peckham2paris

Blah Blah Blog

2010-07-26T19:52:00.000-07:00

i was just thinking about the absurdity of making BIG plans. right now, there is something about BIG plans that feels really cramped. on the other hand, my small plans to be near water at least once a week, to be outside everyday, to listen to birdsbugstreesleaveswindbarkslaughs in the park as i watch the sunsetmoonrise seems pretty large. eventually i'm gonna have to return to the land of big plans, but i hope, this time, to bring the small plans along for the adventure.

Peace from The Lise

Comma Man

2010-07-15T20:24:00.000-07:00

You will have to excuse my previous blog. I've gotten into this [bad?] introspective habit of being really heavy and analytical lately. I really ought to get a snapshot of myself pulling my underwear out of my ass or swanning out of a pubic bathroom with long ribbon of toilet paper stuck to my shoe to undermine the needless pathos. It's summertime fercrissake. In the mean time, perhaps this will do, sort of. While I am clearly showing off my new yogic powers (this is pretty much the sum of my accomplishments for the year 2010, thusfar) at least you can see how my undies might become lodged in the glutial fold in the first place.

So back to my gravitas. It's like I should end every sentence with ", man" as in. "It's been a rough year, man." Dju see it? OR "I don't know what's happened to me, man, I used to be so much fun." I snuck it in there in the middle - literary device alert - of the sentence [, man] And while I don't actually say "man" after a brief pause (as indicated by the comma,) it's definitely there, like the silent "h" in a lot of French words. Oh, how's this for heavy: "I've really got to work on not being so heavy" (silently) comma man. See how it Pepe Le Pew's me bigtime (silently)?

Moving along. I plan on blogging about tomatoes in the near future. I think it will be rather light and include a recipe for Gazpacho, man.

Compromises

2010-07-02T21:00:00.001-07:00

I was thinking about Love and all the bargains made between lovers. How awful to ask One to be less than their glorious Self to appease the insecurities of the Other; and the soul killing that happens when that demand is met. I don't think that is love. I met, briefly, one Beloved whose sole message to me, in a single kiss, was a plea to never, ever enter such a contract. The Messenger is gone but the Message has taken root. I think how cheaply I've sold the things that I treasure most about myself in order to be acceptably and safely lovable. I think I'd rather be alone the rest of my life than to enter in to another such arrangement.

Surely there are Other Ones whose fealty thrives on a daily renewal of freedom.

I'm just saying...

Om Back!

2010-06-22T04:28:00.000-07:00

Dear Reader (that would be me)

Everything changes, something is constant. I can't seem to remember my last post, when it was; I'll have to check. Any...I'm in an excruciating period of re-prioritizing my life and with that comes a not knowing that feels frightening. I'm trying to write as if no-one but me is reading this, which is very likely the case. So here goes. I've read about ego death so I'm familiar with the concept, in fact I've read accounts of this so-called death from a number of so-called adepts: Irina Tweedy, Hafiz, Mevlana, Gurumayi, Swami Muktananda and a few regular people, meaning they have not written any books and are known to few, but you know that in their own quiet u. So I'm now having the experience of this and It's - that's right It's with a capitol "I" or, is it capital "I?" And come to think of it where does the end quote go? Before the question mark, like so: "I"? or after as above. As all of this is playing out I'm noticing that I am frantically trying to distract myself from any form of present moment. Feels like I'm falling down a steep slope, everything saying "No, no no!" ("!"?) And then the Present Moment bursts in on me in the most peculiar ways at the oddest times, in really ordinary places. It's like being ambushed by timeless bliss.

Love Hurts, yeah yeah

2010-02-09T19:07:00.000-08:00

This blog started over three years ago with me dissing Michael Jackson's face [while he was still alive, mind you] to celebrating Earthsong which I still just love to bits, even though Lee thinks less of me for it. But this is not about Michael Jackson - who I am convinced has gone to a much kinder, safer place.

And so to Love. Love is crazy-making. Brutal. I just don't know how people do it. I've sort of walked to the edge of Love and gazed longingly at that deep reflection of Self. It makes me bonkers. You see, I'm Needy. I'm Needy like Sunday morning [but you would almost not spot it as I have perfected the art of betraying myself and deceiving you in the process.] So here I am in Love and I'm just watching myself and this big drama unfolding all around me. The Highs, the Lows [ah, the distracting elixir of drama], the flatness in between [horrible, horrible with nothing but a small timorous self.]

I had a dream that I was lying next to my lover in the green, green of Spring grass. I wanted nothing from this Beloved and and nothing was wanted from me; we were equally happy in this place of rest. I awoke smiling and sitting up. It was - I had the feeling that - I brought the dream into real life or real life pulled me into the dream. I was beautifully disoriented. But I had this sense that Neediness is slipping out the back door.

In this whole process I'm noticing that my whole operating system of cynical witticisms [OS Cougar Hiding Its Craftiness, or OS CHIC] seems to crash an awful lot. I find it difficult to know what to do when Identity fails me. On the one hand there is a feeling of recklessness and on the other the spectre of annihilation is something more than terrifying.

Life Haiku

2009-11-24T06:34:00.000-08:00

About two years ago Unseen Forces began divesting me of my material possessions and after the initial shock and the knee-jerk reaction to being materially denuded, I felt a natural freedom, a huge sigh of relief.

Life Haiku.

For example:

(Okay, Haiku is relative, so just keep in mind that I'm up to 70% reduced in some areas, I'll try to give a running estimation)

Wardrobe:

Running shoes/trainers x 1

Converse:

Chuck Taylors x 1

One Star Sequined loafers x 1

One Star slip-ons x 1

Boots x 3 (none of them practical for extreme winter weather, but they all rock and the black high heeled ones are really comfortable, I mean walk all day in them comfortable)

Heels x 8 (3 black, 2 brown, 1 pewter metalic, 1 ballet pink, 1 purple T-straps,)

Berks, gladiators, flipflops, peep toed sandles x 1 each

Blahnik mules x 1

Flats: 1 black, 1 aubergine

Loafers: are you kidding me? Okay, I have one pair of Todd's that I borrowed from my Mom

OK, shoes still need some work, but there are a total of twenty-something items of footwear in my closet; compared to the average woman of today we can safely say that in the foot wear department I am haiku-like.

Instead of listing items I'll just give linear measurements:

6 feet of rack space, ie, one double sized closet, and that is summer AND winter clothes and outer wear.

Drawers: 24 feet of loosely loaded drawers or two 5 drawer chests of drawers: T-shirts, sweaters, socks, underwear, sports wear, accessories, including handbags and 4 jaunty hats.

Books: 5 book boxes of beloved reads, including The Oxford Concise Dictionary of The English Language

Decorative: 5 boxes, including photos of friends and family and a 1930's small Italian chandelier

Art Collection: 1 painting, 5 prints, about 10 sculptures of various sizes, 5 drawings.

Office/Desk/Tax Returns: 2 orderly book boxes

Furniture: 1 full Tempurpedic mattress, bed and headboard, pair of bergere chaises with foot rest 1 antique side table and a mid-century console and lamp of the same vintage.

Electrical: video camera, digital camera, laptop, wireless microphone

Kitchen: set of All-Clad pots and pans, 2 Henkles knives and 2 boxes of assorted other kitcheny stuff.

Ummmm, that's it really.

Excluding the furniture, all of my worldly possessions* fit in 2 Suburban loads, and the rest can follow in a flatbed with the tailgate down.

*There are a few lingering items in London

Oh, and make-up, if you are a woman then you will really appreciate this:

Everything, everything, make-up brushes, hair-dryer, brushes combs, creams, band-aids, toothpaste, etc all in one box. One box, and not a big box, but a regular book box sized box. I got rid of all shades of red lipstick: there is not one shade of red that does not make me look older and I accept that there never will be. I now have 3 Mac Viva Glam lip glosses, one Viva Glam lipstick and one Rimmel lip pencil and Bert's Bees chap stick for home, office and handbag. Now that is Haiku in the lip department, just ask any lady.

Apart from the clothes and a few desk items it is all packed up an ready to go. I'm ready. Other loose ends are being tied up as I write. Or after I write.

I thought that was going to be funny, but it's not. It's not sad either. It just is interesting for me to see what I have, what I don't have, what I miss and what I don't miss.

Of one thing I am certain, I don't miss the dread of moving.

Life Haiku, by Lisa Prior

two Suburban loads

a bed, chairs, Viva the Glam

London lingering

more Haiku here at the Haiku Generator

http://www.everypoet.com/haiku/default.htm

For expert decluttering visit my friend Annie:

http://drdeclutterservices.com/Site/Welcome.html

The Will to Blog

2009-02-09T07:34:00.000-08:00

When I have work I blog. When I don't I don't. I just, you know, don't.

Untitled Sadness

2009-01-12T07:10:00.000-08:00

That's the statue behind the ICA, in between The Mall and Pall Mall in London. It commorates the Crimean War. There are British and Cossak soldiers and a plaque that does not say "This statue sponsored by Big Corporation."

I miss London. I miss my friends. I miss the weather. I miss the culture. I miss the dry humor. I miss the public transportation. I miss the tea. I miss interacting with strangers on busses, sidewalks, I miss sidewalks. Can you imagine that sidewalks. I miss walking for that matter. I miss the intelligence. I miss people who could give a fuck about granite countertops.

I miss public places that are actually used by the public. I miss parks that have tea rooms and walking paths and lovely gardens.

Come on Justin, Crimea River.

Poor me. Crimea River

I hate it when...

2008-11-17T09:22:00.000-08:00

I hate it when I have a really great idea and then I misplace it like sunglasses or car keys.

