Cadoodler

My Heaven Revisited

2010-11-03T10:40:00.001-07:00

A friend told me a sad but also hilarious story about a woman whose sister died. She dreamt about her beloved sister and in the dream, she knows her sister is gone and instead of asking what it's like on the other side or if her departed sister has any profound advice, she says, "You're dead. Can you walk through that wall?" That's exactly what I would ask. And the best part of the dream is that her sister said, "Yeah! I can walk through walls" and she did just that. What a wonderfully hopeful message.

I'm reprinting my idea of heaven from last year and adding those of some of my friends...

My heaven is Paris. I speak fluent French, smoke like crazy and wear couture that fits like on Anne Hathaway in "The Devil Wears Prada." Gorgeous three-inch heals feel like I'm walking on pillows and I have conversations with all the most interesting people throughout history and into the future so that I begin to understand everything about everything for eternity.

MK: My heaven is a never-ending beach vacation with delicious friends and family, fabulous food (that never gets sandy), endless stimulating and entertaining reading material, perky boobs and flat stomach in my bikini. I can surf with the big boys, my skin never gets damaged by the sun and evenings are full of bonfires and silly music jams around the fire. There, I'm a killer guitar player with a gorgeous voice who always makes everyone laugh and cry with my musical stylings. Every night I swim in the warm ocean, and as the moon shines it's face at me and a big wave crashes over me I understand everything about everything for eternity.

SB: sitting at the top of a mountain on a rock that is molded to my body, enjoying an incredible view and the warm sun penetrating my skin. Of course there would be no worry of wind or sun burn and the sun would never set. I might even have a good book with me.

SD: I guess my heaven would be being able to swim like a fish, breathe underwater, and dance like Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers and Gene Kelly all rolled into one.

What's your heaven?

Bluff Island Rescue Service

2010-10-30T16:15:00.000-07:00

Los Angeles writer, Stephanie Hubbard, came to a book club meeting and delighted us with stories of writing her memoir about growing up in a volatile family. Her ability to draw you into the story of the precocious little girl who sees that she's in a pickle but is also pulled into her family's orbit especially by her bi-polar father who controls his family like a malevolent dictator when he's not charmingly disarming.

Stephanie was shopping the book to publishers just as the country was entering the worst recession since the great depression and the publishing industry was ringing the death knell on its own industry. True to the character we get to know in "Bluff Island," she didn't give up and self-published her memoir.

I loved this book.

http://www.bluffislandrescueservice.com/

Boo!

2010-10-10T11:59:00.001-07:00

Dark and Stormy

2010-10-06T13:04:00.000-07:00

Cry for Tyler Clementi

2010-10-03T13:19:00.000-07:00

Lover Boys

2010-09-28T12:56:00.001-07:00

Blade Runner Reboot

2010-09-11T14:17:00.000-07:00

An article in the "Los Angeles Times" this week about "rebooting" movies got me thinking. (Rebooting is making the same film with different actors. It's another way for studios to squeeze every bit of life out of a property without coming up with a new idea or fresh screenplay. The script is tweaked and updated but basically it's the same movie.) What would my reboot film be? Don't groan, but my vote is for yet another version of the 1982 classic--and my favorite SciFi movie--"Blade Runner."

But who will play the iconic blade runner Rick Deckard so memorably portrayed with boozy sexiness by Harrison Ford? Or the perfect cold beauty Sean Young's Rachael (no last name necessary because she's a replicant)?

My choices: "Blade Runner: Reboot" starring Daniel Craig and Eva Green who were sexy and watchable in the 007 action-fest "Casino Royale."

Yes?

Citizen Science

2010-09-10T12:25:00.000-07:00

There's a way for you to gaze at the stars and help advance our understanding of the universe. It's called Galaxy Zoo. The great thing is that computers aren't as good at recognizing patterns as people are. This program is very successful and people have identified anomalies and gotten recognition for it. A school teacher in Amsterdam, Hanny van Arkel, identified a blog-shaped object that they believe is the ghost of an "enormously powerful luminous accreting supermassive black hole" in a galaxy near us. The members of the citizen scientists named the anomaly Hanny's Voorwerp , or Hanny's Object. Fantastic!

http://www.galaxyzoo.org/how_to_take_part

For an interesting interview between Science Talk Host Steve Mirsky and the guy that runs Galaxy Zoo, Yale astrophysicist Kevin Schawinski, check out the Scientific American podcast below:

http://podcast.sciam.com/weekly/sa_podcast_090326.mp3

Animal Finance

2010-09-01T13:12:00.001-07:00

CATS

2010-09-01T13:06:00.001-07:00

Love is Rare, Life is Strange

2010-08-29T11:35:00.000-07:00

All Kinds of Fun

2010-08-22T09:33:00.000-07:00

I know. How do I get from Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf and Boys in the Band to Amelie and Lars and the Real Girl? You can't spend that much time with George and Martha. I was at a dinner party last night and the wife said to the husband, "You incomplete me." Brilliant. Thank's Martha. Keep it sharp.

Cinema Magic

2010-08-22T09:20:00.000-07:00

Lars and the Real Girl is a wonderful movie and Ryan Gosling, Emily Mortimer, Paul Schneider, Kelli Garner and Patricia Clarkson are all spot on. If you haven't seen it, do. Also, the soundtrack will cheer you on of you're down, another plus. Thank you writer Nancy Oliver for an extraordinary film.

Amélie.

Everyone could use a little magic these days.

The Luck

2010-08-19T17:04:00.000-07:00

Who's Afraid?

2010-08-08T20:44:00.000-07:00

I was trying to figure out why I love two of the most vicious movies every written: Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and Boys in the Band. What I've come to understand after watching the movies dozens of times is that they are about people who are evenly matched. What I mean is that George and Martha are equals. At first you think George is put upon and Martha is in control verbally beating George to a pulp, but by the end George comes roaring back and the evening ends in a draw. Edward Albee's writing is spectacularly vivid. You could argue that Nick and Honey aren't at their level so are victims of their bullying attacks, but you get the idea that Honey and Nick's marriage is built on the kind of shaky ground that could turn them into George and Martha. All four actors were nominated for academy awards but only Elizabeth Taylor walked away with the statue. She and Burton are radiant as they verbally parry and thrust their way to dawn.

