, Maryland, Texas. Bumfuck where ever. And no cheerleaders. Nada. Shit. I figured yogurt had more fucking culture.

I saw one of them trying to take charge. Like herding cats. Big teeth knew a pro when he saw one. By pro, I mean me. Someone who had been on movie sets. Which I had. Lots of them. So he sidled over and tried not to stare at my tits, all the while trying to sweet talk me into doing his job.

I was getting $40 for a whole day in Downey. I made more at Color Lab, where I worked as receptionist/secretary/ payroll clerk/girlfriend of president of the company’s son. Shit. I wasn’t going to say yes. Just yes. You’d better make me. Sweeten this deal. I didn’t even have to say it. I just stared over his shoulder at the cat herder who was getting hysterical.

So he and I went back to Mr. Bigshot and I told him ‘Look. Marion (casting director) hired these dummies based on looks. Including me. My sister, Liza, was a cheerleader, but I sat in the bleachers smoking pot until they kicked me out of Hollywood High School. I watched them. And I listened to those cheers, unfortunately. I even remember them. Sort of. So, where are we? I’m gonna need some dialogue. (which was a $500 minimum payout and he knew that) if I’m going to train these monkeys.’

He got screamy AND cheap. Swore he could find someone who knew a cheer. It would make a cat laugh. He fired me. Pretty funny, really. I was already in principal background scenes from the morning, where we stood around and looked daggers at a deaf and dumb girl (heroines sister) on her way to be raped in the gym. Honestly.

What a shit movie it was. I was’nt happy. Either way I was a winner though. I was out of the movie (YAY!) or I got $500 (YAY!)

Yeah, I knew where I stood. THAT’S why I stood there. Right in line with the camera. HAH! Fucking amatuer directors from back east. I eat them for breakfast.

So I made immediate tracks out of there. I was getting paid anyway. Hollywood is full of rules about that kind of thing. Unions and shit. Most of all, I knew that I was IN THOSE PRINCIPAL background scenes. Continuity would shit bricks if a 5’11” cheerleader mugging directly behind the actors suddenly vanished. Oh, yeah. I’d be back alright. Or they would re-shoot 1/2 a day.

I went for some good Mexican and drove past Downtown LA to Pasadena. There was a really authentic English pub near Whyte Ave. with amazing beer.

Naturally, when I got home Marion was all over my answering machine. Terrible mistake. Hot sun. Hasty words. All fixed. Come tomorrow at 7am.

Well, that’s just a big NO! I had a good job and I’m a bitch when people are rude. It’s a gift, really. So I deigned to call her back and reiterate what a huge dick The Bigshot was. And Big Teeth had bad breathe. And I was told one day. Just one day. I couldn’t call in sick again. (I could and would in a split second) and WHO was going to herd the cats? Turns out me. I got my dialogue. So that was okay. I graciously accepted. And that’s when the arguments really started.

For one thing Mr. Bigshot decided he was going to be an asshole to me. Which is never a good decsion. He complained that the pom poms made too much noise when we shook them. Fine. Girls,pom poms on the ground. We dont look like cheerleaders without the pom poms. Can’t we just hold the pom poms still and also cheer and stuff? I gave him my 1000 yard sniper stare. He stopped talking to me. Oh,sorry. I mean ‘directing’ me. So we did this cheer my sister and her tennis playing, non pot smoking friends used to do.

To the left, to the left,
to the left, right, left,
My back is aching, my belts too tight
My booties shaking from left to right
to the left, to the left, to the…

blah blah blah…I thought it was hilarious…sure to drive Mr. Bigshot around the bend, right? Nope. He loved it. (This was a spectacularly BAD movie) I even learned a real cheer when I agreed to come back for the second day! Ahhhhh…he was a twit, who ever he was. Say, can he sue me for calling him a twit? Maybe…but he was. And his crap movie won a Razzie Award for worst movie that year. I think it was worst movie ever made. And there I was. IN IT1

Anyway, after filming that cheer scene the lousy rotten creepazoid actually sidled over and told me he’d like me to be in the shower scene. The ubiquitous shower scene. Except this was a crap movie, so it was a cheerleader vs punk rock girls wet topless undie soaked fight to the death shower scene. I almost punched him in the face. Instead, I left. I was done. I don’t think I even collected a check on that movie.

No, it finished me for acting. Stick a fork in me. I was done. It was time I returned to my first love.

Arguing with people.

I shoulda been a lawyer, right?

So, years pass. I don’t think I ever got the name of the movie. Seriously. I forgot all about it. I remembered Linda Blair was in it. But the rest? Just Mr. Bigshot and Big Teeth with Bad Breathe, what smarmy jerks they were. That was all.

Then my friend called. ‘HEY, you’re in this movie! Up at the $2 movie house.’ Yeah, the place that all the drunks and homeless people go to get out of the rain. That place. And everyone went to see it. Except me. I still haven’t seen it. And I hope I never do. Actually I checked on…oh never mind. I found my bit part and watched what was left of it. I thought I did pretty good.

Yay?