For example, I was heading down the I-35 at 70 m.p.h. to Sulphur, Oklahoma for my weekend yoga retreat when I finally punctured through one of the last remaining blocks on my comedy pilot. As I recall it was a brilliant piece of physical theater that neatly tied in with something in the cold opening. And because of its unarguable brilliance there was no need to write it down. No need, whatsoever. Especially not doing 70 miles per hour in rural Oklahoma, at dusk. I mean if I had had a wreck I would have found myself in a Stephen King novel, and who wants that, especially when you can have a yoga weekend instead? Comedy pilots don't get finished in Stephen King novels, in fact comedy in all its resplendent forms is banned in Stephen King novels. So if a purveyor of fine humor is found trespassing, even by (car) accident in a Stephen King novel the consequences are quite severe. And that's an understatement. Let's just say that Kathy Bates and her sledgehammer is just a warm up. Caan gets off lightly. Seriously, If Jack is all play and no work, where's the story in that? Shelly Duval shivering in a meat locker with a knife makes perfect sense because, a.) meat lockers are cold, and b.) you need a knife to hack off a shoulder of mutton. It's just not scarry, unless you are a vegan. But then you would react with outrage, not fear. You would sublimate all that white middle-class guilt that made you want to be a vegan in the first place into organizing a grassroots campaign. And you would drive to the protest that you and your college buddies organized in the Honda Civic Hybrid that your parents are making payments on, wearing the Simple Shoes your grandma bought you at the mall last summer. And there's just no story in that. None.

The Temp

2008-11-14T12:12:00.001-08:00

Well, I'm temping so I thought I would use this time wisely to update my blog. Seriously. I keep asking my superiors what to do next b/c anyone who knows me can attest to the fact that I am a bit of a whirling Dervish. I'm still working on the kindergarten basics of "sit still, keep your mouth shut and get your hands out of you panties." Add to that that I am a bit paranoid at times so when I am "not looking busy" I feel guilty and instead of guilt it looks like nervousness. This has its upside, though. I tend to achieve a lot, although I often head into that dark place known as burnout.

So my blog has been really lame recently. Apologies to all 8 of my regular readers. I had to resort to cutting and pasting emails from my friend Lee who provided all of the interesting content. He is much smarter-er than I. BUT! I am smart enough to get him. In fact my sitcom is based on our friendship, or was in its first version, but now with the re-write for the US version he has been written into a corner, sort of. Withall, he is my muse, which does not sound right as he is a bloke, so he is my man-muse.

I'm in full throttle on the final draft of my sitcom pilot, working title: Hotpants which means early AM wake ups (between 3-5am) to write before going to work at 8. My deadline (the deadline is for me) is 28 November which is also my birthday where I will be # years old. (My God it's come to that, I'm # years old and I don't want to tell you and I don't want to lie, although anyone who is reading this probably knows that I am # years old.) It is my present to me. And, my mentor will introducing me to "her people" in the new year. So I have to start working on my spec script right after that. I'm deadlining a beatsheet for the first of the year. Hands full.

Today was a 3AM day, which would not be too bad, except that I stayed up way late packing to go away for the weekend. I am overtired and headed for burnout which is good as I am going on a yoga retreat. This is in part to rest and relax and also to practice the many yoga, raw food, Esselen, Hoffman & etc. weekends that I will no doubt be doing when I am hired to write on big TV comedies. Just another example of what an over achiever I am, I'm practicing resting and relaxing. I plan to be a really good at this when I get that job.

And on that note

iDork 8.0

2008-09-17T04:35:00.000-07:00

Me to Lee:

I am listening to Earth Song again and secretly liking it even though I know I shouldn't (esp. with lyrics like "what about flowery fields?"

I can see the wind machine going and the fake fog, but no zombies. This is not Thriller, after all. I see little children in my minds eye (and my recollection of the Brits)

But now he is going "hoo" and then I think of that comedian...cant' remember...wotsit with ginger mane? Does that make me less of a dork if I imagine ginger guy with the wind machine???

Anyhow, I hate my life.

xlisa

Lee to Me:

maybe you would hate your life less if you weren't listening to earth song so much?

we had dire straights on in the shop today. so however much you hate your life, at least you're not me.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

f.f.s.

2008-09-05T04:56:00.000-07:00

Me:

I blogged you...with love

xlisa

Lee:

i'm never sayin "heh" to you again. paul anka? f.f.s. dead to me

Me:

o...kay

ffs? I don't know what this means.

I love imagining hearing you say "heh" what would it take lee, what would it take?

Paul Anka album, Rock Swings

he basically takes grunge songs and makes them into snappy little swing numbers, cf, Smells like TS, and Soundgarden's Black Hole Sun.

Sort of takes the wind out of their self-important, heroin addled sails. Kinda makes me say "heh" when I hear them.

On youtube with everything else.

Lee:

heh.

f.f.s. = for fuck's sake :0

i know that paul anka record backwards - it was playlisted in borders when i first started there, and was played on constant rotation alongside - and i'm not even shitting you - jamie cullum, alicia keyes, katie melua and david gray - for two weeks solid: tow of the worst weeks of my life. my neurons stopped firing, i couldn't pick things up.

xxx

Me:

Can I lift that line for my script, the not picking things up thing? I'm having a bit of writer's block. It's like funny has gone on a cruise to Cancun with a bunch of geriatric jews wearing orthopaedic footwear and high blood pressure med. (taking the meds, not wearing, that is)

Or at least will you keep corresponding with me so I can do this lazy blogging thing. I have no content at the moment.

ffs, I'm desperate.

PS: thanks for saying "heh" again

Heh

2008-09-03T12:03:00.000-07:00

Here are the last 25 downloads to my iPod:
Ratatat: Mirando
Port O'Brien: A Bird Flies By
Jeff Hanson: Nothing Would Matter At All
Paul Anka: Smells Like Teen Spirit
Shantal: Disco Partizani
Laurie Anderson: From The Air
Okkervil River: Plus Ones
Chet Baker: My Funny Valentine
Israel Kramakwiwo'ole: Somewhere Over The Rainbow/What a Wonderful World
K'naan: What's Hardcore
Plants and Animals: Bye Bye Bye
Thompson Twins: Hold Me Now (but without irony)
The Accidental: Knock Knock
Grateful Dead: Eyes of The World
Laurie Anderson: O Superman
Jane Siberry: Everything Reminds Me of My Dog
Serge Gainsbourgh & Jane Birkin: Je t'aime...mois non plus (see previous blog on Birkin)
Jeff Lewis: Heavy Heart
Au: rr Vs. D
Laurie Anderson: Language is a Virus
Cansei de Ser Sexy: Music Is My Hot Sex
Dr. Dog: Today

Actually I have two downloads left plus 25 cents to hook me into the next download card. So, I'm thinking Culture Club: Do You Really Want To Hurt Me? and something by Cliff Richards just to see if can make Lee say "heh" again in an email.

Dear Lee, Dear Lisa

2008-09-03T04:12:00.000-07:00

2 September, 2008 - From me to Lee:

Hey There,

just listening to The Cure (The Catarpillar) at work (yes, praise the Lord (PTL) I finally have a job, writing training manuals) and thinking LEE! Oops, now it's gone: EWF & The Emotions are singing "Let's Groove," so the moment's gone. Although, on second thought I can totally see you getting down to EWF. Three tracks ago I was listening to my dirty shameful secret song that I like: Michael Jackson's Earth Song. Hate me. Just hit me now. But I like it. It's got a good beat. Lyrics are crap, I have no argument with that. What? I'm just saying...No, you fuck off! I don't even know why I bothered to email.
x

3 September, 2008 - From Lee to me:

Heh, i don't know what i need to add to that, you pretty much covered everything : )

funny though, as i was listening to an old cure record (faith) a few days ago. it's one i probably haven't played for maybe 15 years, because it's one of the really doomy melodramatic ones that i overplayed when i was a doomy melodramatic 19 year old, to the point where i felt like i could probably never hear it again without being overcome by a tsunami of cringing. i was wrong. it's still a really good record. it just doesn't make me want to knot flowers into my hair and go drown in a river anymore.

unlike earth song.

xxx

Panty Hosebag

2008-08-27T04:49:00.001-07:00

I am currently working at a company where the women are REQUIRED to wear skirts AND pantyhose. It is a privately owned company so they can do this. The CEO thinks it gives a professional appearance. The guy in R&D who is in the next cubicle watches porn all day long. So I guess that is okay in terms of professional appearance. Whatever, I am in Oklahoma. The buckle of the bible belt. While this perv watches porn ALL DAY he is surrounded by photos of his wife and kids. Nice.

Now on to pantyhose. I've already blown through 2 pair, at four bucks a pop.

I HEART Ari

2008-08-15T07:07:00.000-07:00

I'm currently NetFlick-ing while I wait for the 2008 Fall Collection of TV Comedy to be rolled out. This is a good thing because I have been an American in Absentia for the last 12 years (mostly) and without a television aparatus of my very own for about 4 years, but by no means tv starved. More of a TV diet as reality shows, while quite appetising in day-old leftover cake kind of way, leave me feeling strung out and wanting to drink a lot of milk. That didn't come out right, what I mean is: the part of me that could sit down and eat a whole pie and get a big sugar rush only to crash really fast and then have to lie down in a queasy torpor with a distend belly likes reality TV. It's something I avoid. Anyhow, I am the last one to the Entourage party. And while the enthusiasm of many of my fellow countrymen and women is largely on the wane, mine is definitely on the wax. And I just love Ari Gold. I think I have an inner Ari Gold. Which is very weird, because he does not fall into the "write what you know" category, if you look at my life.

I was just Googled "Ari Gold." Did you know that there is a gay rapper of the same name? And also a 1970's Soul-looking musician? See if you can spot the difference.

I'm a TV Professional

2008-08-15T04:54:00.000-07:00

Okay, here is my assignment, broken down step-by-step for the next 8-12 months. I have to complete each step before I move on to the next step, like taking a standardized test with a number 2. pencil or playing Mario Brothers. Except that if you get really good at Mario Brothers and start to get a conceptual feel for what makes it a great game and how you could make it an even better game you might grow up to be veeery wealthy, maybe even a m/billionaire. If you ace the the Number 2. pencil thing you could be clerk or work for The State. Wahey! I was crap at that Number 2. pencil thing, by the way. BUT my circles were always filled in completely inside the lines, and the graphite was very evenly distributed and there was always a wonderful sheen that was mesmerizing, at least to me. But apparently it was not a beauty contest.