The same is true for Boys in the Band. You feel that you've entered a conversation that is so advanced and quick that you'll never catch up. It's a tough world with mean, self-hating gay men in the 1960s. Written by Mart Crowley the film centers around a group of gay friends but, in the end, boils down to just two: birthday boy Harold and party giver Michael. One accepts that he is gay and the other does not. It's not the self hatred I find riveting, it's how everyone is struggling to find their way. They verbally circle each other, stab, duck, hit and miss.

The other thing I love about both the films is that I always ask the same question at the end of the films. Is there a son in Woolf and is the ex-roomate really gay in the case of Boys. That's how strong an impression they leave after every viewing. I know there's no son and the ex-roomate isn't gay, but I still question because the film does.

Both films were based on hit plays from the 1970s. There's just not that much at stake anymore in films pumped up on visual steroids. We've plumbed the psyche and have turned to external forms of terror like serial killers, the fetish of mental illness, 24-hour crime and terrorism.

But a well-matched psychological bludgeoning on screen can teach us something about how people that love us are capable of real bloodless destruction.

Video Gay Ballroom Dancing - LA Times Magazine

2010-08-08T17:13:00.000-07:00

Video Gay Ballroom Dancing - LA Times Magazine

California Dreaming

2010-08-08T17:04:00.001-07:00

My dream is to bring a same-sex dance competition to television and this is why. How much fun is this?

Chris Beroiz

2010-08-08T14:35:00.000-07:00

Denial is Not a Strategy

2010-08-01T15:07:00.001-07:00

Babies

2010-07-03T10:25:00.001-07:00

Blanche can never have too many babies. She has a duck and what once was a duck. If you get too close, she growls. After walking around the house for an hour trying to find a place to stash her babies, Blanche could only be pursuaded to give up her precious mouth full of toys with a treat. Caesar would be very disappointed in my parenting style.

Guard Dog

2010-06-23T19:31:00.000-07:00

Caw! Caw!

2010-06-20T20:28:00.000-07:00

Late Bloomer

2010-06-19T13:00:00.000-07:00

Taupe Topiary

2010-06-18T09:23:00.000-07:00

Patty Smith

2010-06-05T15:36:00.000-07:00

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Patti Smith gave a "Bookworm" interview to Michael Silverblatt (my favorite big brain) on her book, "Just Kids." Every time I think Ms. Smith is going to be pretentious and silly she astonishes me with her raw presence. She's not false in any way. She just is. That state of being monks have been trying to get into for as long as there have been monks comes naturally to Patti.

Give the interview a listen. Michael can't help but be pretentious because he really is smarter and more knowledgeable about books than anyone. So his interview with Ms. Smith is funny and disarming.

She described herself and her art friends as "patrons of the spirit."

Stieg Larsson

2010-06-04T15:30:00.001-07:00

I know this guy is supposed to be a feminist, but when his heroine, Lisbeth Salander, feels better about her self image when she gets a boob job, I have to question Larsson's self-proclaimed "feminist" ideals. Plus, what's with all the women who throw themselves at Mikael Blomkvist? His former baby sitter, Lisbeth--a girl that could be his daughter--and of course, the ultimate fantasy, a woman whose story he is protecting against his own ethical code can't resist him either. The very woman that babysat (is that even a word?) him as a child! Of course, she must come onto him like every other woman he meets. Practically every woman who gets to know Blomkvist feels compelled to have sex with him. They become uncontrollably attracted to this 50ish journalist. Let's not question that the babysitter also was horribly abused and that Blomkvist is keeping her secret. That wouldn't be any reason for a woman to compromise herself now would it? Where's his ethical code now?

Then there's the married co-worker that Blomkvist's been lovers with for 20 years. Her husband understands their arrangement and is fine with it. Who could get in the way of such a healthy expression of sexual desire between your wife and the irresistable Mikael Blomkvist? Everyone's ok with that. The wife, the husband, and Blomkvist. But, oh, Mikael is turned off by an intern at the journal where he works. I guess she's coming on too strong for the guy who sleeps with every female he encounters. And another thing... Everyone in Sweden is having sex constantly. Even those who are damaged so severely that they can't have normal relationship with other people. Lisbeth is an anti-social braniac who is emotionally damaged from sexual abuse. But, hey, she's up for all kinds of sex as long as she's doing the soliciting and she does a fair amount of that.

The Swedes in Larsson's world are into prodigious amounts of sex with multiple partners, partners of either sex and some at the same time, apparently. Larsson throws in complicated mathematics and economic shenanigans for the appearance of sophistication, but it's a simple book: All of the bad people die (or will in the next book) and all the good people live to have sex again and again and again.

The real question is: why am I still reading these books? They repulse and attract me at the same time. Genius.

Road Trip Los Angeles to San Francisco

2010-05-31T11:27:00.001-07:00

Saw this dog in a cool car at a gas station on the way to San Francisco.

Crack Bread

2010-05-22T11:58:00.000-07:00

It's called Amish Friendship Bread but we call it "Crack Bread" because it's full of sugar and yeast and you can't get enough of it.

Iron Man 2

2010-05-17T17:29:00.000-07:00

Saw Iron Man 2 today. It's fun and a good way to forget the real world for 2 hours and 4 minutes. Robert Downey Jr. is the only actor who could pull off Tony Stark. He's funny and creepy and sexy and uber smart. But, I will say that the palms of Sam Rockwell's hands were so full of fake tanning lotion during a scene with Mickey Rourke's Ivan that it was as if he'd been groping a PA just before the cameras started to roll. What the F*%k?

70 Million

2010-05-15T18:15:00.001-07:00

Vanishing Point from Bonsajo on Vimeo.

I read a blog Neu Black. This amazing and fun math-generated clip is by Takuya Hosogane.

Tavi Trouble

2010-05-15T08:43:00.000-07:00

I don’t allow my girlfriend to have a Facebook account because as it is she doesn’t let a phone call go unanswered or an email unattended, even the crazy “Obama isn’t a U.S. citizen” ones. She must set the world straight and I love her for it, but Facebook would suck the remaining years of her life into nonstop communication frenzy.

That said, I am the link to Lynn’s family on Facebook. And that’s how Lynn’s niece, Emma, came to request my friendship. I have written about how I’m not good with kids. I’m not sure what they like at what age and when my own nephew played with tiny drink straws at a steak restaurant clashing them as swords into a violent X, he dropped one of the straws. I took up the lone straw and said, “Casey, look, it’s an ‘I.’” That landed like a dissertation on Emily Dickenson to the 8-year-old Casey and he looked away from me with pity in his eyes.