Lisa's Cosmic Fabulous Assignment for the next 10 to 12 months!

Step One:

Watch as much comedy TV as possible between working hours. Yes, that's right, watch TV. And not just any comedy, but top-rated comedy. Cable and network. And keep watching until I find a show that I really, really like.

Step Two:

Watch every episode of the show, you know, the show I really really like. Watch every episode, it's an assignment. And there's more: read every script of every show of the comedy show that I really, really like. I have to do this. Oh twist my arm.

Intermission: Before I go on to the next step...

In the last two years I have hardly watched any TV at all. In fact I have not owned a TV for about 4 years now. I have lived in places where there is a TV, it's not like I'm a Luddite, I mean here I am on the Internet and everything, and as I type my iTunes is pumping out Gainsbourg/Birkin singing Je T'aime Moi Non Plus which I downloaded from the iTunes store. Jane is having her orgasm right now. So it's hardly like I am a purist. Oh, okay Jane's done now and here's Amy Winehouse and she is going to go Back to Black. But back to Jane Birkin, before I get back to the thing about why I don't have a TV. This is a huge digression, in fact it is a digression from a digression which would make it a quadression or disordered thinking on my part. But here is the story. About 4 years ago, OK, it's not disordered thinking! Yeah! It's all related and cosmic why Jane Birkin has something to do with me not having had a TV for 4 years how come I wrote a sitcom.

My father died just over 4 years ago and I left London, where I had a TV but gave it away b/c I thought I was leaving London forever. I moved to Houston where I was born, but not raised. It was a decision made out of grief, and it was the right decision for the time, but despite my nascent connection to Texas we are just not a good fit. Anyhow, I was working for an interior designer while in Houston. But not just any interior designer, she is a designer to the Super Rich. Her biggest client was the wife of an oil baron. She was in the process of making atonement for the disaster of the house bought and decorated while the ink was still wet on her husbands newly made fortune. In short she was eager to prove that after 5 years of marriage and no longer eaking out an existence on $30k a year as an office worker, she was officially "Old Money." So this new and improved house was demonstrating that she had come a long way, baby. And I am all for any kind of profligate spending that benefits me. And just to put things into perspective the client had already been billed for about $750,000 for antiques, fabric, design fees, etc. and the job was only about half done. So I was at her tacky first house dropping off some fabric swatches or something and she had two miniature schnauzers, which I love. I asked her their names as I let them jump all over me because I love dogs and let them do that to me. Here is how the rest of the conversation worked out:

The Client: This one is called Joy and this one is called Birkin.

Lisa: Oh, as in Jane?

The Client: No, after the bag.

Lisa: (beat, then) The bag.

The Client: From Hermes (pronounces her-mees)

Lisa: (beat, then) Which is named for Jane. Jane Birkin.

The Client: Jane Birkin?

Lisa: Jane Birkin, like the Kelly bag is named for Grace...

At this point I am trying to remember that she is the Client, and I am not supposed laugh or make eyes of disbelief or any outward gestures, movements or utterances that express what I am thinking. If I hadn't already emptied my bladder in her tacky powder room I would have wet myself trying to hold this panoply of emotions in. So I change the subject.

Anyhow, The Client provided lots of material for my sitcom.

Step Four:

I've forgotten what step four is because I am still reeling from the memory of Lifestyles of the Rich and Stupid in Houston. Oh, okay write a new beat sheet for the spec. script

Step Five:

Write it.

Then I don't know what is next. But so far we have a sitcom inspired by Jane Birkin, no not Jane Birkin, but a handbag named after Jane Birkin because she wanted a (Grace) Kelly only bigger, so she could, now this is this is purely speculation on my part, put a few extra things in her bag for assignations with Serge. Maybe some dirty magazines and some vegetable oil.

Pick Your Rick

2008-08-08T14:37:00.000-07:00

Alors...

I was recently e-ntroduced to someone named Rick. It was one of those dodgy offers that people make but you can't turn down because you don't want to be rude and you are usually hoping that the person on the other side of the equation is going to ignore you and you can both just pretend like you never got the e-mail and life can just continue as it was.

Well, a friend of mine here in OK City has a friend who has a son who lives in LA and is trying to break in to show business. And I'm thinking "Okay, here we go." Because I already have my person in LA and she has not only broken in to show business, she has become so successful that she had to break out of show business. Anyhow "Rick" took courage and got in touch and sent his phone number. So my hand was forced and I called him. Turns out he is not a total moron. So we will be using one another as a resource to bounce ideas off of. Unless he thinks I'm a total moron. See I hate these things. Anyhow as I'm a visual person I need to have a face to go with the name "Rick." I have gathered an initial list of possibles.

Top Row: Rick Springfield, Rick Noreiga, Work of American-born British Architect Rick Mather, Rick Soloman with Pamela Anderson, Rick James, Rikki Lee Jones

Middle Row: Work by Tattoo artist Rick Lohm, Rick Zeron, Rick Jacobi (some business man in Galveston), Desi Arnez as Ricky Ricardo, Steely Dan's Rikki Don't Lose that Number.

Bottom Row: Rick Astley

Waxing

2008-07-30T21:36:00.000-07:00

When I call my friends in London, Aspen, LA or anywhere but here I always announce myself as follows: "Hi, it's your best friend in Oklahoma." Which is true and makes me feel really special. But in the case of the lady on the right she is my bestest, mostest friend among a constellation of superlative friends. Lisa Gunther who is just wrapping up a 22 month round the world TWICE Odyssey managed to squeeze in three days in The Homa. In London we are known as The Two Lisas and particular she is known as Lisa Om and I am know as Lisa Dog. The former because she often sports a big gold Om on a chain around her neck and is pretty cosmic, and the latter because she (meaning me) is a bona fide Dog Whisperer of some renown. So Lisa Om managed to sandwich a trip to Oklahoma City, (where progress is near), after Goa, Bang! Cock!, Bali, Australia, New Zealand, LA, OKC, LA and will be going back to London day after tomorrow but promises to be back in LA in the autumn before fucking off to Hawaii in December and then heading back to Goa after a brief Holiday stopover in Spain. Not that I'm jealous.

Anyhow, I'm sure you all got the news that there was an earthquake in LA yesterday. So after her eyelash extension appointment Lisa Om was in the back room havin

g a Brazilian when the 5.8 rocked the city. She thought the technician (I find it funny that a person removing ones nether hairs is called a technician. But then again, considering that they work in an area that might involve yeasty cultures I guess it sort of fits the bill and it sounds really euphamisticy) had fallen over. The Technician had fallen over, not Lisa Om. But then she saw the ceiling undulating as the "Technician" was yelling "Earthquake! Earthquake!" I did not hear how the story ended, because I'm sure that hundreds if not ten of thousands of Brazilians are performed each day in The City of Angels, so I just had this visual sequence of A, B, C and D list stars, some of them men (George Cluney), running out of treatment rooms all over the city from Santa Monica to Topanga Canyon covered in wax and muslin strips with all of their bits flapping in the wind. But then I thought it being LA they might have a speci

al "Earthquake Brazilian Emergency Towel" hanging on the back of the door, and that the Technician, before asking you to get naked and put your ankles behind your ears would do an airplane-like demo: "In the not so unlikely event that an earthquake should take place while I am farming your Beav-Hairs..."

What are they offering to Blow dry anyway?

So back to Janet's story...

2008-07-25T20:51:00.000-07:00

Just so you know, Janet is my biggest fan and my only regular reader. Which makes me like her more than I already do like her, if you know what I mean. If I like you already and then you like my writing and think I'm funny, it's like dousing the friendship with gasoline and dropping in a lit match. It is a "friendship accelerant" in the same way that a CD mix and a back rub are a sexual accellerant. Except in the friendship thing no one gets naked. Usually.

Anyhow. Janet, who has already lived nine lives and is currently carving out life number ten, was telling me how the intern in her office, a recent college graduate, said that he did not have a very big vocabulary. So Janet suggested they have a word of the day. Now keep in mind that Janet is in what should be her retirement years and is often turned out in a crisp linen shirt and khaki capri pants. So when you hear the rest of this story just hold tight to that image. Her first word of the day for the young Intern was "impeccable". The Intern did not know the meaning of "impeccable" so Janet provided him with the following definition: Impeccable means that something can no longer be divided. And just to be thorough Janet provided the etymology of "impeccable": the word derives from the time when we were still an agrairian society. When a grain had been pecked by domestic fowl to the point where it could no longer be pecked, ie the grain was too small to be further divided it was called "impeccable" from the latin root, pecare. God I love this woman. Because I make up fake words too, so when I told her the definition of cantilever was a guy who is pussy whipped she paused for about 3 seconds before laughing. Three seconds and no explaination required on my part. Janet then relayed the following story that was the intended subject of my previous blog but never got around to because I got distracted, and I will presently relay, but I need to give you some background information.