I was telling Emma she could Facebook Lynn through me if she wanted and Emma wrote, "awsome , how you doing anything up?”

I wanted to impress the kid. I’m thinking she doesn’t want to hear about my boring life but maybe she would be interested in another kid. Grant you, she’s one of the most precocious and influential kids in the fashion world right now, but she’s also funny and 13, Emma’s age. I wrote to Emma that nothing was up with me, but I'm keeping up with a fashion blog written by a young girl and she might like to read it, too.

The “Comment” button was clicked and I left Facebook to check Brian Eno’s “Oblique Strategies” for the day.

Something in the back of my head told me to check out Style Rookie. She’s freakishly smart and I should read it with an eye to a normal 13-year-old reading it. I checked what Tavi Gevinson had to say on her blog. Remember I have posted the link to my girlfriend’s niece’s Facebook.

Tavi had just turned 14-year-old. That’s safe territory. The next entry was a rail about a photographer accused of molesting under aged models. As I’m reading in horror thinking of Emma calling her parents over to explain the link Aunt Autumn sent, I click on a link in the rant and there’s a photo of a pre-pubescent girl looking distressed with her shirt off and a man’s fingers pinching the nipple of her still unformed breast. Hard.

Holy Shit!

I race back to Emma’s FB page and delete the link to Style Rookie and write, “Nothing much. I like the photo of the horse you posted.” I made a fast retreat to my lame but safe “Casey, it’s an ‘I’” kid talk. Even so, I can't shake the feeling that I dodged a bullet.

Eyes on the Ground

2010-05-13T22:15:00.000-07:00

Animal Rescue

2010-05-12T20:07:00.001-07:00

Who is rescuing whom?

The Devine Sarah

2010-05-11T11:04:00.000-07:00

Portrait of Sarah Bernhardt by Alfred Stevens, 1885
Hammer Museum

On Guard

2010-05-10T17:29:00.000-07:00

Penn & Teller Sin City Spectacular

2010-05-09T21:40:00.001-07:00

Celebrity Sightings

2010-05-09T16:45:00.000-07:00

I'm in Beverly Hills once in awhile because if you want the best of anything it's there. Unlike most Beverly Hills visitors, I never see any celebs and when family visits from out of state and we drive around Beverly Hills, I say what everyone says, "Beverly Hills is for tourists." Well, it may be for tourists, but a few days ago, it was full of celebrities as well.

Star sightings:

Larry King talking on his cell phone on Beverly

Road the elevator with Donald Sutherland

Kristen Stewart in her car and let her into traffic

Joan Rivers driving a Porche

How do you like those apples?

Goodbye Adrian

2010-05-08T10:29:00.000-07:00

My sister's beloved pupper, Adrian, died a couple of days ago. It's a heartbreaker.

Riot

2010-05-07T11:27:00.000-07:00

Stand and Deliver

2010-05-06T12:25:00.001-07:00

e e cummings

2010-05-04T16:51:00.000-07:00

When I was in my 20's and just starting to read for pleasure and not for school, I discovered e. e. cummings. His poems taught me how to live even before I knew who I was or that you could decide who to be in the world. I have read this poem for 20 years and am surprised and delighted by it every time. It also reminds me of spring because it's full of birds and hopefulness.

may my heart always be open to little

birds who are the secrets of living

whatever they sing is better than to know

and if men should not hear them men are old

may my mind stroll about hungry

and fearless and thirsty and supple

and even if it's sunday may i be wrong

for whenever men are right they are not young

and may myself do nothing usefully

and love yourself so more than truly

there's never been quite such a fool who could fail

pulling all the sky over him with one smile

e.e. cummings

Wedgwood

2010-05-03T17:37:00.000-07:00

We've been watching "Upstairs Downstairs," the British series from the early 1970s, again. It's about the Bellamy family and their servants as they negotiate the changing world of the early 20th century. The two Bellamy children grow up to reject their parents values. The daughter is filled with upper class guilt and a desire to shake off the stifling restrictions on upper class women. The son acts like many spoiled second generation wealthy sons. He gambles, drinks, finds work boring, and knocks up one of the servant on his way to ruining his life. The servants have their own adjustments to make, but in some ways they have some flexibility to put their lives back together when change blows their lives open because there is no safety net and no rescue from a mistake.

The Wedgwood teapot reminds me of the refined and stratified existence in the Victorian England of the Bellamys. I have one cracked teapot that I love for its color and detail, but not an entire prestine set that Mrs. Bellamy would have possessed.

Sink View

2010-04-30T14:18:00.001-07:00

Chicks with Sticks

2010-04-29T11:14:00.000-07:00

Took the drum set out of the closet today. It feels good to beat something. Maybe I'll start a band called "The Lady and the Tramps."

"Keep on rockin' in the free world"

San Francisco

2010-04-28T17:19:00.000-07:00

This is the building where I worked in the Embarcadero over 20 years ago.

My first job in San Francisco was as a receptionist for a computer programmer placement firm. I was 20 years old in the early '80s and had moved to San Francisco's Russian Hill with a roommate. Living in the city by the bay was my dream come true and I never got over the excitement of it. I'd wake up early in the morning, walk up Larkin Street to the top of Union and just look at the view. I walked to and from work, through China Town to North Beach.

Weird News

2010-04-27T10:23:00.000-07:00

Cynopsis reported today: "Typically a film actress, Sean Young has signed on to join the cast of CBS' daytime drama The Young and the Restless as a bartender named Meggie who enters into a relationship with Victor Newman, played by Eric Braeden. Young will debut in her new role mid-June." "Blade Runner" is one of my all time fav movies and I know she went off the rails years ago, but "The Young and the Restless?" At least she's joining David Hasselhoff for his comeback.

Who says daytime dramas are dying...

Honey House

2010-04-26T17:35:00.000-07:00

On Mission Street in South Pasadena, there's a new store called House of Honey. It looks intriguing...

Street Art

2010-04-25T11:23:00.000-07:00

Mouth Piece

2010-04-24T12:37:00.001-07:00

2010-04-21T10:18:00.000-07:00

This is the view from the Marriott... Lovely, lovely, lovely.

I don't really want to be back from San Francisco. We couldn't have asked for better weather. We surprised my mother on her birthday. Saw "Wicked," walked the hills, ate at a terrific place called Delfina in the Mission and generally had a merry time.