Janet's son Clark (which is a totally gay name by the way) is gay and lives in Paris. I KNOW. Let's not state the obvious. Anyhow he and his partner flew to California last weekend to take the matrimonial plunge. An old friend of the family from London had also flown in for the celebrations. She is a writer named Anne or something, and Janet keeps wanting to put me in touch with her, but London seems like a total Ghost of Christmas Past at this point which makes me really depressed because all of my London friends except one have utterly abandoned me. That's not true, one full friend has stayed in regular touch and about 4 friends have only half abandoned me because they call or e-mail occasionally. But the ones who have totally abandoned me (I seem to be getting farther and farther away from the Janet story, but I'll get there eventually) I hope they rot in one of the mildly uncomfortable Aligherian rings of hell but not one of the really bad ones, and only for about half and hour, 45 minutes tops, because I love them anyway and understand the whole out of site, OOM thing. So this London writer friend was talking about Sing-A-Long Sound of Music which you can see at The Prince of Wales Cinema off Leicester Sq. It's one of the things that I never got around to doing in the 12 years I lived in London and if I ever get back there I vow I might get around to it or not. But I will definitly look up Janet and Clark's friend Anne or Mary or Jane? I think it is Jane, because she was talking about the scene where Mother Superior calls Fraulein Maria a cunt face. That's right, a cunt face. Apparently it is in the scene where MS asks FM to be brought to her after FM has been in seclusion after running away from her governess post, or rather was chased off by that snooty, jealous Baroness beeyatch in the marvelous red dress, and MS is asking why FM has left and FM is saying she can't go back toThe Von Trapp's because she is all muddled up about being a nun in training and wanting to jump Christopher Plummer's Weiner Schnitzl while Hitler is anschlusing the Ostereich (that O should have an oomlaut over it, btw) And then Mother Superior says: "Maria, my child, what is it you can't face?" But you have to say it with that faux British accent that American movies substitute for any kind of foreign accent, except for French accents, we seem to at least take a stab at doing the French accent. So try it now with the faux British accent, say it aloud: Maria, my child, what is it you can't face?

Cunt wait to see it again.

What is it you can't face?

2008-07-22T20:10:00.000-07:00

My lovely friend Janet (see previous blog with the enthusiastic drinking fountain photo) is a source of knowledge. She is what the ad people call a connector/uber mensch.

Anyhow, she just saved me $222.29 in car repairs by recommending me to a different mechanic for a repair on Blue Rinse (see previous blogs on BR) and they said that there was nothing wrong with BR and they also told me that the last mechanic who replaced my alternator charged me double what they should have. The assholes are called TJ's Auto Repair on Brittain Road between Walker and Broadway. Don't go there. Go to Hoover's on 37th and Portland. Mr. Hoover rocks and chews a cigar and looks like he's a movie character of himself.

And by the way, I did not drop off the map. I just had several weeks of "unstructured time" which sounds kinda rock star, and would be if I were being unstructured anywhere in the Cyclades but I'm not, I'm in Oklahoma. And when I have too much unstructured time, it's impossible to get anything done: there are dishes not to do, beds not to make, hair not to wash. Between not doing laundry AND not folding it, I just have very little time left in which to not blog. So I'm back, sort of. I'm trying to create my own structure. As I type these words I ideally would be making quotation signs with my fingers when I type "unstructured time" except I'm typing, because when I say [hand quotes] unstructured time I mean unemployed. Which is not entirely true, it's just the work/not work ratio is a bit unbalanced. [God it feels good to blog; I'm brimming with ideas, I feel like a loose thread waiting to be pulled, or is that the extra cup of coffee? What-ev. must be the coffee or possibly a bit of hypomania or a bit of both because I just wrote "what-ev, and I'm still doing imaginary hand quotes. Fuck. And now I have pressured speech, except it's pressured typing, which makes me think it's hypomania, but that does not entirely rule out the coffee thing. ]

Okay so back to the Janet story.

No, Janet's gonna have to wait because I am really tired suddenly. But it's a great story and I will get at it tomorrow when I am well rested and not feeling like a BB pellet in a blender.

But here's a hint: aidieu, aidieu to yeuh and yeuh and yeuh!

Free At Last

2008-06-04T05:11:00.000-07:00

I'm definitely one of those people who is "a puff a way from a pack a day." You have no idea how much I have wanted to be smoke free and here I am 14 days away from my last puff. I quit successfully for a long, long time and then I dated A Smoker and not just any Smoker, but a Crazy Smoker (and by the way I'm a little nuts myself). This was about two years ago. Anyhow, our respective craziness was sort of like The Perfect Storm or some kind of Wall Street "synergy" where the sum of our crazy was greater than its parts. So this little liaison burned hard and fast before collapsing in to a black hole where the only thing that got out alive was my smoking habit.

So how did I do it? Well first of all a big thanks to Katherine of Explore Books in Aspen. I told her I did not want to quit smoking because I did not want to gain weight. This was about 15 years ago. Katherine looked me in the eyes and calmly said: "you know Lisa, it's not an either or situation." I have held on to that for 15 years, and when I did quit for a time, she was absolutely right, in fact I LOST weight. The other person I want to thank is my friend Barrie in OKC. About 6 months ago I began to really start trying to quit smoking. I would make it all day without a fag and then I'd have one. And the next day the same thing and then on the third or fourth day I would swan dive right back into the ashtray. This was going of day after day, week after week: It was torture. But Barrie said to me that every time I quit I am that much closer to staying quit. And let me tell you, I fucking held on to that too. Every time I "failed" at the end of the day, I'd repeat Barrie's words like a mantra

Now there were other people along the road who said just the opposite, to wit: that I would gain an average of X amount of pounds and that each time I quit and picked up a cigarette again that I was getting closer to never ever quitting. I'm glad I tuned in to Katherine and Barrie.

The next piece of the puzzle is to NEVER, EVER date a Smoker again. Especially the man version of crack cocaine, even if he is wrapped up in a pretty six-pack ripped package. It's still snogging an ashtray and there is nothing really appealing about that, except perhaps to another ashtray.

So how did it happen? I finally got it. I could not do it. At least not by myself. I started crying and said to a friend, I can't do this and I want so bad to be free from this slavery to Big Tobacco. She said to ask whatever version of God I believed in to help me. And I did. And four days later I was getting ready for bed and realized that I had not smoked one cigarette all day, and that I was ready to get into bed and turn out the light. And so I did.

This is the huge advantage of living in the buckle of the Bible Belt. People pray without shame. Anywhere. Even in Starbucks.

I Got Twisted

2008-05-08T08:40:00.000-07:00

The tornado sirens were going off as I left work yesterday. It was my last day at the boring temp job with really nice people and I had said my goodbyes and was already out the door, no time to turn back.

This is my first time to live in a tornado zone so I didn't know the protocol. I had left my cell phone at home so I thought I thought it best to just leg-it home. At this point it was just a bit gusty with a light mist, and I thought I could easily get to my cell phone where I would then be in a position to call someone and ask them what to do. I also had this vague notion, a sort of background program running in my head, like Linux or OSX Panther, that had installed the idea that because I live in a posh part of town we would not be having any tornadoes. I'm not sure what kind of deal the neighborhood struck up with the Entity that controls global storm systems. But, hey, they have their own police force that is separate from the Oklahoma City police force, so I kinda figured they had worked something out.

So I get in the car and turn on the radio and find a station that is following the storm like some kind of major sports event, using terminology that I did not understand, like some kind of major sports event. The announcer is giving a street-by-street commentary of where the storm is going, like some kind of major sports event. I get the feeling that worrying is something that I should be doing, so I start to worry and look out the car to see what the other drivers are doing, except all of a sudden it's raining so hard I can't really see the other drivers. I notice a few car-shaped blobs pulled to the side taking shelter under the over-passes. But they probably have cell phones. And you don't want to be pulled over on the side of the road without a cell phone. I mean, what's the point?

I decide I need to get off the freeway and as I do this I start listening to the radio again as opposed to just hearing it. My windscreen wipers are doing their thing at breakneck speed but it looks like I'm actually floating in water, and as my brain starts to tune in more to the sports announcer guy I get the sense that I am driving INTO the storm and not AWAY from it.

By now my legs are so tense I can hardly feel them so I pull into a gas station, switch off the car and run in to the little store, but when I get there the door is locked and the people on the inside are saying "We're closed." Or that's what I think they are saying because it's so windy and I'm being pelted with rain from every angle that I can't hear.

Then it dawns on me that if a twister were to pass this way it might not be a good idea to be loitering over a reservoir of 50,000 gallons of flammable liquids. But then again, at these gas prices it could be worth my while to stick around in case the opportunity to loot becomes available. I didn't think of that then, but in hindsight it could have worked in my favor. Although, come to think of it, it would have been foolish: I still had half a tank, so it would not have had enough of an up-side to warrant the risk.

Right. So back to the car through more pelting, blowing rain, that felt more like moving through currents of solid water; I had to cover my face to breathe. Now I'm back in the car and back to plan A with a vengeance. I need to A.) get home and B.) get my cell phone. So I crawl along the road watching torrents of water eddy and swirl down from the lawns and driveways into the gutters of the streets. There are a few flooded low spots on the road, but I am determined and gun my way through knowing that if I can just get my damned cell phone I'll be okay. I pass my mom's place that has a really swell underground tornado shelter, but my cell phone is not there, so I bravely press on the quarter mile to my place.

What is that sound? I'm in Chariots of Fire, Vangellis is playing in my head as I turn into the drive, park my car (see Blue Rinse Post) and sprint to the front door. Da-da-da-da-daaa-da, da-da-da-da-daaa, da-da-da-da-daaa-da, da-da-da-da-daaa. Pause. Daaaa-da-da-dada-da-da-dee-da...& etc. I burst through the door carried on a gust of wind and there it is, my cell phone. My God, I've got my cell phone! And there are four messages waiting for me like a faithful dog. FOUR messages!

But I am so pumped full of adrenaline that I can't feel the the triumph and relief that this little vignette promised me.

What Narcissism Means To Me

2008-05-07T08:19:00.000-07:00

This is actually a book of poetry by Tony Hoagland who teaches at The University of Houston. It's great stuff, really funny and smart.

But enough about Tony. I have noticed that images of me are finding their way into my blog with increasing regularity.

Sha-Toe

2008-05-07T05:08:00.000-07:00

Look! That's me in the Chateau Marmont. Soon I will be there, but not as a tourist who gets chastised for taking photos on the premises.

To that end I have just finished writing the cold opening (a cold opening which I can add to my show biz vocab, means that the dialogue starts while the opening credits are running) of my sitcom rewrite. I wrote the second half of the opening scene about 3 weeks ago, but since this effort is going to be my calling card for a new career, I was agonizing over those first crucial 10 seconds of dialogue.

My Script Goddess talked about how sitcoms require a bit of exposition by their very nature ("expo" another show biz word that still confuses me, but has something to do with showing and not telling) but she gave me a few techniques to slip them in under the radar. Alas, a sort of meta-understanding of expo helped me write the scene backwards.