Golden Gates

2010-04-20T17:42:00.000-07:00

Visited SF and stayed at the Marriott Marquis on 4th Street. It's in a wonderful location and we had a comfy room with a good view. It was great to be "home." There was a concert at a church next to the hotel. I recorded some b/c we were able to open the window.

I love my baby

2010-04-15T16:38:00.000-07:00

Google vs. Topeka

2010-04-01T10:26:00.000-07:00

Google Buys the Universe for $2 Trillion

Addressing Customer Wishes for Google to Expand Into New Markets, Google Steps Up to the Plate

MOUNTAIN VIEW, Calif. - January 1, 2008 – “The Milky Way Galaxy is our home and we intend to keep it that way,” says Google CEO Dr. Eric Schmidt. Google Founders agree, stating that the point is to start with our home galaxy before branching out into neighboring star belts. “The customer base is literally limitless.”

“At Google, we’re used to exponential growth to match our namesake, googol,” Sergey Brin said. “We went from Larry Page and I to over 15,000 employees in just eight years. Scaling up comes naturally to us along with good stewardship.”

Guiding the development of the universe played a part in the purchase as well. Caring for the universe goes hand-in-hand with the goal to save the planet Earth from environmental destruction. We can no longer depend on governments alone to do the right thing when it comes to the safety of the world. Google’s philosophy is to save it now.

According to Google.org’s energy expert, Dan Reicher, “talk about your economy of scale.” Reicher goes on to say he believes the purchase will be followed by more gargantuan efforts by Google to save the known and unknown worlds.

If we knew what else was out there, we’d try and save it as well. That’s the sentiment of the recognized “Father of the Internet,” Vinton Cerf. “It just made sense for the industry leader and the world leader in useful technology to take it to the next level—the heavens.”

If you listen to your customers and hand the project to an ambitious computer geek, things come together pretty fast. Like getting approval from federal regulators. “Once the FTC examined the parameters and benefits of the universe’s purchase, they gave it a green thumbs up,” says David Drummond, Senior VP and Google’s top lawyer.

Shona Brown states that Google didn’t have set plans to expand on such a mega level.

“But once the opportunity came up, we knew it was the right move,” says Brown, who oversees business operations for Google.

Responding to critics afraid that Google Ads will fill the heavens, Google’s VP of Global Online Sales, Sheryl Sandberg responded, “You’re not going to see ads on the Moon.”

Those interested in learning more about the Milky Way Galaxy, visit http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Milky_Way

About Google Inc.

Google's innovative search technologies connect millions of people around the globe every second of every day. Founded in 1998 by Stanford Ph.D. students Larry Page and Sergey Brin, Google is a top web property in all major and minor galaxies. Google's targeted advertising program, the largest and fastest growing ever, provides businesses of all sizes with measurable results, while enhancing the overall web experience for googlers everywhere. Google is headquartered in Silicon Valley with offices throughout the universe. For more information, visit www.google.com.

###

Google is a trademark of Google Inc. All other company and product names may be trademarks of the respective companies with which they are associated.

Pill of the Day

2010-01-24T10:38:00.000-08:00

No worries

Life's Improvements

2010-01-24T10:35:00.000-08:00

Things they have improved in my lifetime:

dentistry

light bulbs

fiction television

hair dye

computers

printers

phones... basically all technology

Freedom

2010-01-23T13:46:00.001-08:00

You know those days-of-the-week pill boxes. I put mints in them and wrote an idea to think about on each day. Today was a "Freedom" mint. Hmm. Freedom.

Freedom from ...

Freedom to ...

The first thing that comes to mind is freedom from financial worry. That always comes up. Before Christmas I as at my beloved hair stylists when he pointed out that no matter what your financial level is, you will spend to that level. This has caused me to worry even more about money. You mean, if I had a financial windfall, I'd just start spending that much more and end up where I started, with empty pockets! That's dreadful.

True freedom from financial worry, according to someone who spends his days with wealthy customers, is harder than you think.

Freedom from memories...

Freedom to love...

Freedom to travel. That's a good one. Freedom to love. Another positive. We aren't lacking a lot of "freedom to" here.

One in a Million

2010-01-11T22:18:00.000-08:00

What should we call her?

Thank you President Obama

2010-01-08T08:34:00.000-08:00

Why is it that life tends to suck up your life? In between laundry, walking and feeding the dogs, and getting ready for work, there were many things that I wanted to write this morning. I woke up with a letter of gratitude to President Obama written in my head. It was very elegant but the letter of gratitude to President Obama below is all I can pull together in my now crowded brain.

I am grateful to have a president who takes responsibility. I want to thank President Obama for writing two moving and entertaining books. For Michelle. For Supreme Court Justice Sotomayor. For having an exit strategy in Afghanistan and Iraq. For clear, intelligent and inspiring speeches. There's so much negative noise on the news that I don't want President Obama to forget that for his millions of supporters, his speeches and actions fill us with old fashioned American pride. We prayed for a leader who doesn't lie to us and doesn't treat us like mindless sheep and our prayers were answered.

Thanks for health care reform, however imperfect. For taking the political hits and inspiring others to govern no matter the political cost because it's the right thing to do. For caring about the little guy. For adjusting the administration's policies when they are no longer useful or effective. For listening, deliberating, and then leading us during a difficult time.

I had lunch with a dear friend recently. He was distressed and disappointed with what he sees as the administration caving on issues that he cares about. I reminded him that the world is already a better place under this administration. It's going to take time to repair the damage of the previous regime. It is the job of Republicans to stop the government from working so people lose faith in their leaders. That damage is going to take a long time to fix, but it's happening every day in every department of our government. People who care about public service strive every day to fulfill their duty and that's no small task. My friend relaxed a little, because I reminded him of the big picture.

Leadership has always come from the top. Thank you Mr. President.

Work + Play = ZZZZ

2010-01-04T21:39:00.001-08:00

Back at work after 2 weeks off. We are so busy and I'm exhausted. But, I wanted to keep up the good work of daily blogging and post a picture I sketched of someone I'll call Daniel. I rather like him.