Anyhow, the opening scene is now in her hands to make sure I am not making any big conceptual mistakes from the getgo.

Boring contract job ends today, but thankfully it has allowed me to become cashed up for a month. So I can first-draft this rewrite while looking for my next gig with ample breathing room.

I Want

2008-05-04T20:22:00.000-07:00

I want to sleep. I can't sleep because I have spent most of the weekend sleeping. And now I'm wide awake when I could be sleeping. And now I'm thinking when I could be sleeping.

I'm thinking about what I want. And I know what I want. I want the things that money can't buy. And these things are intangibles. They cost nothing, but are priceless. Beyond any Mona Lisa or A Thorn from The True Crown.

I want peace of mind. I want implacability. Steadfastness. Transcendence over whatever it is that is going out "out there". I want a feeling of the Universal, whatever that is, I want steadfastness, to stay on some course, any course that leads to something that is not found in any particular place or in any particular person or object. I want to be resolute in this pursuit and I want to be tolerant of anything or anyone that may appear to bar the way to a sense of the sacred. And I'm not talking about some particular brand of Jesus here. I'm talking about a sense of perfection that is rooted in the dissolution of expectation. In short, I want not to want. Not even to want to sleep, although it would be great that after writing this I could manage to get into bed and start sawing logs for the next 7 hours.

Blue Rinse Redux

2008-05-04T18:52:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure it's just the car that should be called Blue Rinse.

In an effort to Pimp My Ride by Pirelli-Girling on the hood I pulled a muscle in my left hip that necessitated a day off work in bed and several mg's of Ibuprofin.

I have a massage booked for next week.

Nuff said.

Road Kill

2008-04-22T04:08:00.000-07:00

Here are a couple of cars I did not get:

A 1973 BMW three wheel Bubble Car. [I know I was sort of blond then]

A 1950's Porsche.

Neither of these cars are mine.

What I got instead is a 1995 Chevrolet Beretta. I have yet to have myself photographed in or next to my new car. I'm not sure it fits my image. But then again, who am I maintaining my image for? Most of my friends like me. [Did I just write that? Sorry, It's very early and I did not get more than 5 hours sleep-YET managed to get up, meditate for 30 minutes and sit down at my computer to do this...where am I going with this? Oh, okay] Most of my friends like me. Hmmm.... [thinking...followed by more thinking and a quick ciggy break for yet more thinking]

Ok, it's like this, I think, because I just thought about it: ALL of my friends like me. But not everyone I know likes me, probably because I talk too much and too often. But I am working on that. I have been practicing The Art of Listening More Than Talking. Making the effort and all that, which is hard to do in a Conservative State. During an election year. But I did hear a recipe for breaded, deep fried pickles (or gherkins for my UK readers), which really surprised me. As a rule I avoid deep fried foods which tend to lead to anti-social bodily behaviors on my part. But I never knew that one could deep fry a pickle/gherkin, let alone roll it in a batter of flour and egg beforehand. It's not something that has ever occurred to me. I am actually kind of surprised that it would occur to anyone for that matter. Like the first guy to eat an oyster. Had to be very hungry and patient. That was at work. I then heard a bunch of other recipes for breaded, deep fried foods, but I was so lost in the contemplation of the Deep Fried Pickle that I could not really follow the rest of the conversation. Anyhow, nothing was as memorable as the DFP. But I think the fact that I Listened, and Did Not Give My Opinion made me more likable to the little group of people, or folks would be more appropriate than had I said "Gross" or "Bleccch" or "Oh my God Sweet Jesus"! Even though I was thinking that really loud in my head.

Blue Rinse

2008-04-21T05:54:00.000-07:00

Just back from Aspen where I met with what I have come to know as my Script Goddess. The new beat sheet (see previous blog for Show Biz Vocabulary that I am building, to which I can now add "Show Runner", who is the person who hires all the writers and basically, uh runs the show.) Anyhow my Script Goddess who was the "show runner" for Arrested Development has given me the green light on my new beat sheet. It's time to start the next rewrite on this thing. So...I think my blog will morph, temporarily to being more of a photo blog for a while as I am now engaged with The Beingness of Sitcom Writer. But I have to crank out one more proper blog as I now have a new car (see previous blogs for the adventures of car buying in OKC) where I will show you all of the cars I do NOT have, and the car I do have. It is not so much as a hotrod as a tepid rod. I call her Blue Rinse.

Russell Brand

2008-04-07T19:08:00.000-07:00

I just listened to British Comedian Russell Brand's podcast on BBC Radio. I had kind of heard of him in passing when he was doing Big Brother's Little Brother and I was flipping through the channels of an evening. But largely the extent of my familiarity with him was that he emerged from Kate Moss' house early one morning during one of her break-ups with Pete Dorghty, or Dourghtey, or Dorghtey. Fuck it. The junkie musician guy.

I was thinking that I would really enjoy Russell Brand a lot if Xanax figured into the equation.

But the Xanax is for him, not for me.

That's not a dig. It's just how I see it all working out for me.

You can download his podcasts here:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio/podcasts/brand/

James and The Blue Cat

2008-04-02T04:19:00.000-07:00

I have just received my very first comment on my blog!

This is a huge milestone in the world of Bloggery, or Blogdom, or Blogitaina, or something. The comment comes from James Henry, (not to be confused with Henry James who has been dead for a long time) no other than the publisher of:

www.jamesandthebluecat.blogspot.com

and one of the writers of, among many other things, The Green Wing, a British Sitcom that eclipses Scrubs by a long shot.

James is A Full Time Writer. He is not at an electronic accessories company in Oklahoma City clipping paths around images of...electronic thingys for a 1000 page catalog of, um thingys for Consumptive Americans. I don't mean consumptive in the sense of tuberculosis. Or do I? I think American Consumerism is a sort of disease, like alcoholism. Or tuberculosis, actually.

Anyhow, I have the first comment on my blog. A quantum leap and a 25% increase in my fanbase. That might be pushing it. He did not say he was a fan. He just recommended a podcast. So a 25% increase in my readership. A milestone.

I also heard from my friend Janet that she read the blog start to finish. She was telling me that she recently heard about Laughing Yoga (Mira Nair, of Monsoon Wedding made a documentary about this) and that she thought that my blog qualified. These little tidbits keep me going. Janet is my accountant who is mentioned in a previous blog. Hi Janet!

Another thing that is keeping me going, that has in fact injected some much appreciated oxygen into my writing is that I heard back from my Sitcom Mentor that my new outline, or Beat Sheet (part of the new show business vocabulary I am acquiring. So far I have Beat Sheet and Cold Opening, which means the opening credits are rolling as the episode starts...) Sorry. Tangent. She says that my new Beat Sheet is ready to go, but this time she called it a "treatment." So I now have 3 works. Here is what she said:

"Just read treatment. It's great. The story is solid, the characters are great, the details show a real writer's eye for detail."

I know we are meant to find appreciation and acceptance within. Like, "until you love yourself, you will not find love outside of yourself"...or something like that. But I am new to this show business stuff and I need outside approval from time to time. Besides, I don't want to come off as smug, like those self-loving people do.

I have to go now because the electrical thingys await me, but not before I select an image for this blog, which will be difficult as I can't think of any images that relate to this blog.

Okay, I found one. It's me with Chutney and Snort. Snort is nibbling on my hair. This was in January when I was last up in Aspen and went to a dogsled race in Redstone. And I am going to Aspen next week, where I will meet with my Sitcom Mentor, who also grew up in Aspen.

And now through a roundabout way the image relates to my blog, and Snort definitely approves of my hair, and so do I.

Beautiful

2008-03-31T04:47:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the simplest things are beautiful. Light, reflection, imperfection, the chance meeting of these things.

I guess I'm feeling all mystical today, which is nice. When good moods arrive out of the blue, meaning there is not some sort of "occasion" to feel good, it takes me quite by surprise. God, I want them to last, but they are like birds or blossoming trees. They do their thing and then shove off. No matter, they'll come again. See, I'm all mystical. Maybe it's because I just meditated and it was a good one, not one of those ones where I get to sit there watching my mind ping-pong from to-do lists, old conversations, imagined future conversations and more to-do lists. I like it when I'm like this, but somehow I feel its so soppy. Like not funny, and I feel so much pressure to be funny on my blog. Whatever. It's not like I have a huge fan base. But the readers I do have are pretty cool: Hi Lee, Hi Lisa, Hi Karyn.

O-K-L-A-H-O-M-A

2008-03-27T04:49:00.000-07:00

The wind does not sweep down the plain so much as blast. However I have been taking comfort in finding the little nooks and crannies that make this humble city cool, despite my strong dislike of wind and heat (which has yet to come but I am assured will be stifling). My guide is a native of OKC. We met randomly in a coffee house called The Red Cup, where there is live music every night of the week. My guide is a regular performer there. We have entered into wonderful barter: his recently deceased grandmother (no he's not giving me dead bodies) owned and operated an amazing vintage clothing store that has basically sat still for the last four or five years as her health deteriorated. I know, really sad. All those clothes and no one to wear them. Long, short, I was taken there on Saturday by my new best friend and given run of the place for about 2 or 3 hours. Not sure how long as time seemed to stand still. I filled up a large garbage bag (bin liner) of stuff, cool vintage stuff, I mean really cool vintage stuff that you can't find in thrift stores any more and have to pay over the top prices for in vintage boo-teeks, I'm talking primo goods mostly from the 30's, 4o's and 50's. Genius. But more on that later. So the exchange is a whole new wardrobe for me and a music video for him, which I will shoot and edit etc... I'm sure he has in mind to roll around on a beach with Helena Christensen. But I'm not sure she would be available on such short notice. Besides, as I mentioned earlier, or rather Rogers & Hammerstein mentioned much earlier, there are plains here. But no beaches.