Calendar 2002

2010-01-02T11:30:00.000-08:00

Remember calendars that weren't electronic? I was cleaning out tax stuff (one of the joys of the new year) OUT WITH THE OLD, and I ran across a stack of old calendars. I was about to throw them away but thought, what an antique. What an anachronism. An old fashioned calendar is quaint and bizarre. Messy and meaningful. My friend, Ruth, must have been alive in October of 2002. It was my last day at PRW. What was PRW? Oh Public Radio Weekend? The pilot for Minnesota Public Radio that was just taken off the air. There is Marley so I was working on "California Connected" for PBS as well. Lynn and TAD are here. Charles is off the list. Who is Laura? Dr. Murray? As unsentimental as I can be, I'll keep it at least for one more year until I find it next year at tax time and think: throw away the old.

Happy New Year!

2010-01-01T11:10:00.001-08:00

Ok, so this is a photo from a couple of years ago and it's an Oscar party and not a New Year's Eve party. But, it's the best I can do this year and we were having a good time. It's how I want to bring in 2010: with champagne, tiaras and boas
Happy F*%@ing New Year!

2009

2009-12-26T22:07:00.000-08:00

2009 is the year the Twin Palms closed in Pasadena. 11 years ago, I had my first unofficial "date" with my partner there. When I read a story in one of my many magazines about a couple that wanted to make Christmas extra special by finding things from their past to give, I thought of the Twin Palms because they were closing at the end of November after almost 16 years in business.

My friend, Pamela, and I went immediately to try and get a memento. The hostess, a young woman, was unsympathetic when I told her that I had my first date 11 years ago with my partner there and could I have a matchbook? They don’t have matchbooks anymore. A menu? No. A second host, a young man, was more sympathetic and disappeared in search of something to give me in the back. Pamela and I felt hopeful while listening to Sunday Jazz, but the young man returned empty handed. I’m sorry. There isn’t anything that I could get.

Dejected, I said, how about a napkin? Can you at least use the Twin Palms stamp on a cocktail napkin? He was enthusiastic and grabbed two napkins from the bar and put a faint imprint with the restaurant’s name on it. The ink was just about dried up.

It’s not what I had hoped, but it did remind me of a special night when the friend that I had known for many years stopped talking to me in the middle of the meal and kept staring at me, and I ate a huge pork chop as we fell in love.

I put the napkins in the Christmas stocking this year along with a photo of me in front of the Twin Palms sign at the entrance that Pamela snapped on her cell phone as we left with the two sad napkins.

New Year 2009 GoOdByE

2009-12-24T10:33:00.000-08:00

The end of a decade is infused with meaning. And, it's not just the end of the year, but the end of the past 10 YEARS we're looking at. A lot of space is being fill on the air, in print and on-line about what this last 10 years has meant. What's the best and worst of every category? What does it all mean?

It has been unique in many ways and you can see it reflected best in the arts. Terry Gross recently interviewed singer/songwriter Nellie McKay. McKay's sweet voice doesn't jive with the words of many of her songs and jazzy upbeat music. One song in particular, "Manhattan Avenue" is about her rough childhood in Harlem where pit bulls ripped the throats out of kittens and where she and her mother got mugged in their apartment. But the music is breezy and her voice light. There's a hallucinatory feeling to how Nellie is laughing and singing gaily about sad and disconcerting events. It's a disconnect that I think epidomizes the end of the lying-to-your face cynicism of the Bush years and the need to look at the tragedies of our decade, especially 9/11 and Hurricane Katrina. We need to see it but we don't want to.

I'm trying to find a way to describe the sweetness that pulls you in, the mask, that is pulled away to reveal the darkness underneath. There's a sickness there, but it's too much to take in so we cover up with flavored cough syrup.

It's what artist Kara Walker achieved brilliantly in the late '90s with her antebellum silhouettes of horrors committed to slaves depicted in the refined and delicate 18th century art form. At first glance, Walker's art looks decorative and pretty. It's intricate and appealing. Then you get closer and see that the silhouettes are of slaves being raped and young white children abusing already abused black women. Walker was on the cutting edge, but I'll consider her part of this decade because of the influence her art had and still has.

There's also the art of Takashi Murakami. His super sweet large eyed anime creatures reveal disturbing and often horrifying realities. Sometimes it's purely whimsical, but sometimes it's a dream or fantasy that turns into a nightmare. There is a digital installation at the MOCA in Japan Town/downtown LA that beautifully shows this transition. It's a chiho aoshima piece that starts with large leaves and flowers, lovely brightly colored crickets and non-threatening creatures move, grow, evolve. There are undulating alive buildings with faces and blinking lights swaying in the background. Happy commerce in the background of changing nature. Slowly, things turn dark and the cute creatures turn into severed heads of once-cute girls spiked on the same plants we admired earlier.

What should we call this? There must already be a name for it.

A phrase just popped into my head: "Is that blood?"

Brr dyslexic

2009-12-23T09:45:00.000-08:00

I have to say that being dyslexic is a drag sometimes. I don't know how to sell "brr" and had to stop writing a post in order to look it up on the internet. But, the good news is WE HAVE THE INTERNET and I can spend the couple of seconds it takes to look up anything that I need to spell. The drag part is that it's all the time.

What I started to write about was LA in winter. It can be 55 degrees and feel warm on one day and 55 degrees and be chilly on another. Today it's chilly. I even came back from walking my dog to change my jacket to a coat. I'm not complaining about a cold 55 degrees because it feels wonderful as long as you're wearing the proper clothes.

Tiger Woods

2009-11-29T17:34:00.001-08:00

I hate to sound like Stephen Colbert, but I said it first. When I heard that Tiger Wood's wife and a golf club were involved the night after the "incident," I knew that she had discovered his affair(s) and went after him with a golf club and beat him silly. She has a flair for a dramatic symbol.

Clover Field

2009-11-29T12:53:00.001-08:00

MAXIMUM SECURITY

2009-11-03T08:58:00.000-08:00

The shrinking of the economy has caused car thefts in my neighborhood to spike resulting in more car alarms and even the installation of security cameras around the block. But one creative soul is trying a new tack.

Grounded

2009-11-02T14:00:00.001-08:00

Halloween Redux

2009-11-01T10:40:00.000-08:00

Feet don’t fail me now.

2009-10-31T13:36:00.000-07:00

Elvis Mitchell’s interview with Jason Schwartzman on "The Treatment" is worth a listen. Elvis doesn’t know what to make of Jason so he just lets him ramble. The gems out of Schwartzman’s mouth include how he feels about showing up for work: “feet don’t fail me know” and describing why his character, Jonathan Ames, becomes a Craig’s List private dick as “a deliberator moment.” Priceless.

"Bored to Death" is one of the best new comedies on TV.

Shroomery

2009-10-30T10:53:00.000-07:00

The thing about mushrooms is that when they appear above ground, it's just one tiny part of a vast organism that lives beneath the surface. In LA, it's rare to see a mushroom this large. Mostly because it's so dry that most of the year there's not enough moisture to get a mushroom going, but in the Fall when there has been even a little rain, the occasional hearty mushroom will bloom.

Pupper Paws

2009-10-29T16:19:00.001-07:00

Come on!

Judge Judy

2009-10-28T14:52:00.000-07:00

At 6pm every night, the television goes on and Judge Judy dispenses wisdom and rules and rules and rules for what seems like hours.

In order to avoid yet another girlfriend-loaned-money-to-their-baby-daddy-but-now-he-has-a-new-girlfriend-and-she-wants-the-money-back segments, or the older-man-who bailed-out-the-young-user-babe-who’s-looking-for-payback piece, I have tried various distractions. It can’t be anything that takes me too far away from the action to where unable to understand my partner’s comments on the cases. But I need something to keep at least half my mind away from the darker side of the human soul. Knitting makes me tense. And reading takes too much concentration. One idea that worked for a while was to draw a quick sketch of the defendants and plaintiffs. It was entertaining for about 3 notebooks worth of conflicts. Then I made up names and thoughts for the faces I’d drawn.
I’ve moved on to gentle Sudoku. It’s easy to pick up and put down so that I can say, “We’ve seen this one” and my partner responds, “I don’t care. We’re watching it again.”

The New Yorker

2009-10-27T11:13:00.001-07:00

There's a great feeling of satisfaction that comes from being caught up on The New Yorker.

Then a feeling of loss sinks in when you realize that you are without a New Yorker to read.

Tara's Potatoes

2009-10-21T19:38:00.000-07:00

I hate cooking.

I'm a grazer so not cooking has suited me. Hard boiled eggs, avocados, apples, cheese, grapes, sardines, potato chips and peanut butter are staples. But, for the last several years I've attempted to cook but, unsurprisingly, those efforts have ended in self-sabotaging disasters. The timing is off and everything's cold. The simple recipes are bland and boring. And, on the rare occasion that I master a dish, I get bored to tears making it.

But, tonight I made baked potato slices that turned out great. I call it "Better than French Fries"

Here's the recipe written for true beginners:

Ingredients to serve 2 people:

3 medium sized red potatoes
olive oil
salt and pepper

Here's what you do when:
Wash the potatoes (I use a little dish soap but make sure you wash it all out)
Cut the potatoes in half, parboil for 8 minutes = put potatoes in water and bring water to a boil. Once the water boils, put on a timer for 8 minutes
Preheat the oven at 350 = turn on oven for 10 minutes before putting the potatoes in
Cut the parboiled potatoes into wedges (3 wedges per half potato)
Put the parboiled potatoes in a bowl and lightly coat with olive oil and a little salt & pepper
Place on a non greased cookie sheet with room between the potatoes so they don’t steam up and get mushy
Bake for 25 minutes to ½ an hour depending on how brown you want them (hint: you’re looking for the browning on the side of the potato sitting on the cookie sheet and NOT the side facing you
Once the potatoes are brown on one side, turn them over and cook for another 15-20 minutes
Serve the crisp and delicious slices like french fries with ketchup, mayo or mustard

Bored to Death

2009-10-16T14:24:00.000-07:00

Laugh-out-loud funny, Bored to Death is the sharpest show since, well, another HBO show Flight of the Conchords that I can't get straight so call it Flight of the Condors but that's probably part of the joke. Back to Bored to Death. I was reading creator Jonathan Ames' blog-letter on HBO's site and it's also, not surprisingly, hilarious. There's a certain neurotic Woody Allen humor that Americans (at least coasties) are attuned to. Every thought is twisted into grotesque proportions that turns a scene between our loser hero Jonathan (Jason Schwartzman) and the superhero cartoonist Ray (Zach Galifianakis) where they make cultural references in a coffee bar into a scene about how neither gets the others reference. And doesn't everyone hear a reference and think they get the meaning but do they really? Are they hip enough to get it or do they pretend to know what the hell was just said. Ted Danson hits all the right notes as George Christopher, a publishing mogul so rich that he has two first names. George is a privileged baby and, like most uber-rich people, he pays his friends and is a bottomless pit of need and hubris. If you haven't seen it, do.

HEAVEN

2009-09-16T14:01:00.000-07:00

My dear friend Bee's aunt Barbara recently passed away. Bee said she thinks that since aunt Barbara believed in a heaven, that Barbara is in the heaven that she believed in.

I don't think there is a life-after-death, but I started thinking: What would my heaven be?

My heaven is Paris. I speak fluent French, smoke like crazy and wear couture that fits like on Anne Hathaway in "The Devil Wears Prada." Gorgeous three-inch heals feel like I'm walking on pillows and I have conversations with all the most interesting people throughout history and into the future so that I begin to understand everything about everything for eternity.

(Photo from google images, National Geographic Traveler, from an article Zut Alors! Paris' Car-Sharing Program, January 30, 2008. Also posted on Flickr)

THURSDAY.

2009-09-14T23:21:00.000-07:00

It’s sinking in.

Africa, Maasai, ticks, puzzles, talk, drink, water, clouds, clear skies, Kikuyu, Venus, the Southern Cross, Bomas, Range Rovers, thistle trees, laughter, singing, Moses, guilt.

Thank you Pamela.

Thank you Africa.

KOPIES.

2009-09-09T13:54:00.000-07:00

The kopies are an outcropping of rocks with views of hundreds of thousands of acres of Massai country with Kilimanjaro in the distance.

FOREST.

2009-09-08T11:59:00.000-07:00

The ride was long and eventful. Our jeep got stuck on a root going straight up a hill. The wheels spin loudly digging us deeper into a hole as the front of the jeep inched toward the sky. Black lava gavel flies over the back of the jeep and covers us with a fine powder. We can’t stop laughing. Moses has gotten us out of bigger scrapes than this. Without assistance from the other guides who are standing and yelling instructions in Swahili to Moses, the jeep pops out of the rut and we reach the top of the hill with the valley below and Kili in the distance.

The terrain is hillier and even greener than the green pasture that is the view of Massai country from the lodge. Animals migrate here during the heat of summer. We get out to stretch our legs and for tea and soft drinks.