Yet, if I could persuade HC to zip over to OKC and create a beach in the erstwhile Great Dustbowl I bet I could get at least another couple of bags of stuff. If anyone has a number for HC, do let me know and I'll give you a Gloria Swanson style silk peignoir!

In the meantime, I am fully ready for my close-up, Mr. deMille.

Intelligent Speech

2008-03-25T04:02:00.000-07:00

I must be the last one on the block to have discovered podcasting. I always think these things are going to be much more of a challenge than they are. iTunes makes it so easy, I just click a button. Who knew? My iPod is now replete with daily content from Radio 4. I love Radio 4. Their tagline is "Intelligent Speech" and NO ONE YELLS on any of their shows, except I think I may have heard Graham Norton hoot once. I realize that typing in all caps is the equivalent of yelling; have I been infected? Is there an antidote? Is it chronic?Even the debates show lovely English Restraint. Voices become a bit terse. BUT NO ONE YELLS! I am living in a place where people leave the TV on Fox News practically 24/7. The "break room" where I am temping has a big flat screen TV, that is supposed to be some kind of reward or perk for us workers. The TV is alternately on Fox News or some reality court show where a lot of yelling goes on. Feels more like punishment. Even the news moderators have a disconcerting cadence to their reports that seem to tell me how to feel about the news. Isn't that my job?

Okay, I sort of see that I am being a bit complain-y. I will endeavor to be more positive and upbeat. I am actually preparing a really cool blog on a vintage clothing safari that I recently went on. With oodles of pictures.

In the meantime if you would like intelligent speech visit:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio/podcasts/directory

Buy 1 Get 1 Free

2008-03-24T04:12:00.000-07:00

If you are a Roman this deal is for you. Hurry while it lasts.

Okay, I may have offended some of you, many of you, in fact, but I just couldn't pass up an opportunity like this.

Let me say that I truly respect all faiths and I do love what Jesus stands for. Beautiful teachings that are meaningful and universal. But I find myself asking the question, WWJD? Somehow, I don't think this is what He had in mind.

Vive La France

2008-03-21T09:33:00.000-07:00

"You need to dress for your own age," said an unsolicited voice.

"Well how old do you think I am?", I replied.

An age was surmised to which I triumphantly replied: "Ha, I'm actually 6 years older! What do you think of me now?"

Here is what I am wearing: skinny jeans, a teal American Apparel t-shirt, a vintage Tyrolean blazer (I have the matching skirt) a vintage cream belt, a wool shally scarf that my Mom wore in the 80's by Echo, and a pair of sparkly silver Converse One-Stars from Tarzhey. (For more on my Vintage Tyrolean Blazer please watch the video on the right, called Weird Plankton.)

Now I need to point out that the entirety of this conversation took place inside my head. It did not get there on its own. It was planted by those infuriating spreads in magazines entitled "Dressing for Your Age." with visual pigeon holes that you are presumably supposed to shoe-horn yourself into depending on what decade block you happen to be cruising through, eg 20's, 30's 40's and 50's. What will I do when I am in my 60's. No box is offered for that decade. Do they expect me to go naked? Maybe they assume that I won't take any interest in my appearance when I'm 60.

They would not try and pull that shit in France, whoever "they" are. The women in France would beget a riot of soixante-huit-ean proportions (I am so cultured and cosmo, don't "They" know I can make my own wardrobe decisions? I can misspell en deux langues, that's two languages to you, you not so cosmo Cosmopolitan Magazine editors.)

The Feminine in France is revered and celebrated throughout its trajectory. When I was at the wedding of my French friend Astrid in 2005 I noticed many woman d'un certain age in backless, sleeveless ensembles with rather daring decolletages. And flirting with and being flirted at by men of all ages. These ladies bathe in their femininity, and the blokes queue up in breathless anticipation of kissing their hands. That is what I am aiming for. To feel delight in how I look at any age and to celebrate and package myself in my own way, flappy skin and an all. Most French women don't go in for plastic surgery; they don't have to because in France just having tits is considered fabulous enough.

Funny that this conversation never took place when I was living in London. I refuse to conform to some arbitrary notion of how I should dress, even if that conversation started in my head. But I've seen the disapproving looks.

And yes, I am wearing THESE shoes with THOSE tights.

Showbiz Suburbia

2008-03-18T05:36:00.000-07:00

Here is a brief outline of My Life In Show Business:

about a year and a half ago I wrote a sitcom, or the beginnings of a sitcom. It was more of an idea on a couple of sheets of paper. By June of 2006 I had an Oscar winning producer who loved the idea and started helping me develop the script. By the end of the summer the first draft of the script was finished, but so were my funds. I returned to the good old USA to make some more money and to film a pilot demo. By January 2007 I was back in London and had meeting with the producer who liked the pilot demo. In fact she said she was surprised and delighted at how well it turned out. She then set up a meeting with a director. In February me and the director met up at The Metropolitan in Westbourn Grove. It was a sort of professional blind date. You show me yours, I'll show you mine. The director liked what he saw and wanted to direct the show, with the caveat that he did the casting. (I had hoped that I could play the lead character up to that point, but really, I have no acting experience, unless you count a lifetime of "acting as if" as experience, which does not really translate well on a resume.) I then reworked the script and the delighted producer said she wanted me to be lead writer, so far she had me earmarked as creator. Encouraged and now myself delighted I contacted a BAFTA (US equivalent of Emmy) winning writer who also loved the script and the pilot demo and wanted to be involved. Next thing I know I am out of money again. Big Time. Then the director got a sweet gig on a mini-series with big name stars and was out of the loop for a while. The producer cut me loose and I ended up back in the States wondering what happened to my dreams. My friends in the business said this was par for the course. But I just assumed that things would go like this:

1. Write script

2. Get 2 time Academy Award winning producer

3. Get director

4. Get BAFTA Award winning co-writer

5. Make TV show

6. Get famous

7. Field offers from Hollywood and the Beeb

8. Count money

9. Go to Cannes

10. Get free stuff

Right?

So I got to step four. Only 6 more steps to go. Or do I have to star over?

I have started over in a way. I am now working on a third draft of the script with the help of a seasoned Hollywood writer/producer who is the big sister of a childhood friend. She is mentoring me and helping me restructure the story. As a friend. Which feels pretty good. No promises, no pressure. Just goodwill. She says I have "a talent that cannot be learned or bought." It's enough to keep me going. More than enough, really.

Clearly I am not ready for The Big Time, but I am doing my creative press-ups to get in maximum mental and creative shape. I feel like I am training for the Hollywood Olympics, and I'm going for gold.

Meanwhile I have a friggin' day job and have to get up at 4:30am so that I can write. But that makes me like Nadia Comaneci, but without the specter of being bitch-slapped by the USS of R if I take the silver. But not so fast. I am stuck in Oklahoma City so that is my personal specter. Hooray for OKC. I am writing for my life.

If I have made to the suburbs of show business, Downtown can't be far away. Sure there will be traffic jams, a bit of gridlock, toll bridges to cross before I reach the Manhattan of my dreams.

Damn the torpedoes! Full speed ahead!

I Am Sophistihickated

2008-03-14T18:59:00.000-07:00

"I could really eat some brisket," said my friend Connie.

Now that is not a comment you hear just anywhere. It is most often heard in the Southern States of the US of A. Oklahoma is in the Southwest, but it has a bit of a Southern twang about it. Part cowboy, part mid-west. It's hard to explain unless you are here.

Brisket, for my UK audience is a skirt steak that is slowly roasted. Slowly because this particular cut of beef is very stringy and chewy if not cooked slowly over a period of at least a day. My mom uses Liquid Smoke to give it a sort of hickory flavor. Others use the mesquite version. Mostly Texans, though. When cooked properly brisket melts in your mouth and is super tender. It is, what I call a "hick" food. But just because you eat or even like brisket does not make you a hick. But it does perhaps point to one's hickey roots, as in the case of my family. We are about 2-3 generations away from hick. (My paternal great-grandfather was a cowboy and his wife was at one time the Sheriff of Johnson County, Wyoming while the men-folk were off fighting Indians in the Powder River War.) We are now mostly edumacated people.

As for Connie, I don't know about her hick lineage. She may be the granddaughter of the lost Tatiana for all I know. She has a couple of higher education degrees, has in fact just received a half million dollar grant, which she penned herself to create housing for HIV+ people. Hicks usually don't like "queers" although some queers like brisket, but they might choose to call brisket "pot au feu."

And then there is the whole Jewish side of the brisket. They are not hicks. I think Judaism, by its very nature precludes hickieness. Yet I have met some pretty hickey Jews in Texas.

So what does that make us, those descendants of hicks who are all lettered up? I believe it makes us sophistihicks. We are sophitihickcated.

YouTube

2008-03-14T04:22:00.000-07:00

Try as I might, I can't seem to get the next video to compress properly. I have tried all sorts of combinations. Things like big endians and little endians. MPGs, dot mov's. I am awash in a sea of undecipherable acronyms. The first one, to the right, Weird Plankton was sort of a tease. Like free dope from a drug dealer to get me hooked. Now I'm having to pay.

I'm not sure I like the shift in the balance of power.

That's So Ironical

2008-03-11T18:35:00.000-07:00

If I hear the misuse of this word one more time I think I'm going to scream. In the past I took umbrage when British people said that Americans don't understand irony. But now I am in complete agreement. My mistake was in taking it personally and not recognizing that I am one of the exceptions to that generalization.

It does not mean: funny, coincidental, surprising, although it may contain those elements. And using the word incorrectly defeats the purpose of trying to make yourself sound smarterer.

*please note that this image is in no way related to the subject of this post.

Overshooting The Mark

2008-03-09T11:09:00.000-07:00

Or maybe overachievement? I'm not really sure.

Anyhow, when I discovered this small 20th Century Oasis I thought: "life is full of surprises." I must have been in a good mood, because normally an unexpected burst of water directed at my face elicits a different response from me, to wit: "motherfucker" or something comparable that demonstrates my good breeding.