Sandor swings a riffle over his shoulder and says, “It’s very important to stay single file on the path through the forest and be very quiet. If you want to see any animals, you must be quiet.”

We start walking up a short, muddy hill into the dense green forest. Surrounded by tall trees that cover the sky with a thick canopy, Sandor stops short and we listen.

Someone says, “Monkeys.”

Paula spies one but no one else has the trained eye of a zoo keeper so we move on.

Small groups bunch up on the trail talking quietly.

“What part of ‘single file’ don’t you people understand,” Pamela says with a wink.

There is a large pool of water in the middle of the path with large tree roots flowing out of the ground nearby. Electric blue butterflies take off and land at the edge of the water. We gather around as the guides look at animal tracks in the mud.

When we reach the end of the trail, the sun appears and the landscape becomes familiar again. Rolling hills blanketed in tall green grass spill out before us until the bottom of Kili can be seen below the cloud cover on the horizon.

There is a universal tick check and the now familiar awe at the view.

Walking back through the forest, I have to pee and there is no holding it for the 2-hour ride back to the lodge. We try and convince Clare that peeing outside isn’t so bad, but she’s having none of it. Pamela gives me a lesson on trampling down the grass. It’s hard to coordinate squatting, holding your pants far enough in front of you to avoid wetting legs or panties or pants, all the while convincing your bladder to let go. I was never completely successful.

WEDNESDAY.

2009-09-06T09:14:00.000-07:00

On our way to the forest, one of the many ecosystems on the vast Maasai land, we stop for a short hike up a rocky hill to a tree-covered ravine.

Randi is nervous at the drop off, but lets Greg take her picture before moving to safer ground.

Moses points out the soap tree on our way back to the jeeps.

“We use it to wash up,” says Moses.

“What is that?” he asks me, pointing to a similar bush.

“The toothbrush tree,” I say.

“Correct,” says Moses smiling.

TUESDAY. AMBOSELI NATIONAL PARK.

2009-09-04T10:47:00.000-07:00

Egyptian goose at a watering hole.

You must be in a covered vehicle to visit Amboseli National Park. Ol Donyo Wuas has one covered Range Rover so one group will visit every day for a week. Hilary and her pals were the first to go and reported that giraffe and elephant walk right up to the jeep. They had a wonderful lunch that Moses prepared on the top of a grassy hill overlooking the park.

Our day came and Ron, Michael, Paul, Kip and I set out for the two-hour drive to Amboseli after breakfast. We were familiar with most of the drive after visiting a town near the park a few days earlier so the trip doesn’t feel very long.

Our guide, Jonathan, informs us that we can’t get out of the jeep for any reason once we enter the park. Not even to pee. That news delights me because I hate peeing in the bush. The other rule is that you must stay on the road. No off-roading is allowed.

We stop inside the gate so Jonathan can pay. A few Maasai are ready to trade or sell. Michael buys a few bracelets. Jonathan returns and we drive into the park. Not far in, we see three small giraffe on the side of the road, their legs akimbo drinking out of a small watering hole. It was the first time that I wanted to get out of the jeep.

The land is more what I expected Africa to look like; dusty roads and flat, dry land surrounded at great distances by mountains.

There’s a herd of elephant heading our way. Jonathan stopped the jeep on the road and we wait. The elephants get closer and closer walking in single file or in pairs just like in Dumbo. They get closer but not louder. There’s barely a rustle as they pass in front of us, tusks rocking back and forth, feet padding along the ground. There is a baby surrounded by older elephants in the middle of the pack. We coo and purr over it. Several young males are trailing behind protectively. The last elephant passes silently in front of us and we drive to a palm tree grove.

We all have to pee, so Jonathan turns onto a path with a “do not enter” sign through thick trees whose palms stretch in all directions.

After a few turns we enter a clearing of neat tents with elephant skulls lining the paths between them. Jonathan parks and two men approach and welcome us. After taking care of business, we are given a tour of the Elephant Rescue camp.

It’s a 30-year-old project and each elephant in Amboseli has a name and is watched and protected by the organization. The elephant skulls are from animals that died naturally, even the tiny skulls. On one of the biggest skulls you can see the honeycomb cartilage that houses their brains. That's why the elephant’s head is actually very light. They don't have a heavy skull.

We leave the elephant preserve camp and drive around the park. Jonathan slows at a pond with reeds and stops. The boys and I are talking and comparing binoculars when Jonathan turns around and says, “Pea-pole. Hip-owe time.”

We look at the pond and a largue head with tiny ears appears above the water’s surface. Hippos.

It’s dusty and we’re getting hungry but Jonathan keeps driving around the park. We help a white mini-van stranded on the road by pulling it until the engine starts. Maybe they’re Germans. Possibly English. Their teeth are pretty bad but their clothes are kind of hip.

Once the van disappears, Jonathan turns off the road and across a bumpy patch of ground. He says it’s an elephant crossing. The mud with deep elephant tracks has hardened into ruts, making the jeep jostle and bounce so much that we have to hold on tight so we don’t fly out. I was getting annoyed and a little sick when the ground evened out and we stopped bouncing.

I said, “Jonathan, shouldn’t we have lunch?” with a whine that I couldn’t cover.

Spying a lone tree in the cracked, dry desert, Jonathan drives toward it. It is the only thing standing as far as we could see, even in the wavy marsh heat of the day. Jonathan stops under the little shade the tree provides and quickly unpacks lunch and opens a bag with cokes and ginger beer telling us the tree is called “fever tree,” a special tree that has survived the destruction of the elephants.

Jonathan puts the makings for sandwiches on the hood of the jeep. I’m opening containers with Focaccia bread and sliced ham and cheese. The guys are a short distance away taking pictures.

I walk to where Ron is standing and whisper, “Where’s my mountain picnic with tree-trunk seats and a view of the park Hilary told us about?”

From behind me, Jonathan says, “I see movement.”

I run to the jeep and hand Jonathan my binoculars. Putting the glasses to his eyes, he scans the horizon.

“Cheetah,” He says. “Pack up.”

Everyone’s in motion throwing meat and bread back into bags and drowning our drinks as we pile into the jeep. Jonathan jumps behind the wheel and we takes off across the hot desert. The tires loose traction as we drive onto a moist watering hole and pass one, two, three, four, five, six cheetah. They walk single file, hunched over looking at us drive right next to them. There’s just enough moisture on the ground to send us swerving in front of the cats.