Speaking of surprises, I just had another one: about 4 years ago I got a letter from the Internal Revenue Service requesting that I pay them $53K. I did what any normal person would do, I stuck the envelope in the drawer and got on with LIFE! Eventually the persistence of memory was just too loud to be ignored and my head was feeling like Daliwood.

I decided I would try and do what grown-ups do, now that I am recognizing that I am one, and have been one for a while now, and the long and short of it is that I only owe the IRS $4k and change. I could have kissed my accountant. But she is a grown up girl, what I believe is know as a woman. She would never put an envelope like that in the drawer. I feel like I deserve some sort of award for being responsible. And I guess I got it. Thanks Sam.

Lisa's Hair Chalet

2008-03-06T04:08:00.001-08:00

This remindes me that I need to get a hair cut. I don't feel reassured by the fact that this establishment has my name. And its not a chalet. It's a shop front on Main Steet in suburban Oklahoma City. Which is not Switzerland.

The Stockholm Syndrome

2008-03-05T04:15:00.000-08:00

Day 235 of my captivity. Oklahoma City is my captor, and I am beginning to like being here. Somewhat. Life here is slow, I don’t have to be cool, in fact I am the coolest person I know here. But that's probably because I don't get out much. Yet, I am queen of cool. I don’t like that. There is no one to immitate or emmulate. I don’t want to get used to this, but for now it's perfect. The people are nice. I have a new job resizing photographs for a 1000 page catalogue of electronic components. Everything from speakers to little flibdob thingys. I create paths around each object delete the background and convert the images to eps files and CMYK color. If I were still in London I would have written colour. I miss London. I admit I am lonely here.

But Back to The Stockhom Syndrome. I was thinking about having a macchiato. A decaf macchiato. Has coffee become a sort of captor if I am having decaf? I wonder. I did not like coffee when I first tried it. It was bitter and made me buzzy. But now I have found decaf. And I look forward to its company. Whether I am in London or Oklahoma City I seek out Starbucks and order decaf.

Crack 'n Go

2008-02-23T12:14:00.001-08:00

I'm usually a pretty proactive person. I like big complex projects that I can rub my brain up against. But when it comes to filling up the tank, I'm rather passive. I usually wait 'till the orange light comes on. And that can be anywhere.

So I'm in an unfamiliar part of town. The pay-at-the pump thingy was not working (maybe this should have been clue, I dunno) so I saunter into the shop to pay for my gas, and while I am waiting I have the opportunity to look around at what's on offer. I can shop anywhere. It's what I'm good at.

As my eyes rove over the myriad selections I suddenly hook up a bunch of visual dots:

1. Pipe screens, on the left:
2. Small zip-lock baggies, in the center;
3. Razor blades, on the right.

Hmmm...

Perhaps this establishment caters to older pipe-smoking gentlemen. The kind who like to save and organize small items such as buttons or pieces of string. Charming and endearing old men who use ivory handled Old-Skool shavers.

What I Have Discovered About Myself In The Process of Trying To Buy a Car

2008-02-11T14:05:00.000-08:00

What I have discovered about myself in the process of buying a car is that there are three distinct voices in my head that want to “help” me.

[Yes, I am bonkers but not in THAT way. My pathology makes the tiniest of blips on the clinical radar.]

The Voices are:
Manicgirl:

[you have to say it really fast], Manicgirl does not have time to give herself a proper name, which is a good thing because she is lacking in any form of inner censor and would probably choose something naff like Roxie. Her interests are: [much] younger men, talking incessantly, brainstorming, accessorising, smoking, shopping, exclaimation points!!! and fender-benders.

Penelope:

Arch-martyr Penny chose her Homerian name herself, as she strongly identfies with long-suffering regal heroines . Her interests are: hyper-vigilence, ruminating, predicting negative outcomes and sighing audibly and saying "Nothing..." when asked what is wrong.

Helvetica:

Named for the country from which the type-face takes its name, Helly tries not to get too involved in Pen & MG's dramas. Her interests are: reading, writing, film, photography, contemporary art and culture, yoga, coffee houses, giggs.

Alas, Manicgirl has found a car. She is very action oriented (but notsogood on R&D), and while driving around smoking and drinking a quadrupal latte with an extra shot happened upon the PERFECT vehicle to suit her transportation needs:

The tag price is only $900.00 for this 1973 beauty. The fact that the sign in the window reads "As is" and "Runs Good" do not arouse any uneasiness in Manicgirl that the average consumer might feel. She's got 900 bucks and is ready to to close. Of special interest and amusement to her is how the car runs. The columnar gear shift is sooooo retro, and when put into D for Drive there is a momentary polter before the gears actually engage followed by a rather sporty lurch. MG finds this hysterical. "Perfect" she says, "I'll take it."

But not so fast: Penelope is NOT HAPPY, which is par for the course for her, but she bypasses sighing loudly to get her say in before it is too late. Penny likes that it is a Merc, but not THAT Merc. Besides, she thinks one ought not to drive oneself if one can help it. She wants this:

A Lincoln Town Car with driver.

Helvetica is assimilating these two very different views. Ideally Helly prefers public transportation (see previous blog, Leaving The Big Smoke) but under the circumstances she knows that living in Oklahoma City without a car is not really viable. So, if she must get a car then she would like something along the lines of this:

This is an electric car made in the UK. Great lines, easy on the Earth, fully pimpable, practically fits in your handbag. http://www.goingreen.co.uk/store/content/gwiz/ And you can order it online, and the postman will bring a big box to your frontdoor. No congestion charge if you live in London, which is a huge bonus.

And it is soooo quiet. Like, really you would only hear it if it rolled over an empty Evian bottle or some other thing in the road like a pedestrian who didn't hear you coming.

Ferdydurke

2007-11-12T18:33:00.000-08:00

Don't ask me to pronounce it. But it's what I am currently reading.
Ferdydurke by Witold Gombrowicz

Follows is the opening paragraph:

1. Abduction

Tuesday morning I awoke at that pale and lifeless hour when night is almost gone but dawn has not yet come into its own. Awakened suddenly, I wanted to take a taxi and dash to the railroad station, thinking I was due to leave, when, in the next minute, I realized to my chagrin that no train was waiting for me at the station, that no hour had stuck. I lay in the murky light while my body, unbearably frightened, crushed my spirit with fear, and my spirit crushed my body, whose tiniest fibers cringed in apprehension that nothing would ever happen, nothing ever change, that nothing would ever come to pass, and whatever I undertook, nothing, but nothing, would ever come of it. It was the dread of nonexistence, the terror of extinction, it was the angst of nonlife, the fear of unreality, a biological scream of all my cells in the face of an inner disintegration when all would be blown to pieces and scattered to the winds. It was the fear of unseemly pettiness and mediocrity, the fright of distraction, panic at fragmentation, the dread of rape from within and of rape that was threatening me from without-but most important, there was something that I would call a sense of inner, intermolecular mockery and derision, an inbred superlaugh of my bodily parts and the analogous parts of my spirit, all running wild.

###

Okay, it is passages like these that make me want to write and also dread to write. See, even that sounds crap, it came out all caveman, I am starstruck by a dead writer. He just sort up sums it up there...the angst of nonlife...inner, intermolecular mockery...Well, all of it really. And that is in translation. It makes me want to become fluent in Polish in the same way that Heidegger makes me want to become fluent in German. Ain't gonna happen, but its the thought that counts, right? Inspired and intimidated.

saturday moring in la

2007-11-06T10:16:00.000-08:00

3rd November 2007 8am
I'm drinking a 5 dollar coffee by the pool @ The Standard on Sunset and Sweetzer. The ashtray is electric blue and sits on a zinc white table, which in turn sits on an acreage of electric blue AstroTurf. The maid, in a Pepto pink uniform, partially covered by a cheap navy blue windbreaker is vacuuming the AstroTurf. The vacuum is mostly putty colored and has an electric blue base and power cord which is plugged in to an impossibly long and infinitely kinked orange extension cord . The other worker, a man, is wearing the gas station attendant-like Standard uniform. Navy blue cotton Dickie's with a pale blue short sleeved shirt with soft navy vertical stripes. He is changing the butane canisters in the poolside heaters. In the pool are two clear pink plastic inner tubes. The water is perfectly still. The morning fog has yet to burn off and the towering palms and neighboring buildings look like awakening specters.

I don't know why but this weird combination, cheap windbreaker and all is making me really happy.

leaving the big smoke

2007-10-27T07:11:00.000-07:00

Due to unforeseen circumstances I find myself in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. And after nearly 12 years of being accustomed to having a Big Red Limo at my disposal 24/7/365 in London, I now find myself relegated to having to provide my own transportation, like some sort of regular person. The indignity does not stop there, however; I am currently living in my mother’s house, which at [##] is increasing the burden of humiliation that is mine to carry at this particular point in time. I find myself saying things like, “Mom, can I borrow the car?” Which will, no doubt, in time lead to getting caught making out on the sofa.

Here is how I try NOT to imagine it will go down: I will meet a Hot Guy and we will have “chemistry”. After a few coffees out, a movie and some phone calls we will go to a gig and engage in the Devil’s sport of dancing [OKC is in The Bible Belt] which in turn will lead to the following verbal transaction:

HG: want to come back to mine?

Me: ummm…

HG: or we could go to yours if you prefer…

Me: ermmmm…

CUT TO: Close-up of my alarmed face as I imagine how that would work out, then

FADE OUT AND UP TO:

NIGHT, INTERIOR: Camera pans across the darkened interior of my mother’s well-appointed home. Me and HG are locked in a clinch on The Celery Green Silk Sofa, The Needlepoint Pillows are on the floor and my shirt and bra are in a careless pile next to the Scalamandre Covered Louis XV Fauteuil. HG’s shirt is unbuttoned to the waist. The camera slowly zooms in on me and HG.

Me: mmmmschlurpahhh

HG: mfwgggrrrrr

Me; ooooohhh

HG: schlopmfwaaagahhh

From another place in the house the sound of a footstep is heard and the camera
CUTS TO:

The shadow of a be-robed woman slowly descending the stairs in the dark

Mom: [VO] Lovebug…? Darling…? Is that you...????

Here we do not fade to black. We CUT to BLACK quickly, quicklyquicklyquickly, because I don’t even want to go there or, go back there because there I have been before. Different house, different city but same Sofa, Pillows and Chair with a Fancy French Name:

To wit:

Ian in 6th Grade
Brad in 7th Grade
Lorenzo in 8th Grade
Ivan, Summer Break, Junior Year, College
Dietrich, Christmas Break, Senior Year College

Gentle Reader, I have the Gestalt on this scenario, good and proper. Let me enlighten you. My mother, who I love with all my heart probably more than anyone else in the world in fact, persists in referring to older divorced couples who are co-habitating as being “shacked-up.”

I need to find my own place, but before that can happen I have to buy a car.

Where to start?

2007-10-18T20:47:00.000-07:00

Here is a list of things I have been thinking about writing but not writing:

First, a trek to Aspen with my four-years' dead dog Pigeon's cremated ashes to drop in our fave spot up Hunter Creek, where we used to swim and hike 12 years ago;

Trying to manifest a 70's Mercedes SL for my trip to LA;

But manifesting a rusted out '71 380CD instead.

Trying to de-manifest said Merc;

Starting my second [unfinished] novel to avoid rewriting my sitcom for the US market;

The pleasure of reading Malraux's Anti-memoirs aloud to myself [I'm not as pompous as that makes me sound, I'm just weird]

Madeleine Goes To Aspen Where She Meets Ötzi The Iceman

2007-08-18T08:53:00.000-07:00

Aspen is surreal. I grew up here but I have never become inured to the whole Famous People thing.

Like waiting in line at Carl's Pharmacy for a prescription to be filled with Stephen Hawking,

or being asked by Tom Cruise and Emilio Estevez where the cool parties are on New Year's Eve the year after Repo Man came out. For example.

I see Famous People daily in London, but it is a roomy city. Perhaps, in Aspen, because it's such a small village there is an uncomfortable intimacy when The Illuminati and The Glitterati rock-up in their Lear jets and then start doing things we normal people do.

So, I'm here in Aspen for a 3-week visit and the climate is very dry. Aspen is, in fact classified as an alpine desert, and I have forgotten to pack my face creams. It's the middle of day 1 and I already need to get my hands on some Weleda products, namely Iris Day Cream and the über emollient Skin Food to lock in the moisturizing benefits of the IDC.

Rents are very high in Aspen and a lot of businesses don't make it. So year-in and year-out there is a constant turnover. Not a big problem if you live here full-time or visit frequently. But nothing is where it used to be since I moved to The Big Smoke 12 years ago, except for Carl's Pharmacy, which had already been here for 14 years when we arrived in '73. And Carl's has EVERYTHING, don't let the name fool you. And because its Aspen they even have caviar in their little grocery section. But they are sold out of my Weleda products, and nothing else will do. I know what I am talking about. So I am thinking I need a health food store, right? So I'm schlepping all over Aspen looking for places that do not exist. Prada is now in what used to be Andre's where we went for Sunday Brunch if we weren't going to Arthur's, the original one, before the Chinese people bought it. Dior, Gucci & Vuitton are where Poppycock's use to be before it moved to The Aspen Square where Scandinavian Design was after it moved from the place next door to The Epicure, but after the Epicure closed and the first Pour La France opened before moving next door and later became Farfalle, but now seems to be some sort of Asian-fusion place. The Cantina is STILL in the old Epicure spot from 12 years ago acting as North Star for my Ullysian Face Cream Adventure, thank God.

But back to my face. My skin is starting to feel tight. I can't see my face, so all I have to go on are the sensations emanating from behind the mask [hahahaha]. And I think: "This must be what Ötzi the Iceman, [the early man-dude some trekkers stumbled across in 1991 on a glacier somewhere between Italy and Austria] would have felt had he lived to see his discovery.

But then.

I see this lady! She has Purpose! She looks like She Knows Where She Is Going! And she even Looks Familiar! Aha! A longtime local, me thinks! My tightened hide relaxes in a Pavlovian anticipatory placebo response. So I make a bee-line for her. She clocks my moves, quickens her pace and ups her Purpose. But I friggin’ need to exfoliate, re-hydrate and lock in the goddamn moisture. I am hemorrhaging bodily liquids via my cutaneous and subcutaneous layers at an alarming rate. And whether she knows it or not she has been sent to me as a Guide from The Archangel of Youthful Dewy Skin, and I am not prepared to wait on the side of this [alpine] desert road for another opportunity like this to pass by:

Me: Excuse me, excuse me...do you...[woman ignores me, so I speak up and add a tone of Authority] Pardon me, would you happen to know where the health food store is...?

Woman: I'm sorry...?

Me: A health food store or, like, an organic spa that sells Weleda or Dr. Hauschka products...I need to get some moisturizer...its so dry here, an Alpine Desert I'm told. [Beat, then] I feel reptilian...

Woman: [Tersely] I can't help you, I'm visiting myself.

Me: [I pause and consider woman] Are you Madeleine Albright?

Woman: Yes.

Me: Oh. [Beat, then] Does your skin feel dry?

Avadhuts & Me

2007-07-23T13:36:00.000-07:00

There is a class of being in India called an Avadhut, a kind of hyper-enlightened person that roams free living off alms. These singularities appear to be, on the mild end of the spectrum, slightly eccentric, and on the other end, just plain nuts.

About four years ago, before I had ever heard of Avadhuts, I was in Waterloo Station at the Costa Coffee waiting for a friend. As I was nursing my latte and enjoying the pageant of humanity that is Public Transportation I noticed this man in a shabby, shinny suit who was sort of bussing the tables and heckling the patrons. The staff seemed to be perfectly happy with this apparently ad hoc arrangement and I though maybe he was just some crazy old drunk that they were helping out. But his mumblings and hecklings were a bit unnerving and invasive. Not so much the what he was saying but the how: it was not the drone that most tin foil-lined hat-wearing nutters usually exude. His emissions sounded more like FOX NEWS, where the moderation of cadence and volume is so highly erratic and unpredictable you can't tune it out, even if they are talking about the weather in Des Moines on a fair day. I silently wished this man away from me, and the more and the harder I wished the faster and the closer he came. I was nervous, afraid and more than a little bit irritated that this dude was going to interrupt my few remaining moments of glorious self absorption.

But then my friend turned up and we headed off to the Hayward to see whatever was showing 4 years ago and I thought no more of it.

Now I've been in and out of Waterloo scores of times in the last four years. I'm sure I have even stopped in at least a couple of dozen times, especially when I was addicted to that of Pain au Chocolat sort of thing they do, and had to have one every morning to feel like I was going to have a good day, even if my boyfriend had bought me flowers, taken me to dinner and committed fully to the serious multi-tasking required to get me off the night before. No Pain [au chocolat] no gain.

So, last February I was again meeting a friend and suggested the Costa Coffee [I am now off of ANY FORM OF SUGAR] as a meeting place. I arrived early, got my latte, and was ready to indulge in some simultaneous people watching and self-absorption. And that man, that very same man showed up. Same suit, same greyed dress shirt, same mad mumblings and frantic table clearing. And inside of me I felt the same surge of irritation, fear and impatience to be done with the impending intrusion, especially as he was heading right for my table and no amount of mental force was deterring him. But now I knew, sort of, about Avadhuts. And a thought popped into my head, maybe as a way to mitigate my escalating irritation, etc. I though: "He is an Avadhut." At that moment he was standing right above me, and he very quietly and rhythmically started chanting my name: "Lisa, Lisa, Lisa, Lisa, Lisa" slowly getting louder and faster with each repetition. And before he reached a crescendo I looked up at him, and smiled. As I caught his eye his chanting reversed its course and he went back into his customary FOX NEWS babble and moved quickly away from my table.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Avadhut

The Spirit of Jarvis

2007-07-02T09:11:00.000-07:00

So this morning I was thinking about Damien Hirst. And Michael Jackson. And what these two characters have in common: namely, at some point they both crossed The Line where people stopped telling them the truth.

Exhibit A: Michael Jackson's Face.

Exhibit B: Damian Hirst's Diamond Encrusted Scull.

Did DH stop running things by his Eminence Gris, Michael Craig-Martin, or has he simply passed The Invisible Line to the extent where even The August Presence that is MCM could tell him the truth?

Plain as the absence of nose on MJ's face it is clear that he crossed The Line years ago where highly skilled [and paid] professionals were able to say things like:

"Mr. Jackson there is not enough tissue left on your nose with which to work."
"I strongly advise against further procedures."
or
"For the love of God, please, please stop!"

In the case of DH, I have no problem with artists capitalizing on their considerable talents, in fact I'm all for it. And I am in no way asking the sophomorically naive and buttassedly stuuuuuuu-PID question: "But is it art?" And if you are asking that question I would like to invite you to direct your web browser Brian Sewell's site. You will enjoy one another.

What I really really really [that's 3 reallys] think we should be asking, or at least those of us who care about art, is, IS THIS GOOD ART?

The work in question definitely fits within DH's conceptual trajectory, namely an obsession with death on the grossest level (hahahaha). My first clue is that I feel a similar outrage towards The Skull, as I did towards his naiscent abattoir offerings (and I think these early dissections are some the finest work around). Now, with the Skull I can see that at the very least he is exposing the commercial underbelly of the art world, which is quite interesting to me. And in the writing of this I am feeling that perhaps this is the best piece he has made in a long, long time.

But then again, I really liked Earth Song.

I somehow think that The Spirit of Jarvis lies at the center of this matter. Maybe it's good art, maybe it's crap, maybe it's brilliant. But what is missing is that someone who is not afraid of crossing The Line, is in fact immune to The Line, and who preferably has some sort of meaningful credibility, needs to flash some asscrack at Hirst's skull to put things back into proper perspective.

http://www.contactmusic.com/news.nsf/article/cocker%20allowed%20back%20in%20after%20brits%20ban_1019286