“It’s a mother and her cubs,” says Jonathan coming to a stop a couple of feet away from the animals. They stop and look at us, panting. We don’t have good cameras but we try and get off a few shots as the cheetah family turns away and slowly bounce back the way they had come. When they reach a grassy area with cape buffalo and impala, one by one they sit down in the tall grass. We follow slowly and stop a short distance away.

“Wow,” is all any of us could manage.

The mother moves ahead of her cubs into the tallest grass in the area. The cubs watch the impala and cape buffalo. We watch them. And the mother watches everything. Unable to shake us, she stands and walks away. The cubs follow until she stops at a fallen tree, its white branches bare and bone-like against the grass.

Lunch is a distant memory.

All six cats drape themselves across the branches and turn to look at us.

Ron says, “An art director’s dream.”

MORNING GAME DRIVE.

2009-09-03T12:14:00.000-07:00

Clare wants to see a lion and asks Jonathan to find her one. He laughs. The lion researcher, the defeated Shamus, has given us the sad statistics on the disappearing lions of Kenya.

We drive through the open plains, the tall grass disappearing under our wheels as if we are the sole people on earth. A tiny black cloud appears in the sky.

“What’s that?” asks Clare.

“Vultures,” says Jonathan pointing.

“I want to see,” says Clare.

As we draw near, we see the birds. Their wings span 8 feet and the shadows darken the ground. When they spread the tips of their wings it looks like fat fingers are tearing at the sky. They circle a spot below.

“What is it?” Clare whispers.

Without replying, Jonathan drives closer and stops. He turns to us.

“Take out your cameras now,” he says. “Once we get closer, the vultures will take off at the same time.”

He drives forward and dozens of huge birds reluctantly leave the ground with one flap of their wings.

There seems to be nothing where the buzzards were but swirling dust. Then a reddish spinal column emerges as the air clears. The ribs are stunted along the spine and completely disappear the further away they get from the column. There’s a head.

Jonathan, Pamela and Craig jump down from the jeep. Jonathan picks up the horns of the perfect head for us to see, the bloody spinal cord hanging to the ground.

“Grants gazelle,” he says. Clare and I look away.

Pamela tells Craig they should take the head back for the skull.

“In a few days, animals and ants will pick the skull clean,” she says.

Clare and I peek through our fingers. Jonathan has a machete at Pamela’s throat. Craig takes photos and everyone laughs.

I feel sick but can’t take my eyes off of the gazelle. Jonathan holds up the head with its light brown coat and black markings. Even the horns are intact. Only the hollow eyes tell you it’s dead. That and the skin of the neck hanging loose around the spine. It looks like two animals: the body eaten to nothing but bones and the head a fresh kill.

Jonathan starts hacking at the spinal column at the base of the head with the machete.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

“Ew. That’s disgusting,” says Clare. We both stand up and turn around. There is another jeep pulling up behind us. This is the big event on the game drive today. I wave and saw my hand over my neck pointing at the activity on the ground behind me.

It seems to take a long time to cut the head away from the bones that are left of the gazelle.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Pamela takes an empty box from the back of the jeep and Jonathan places the freed head into the box.

“You can’t put that in here,” says Clare.

“Ok,” says Pamela cheerfully. “We’ll put it in their jeep” and walks to the Range Rover behind ours and puts the box under the back seat.

“That was disgusting,” says Clare as Jonathan, Pamela and Craig step into our jeep and sit down.

“Do you still want to see a lion?” Pamela asks Clare.

“Yes!” says Clare.

“Be careful what you ask for,” I say.

BOMA.

2009-09-02T10:48:00.000-07:00

The local Manyatta is a semi-permanent place where young warriors live with their mothers. We drive inside the enclosure and park right in the middle of the Boma. Dung and stick buildings surround an open area covered with cattle and goat dung and flies rule. The cows and goats are grazing so a lone dog is the only animal in the compound.

Jonathan invites Le Doux and I into his home. It’s very small and we duck and squeeze through the curved entryway. It’s dark inside. I can’t stand up and almost step in the glowing embers of the fire between two tiny rooms. My eyes adjust as light filters through small holes in the walls. I’m getting anxious and feel claustrophobic until the smoky warm smell from the embers relaxes me.

Once outside, Le Doux and I are bombarded with flies so we climb into the top seat of our jeep to watch our friends bargain with the Maasai women or play with children. Ron and Hilary are swinging laughing kids around in circles and Paula is buying an enormous shield and a mask surrounded in feathers.

The young warriors are sitting and leaning on the hood of a jeep. Their arms and bodies are draped around each other. It’s the first time I’ve seen a group of Maasai men together since we arrived. They are usually alone with their cattle and goats along the side of the road or in a distant field. The warmth of these young warriors toward each other is a surprise.

There were tons of flies driving us crazy. Every day there’s something to bombard you. Good and bad. Tiny purple butterflies like flying lights. Brilliant blue starlings sitting on tree branches eating the fruit left from breakfast and hundreds of moths swarming the porch lights.

TUESDAY. LATER.

2009-09-01T10:18:00.000-07:00

Impala.

There are impala at the watering hole in the clearing below the lodge. Moses calls impala “one eleven” because of the three black stripes that run down their butts. Even when the tail is up, there’s a middle stripe. One Eleven.

Game Drive.

There are so many animals today. Kili’s snowcap is visible. The moon is still in the bright sky and the base of the red and orange boulders of the granite kopies are surrounded by grazers: gazelle, zebra, hartebeest, and wildebeest.

Just as quickly as Kili reveals himself, he disappears behind the low clouds that always surround him.

Paula sits in the front seat next to Daniel. She’s wearing a safari hat, sunglasses, and her shirt collar is around her ears. The strap of her hat is pulled tightly around her chin.

Daniel says, ‘Paula, you look different today.”

“In a bad way?” Paula asks.

LATER.

Swimming. Cool water and hot sun. The pool is perfect so the guys and I take a dip and talk about Fire Island and Provincetown.

MONDAY, EVEN LATER.

2009-08-31T17:52:00.000-07:00

We’re playing a drinking game called “I never.” If you have done the suggested thing, you drink. Annie drinks the most. Water, since she’s dry, but a lot of water because she’s done almost everything we “I nevered.”

Most everyone else have been drinking dark and stormys (rum and ginger beer called Stoney Tangawizi) or gin and tonics. We end the night before dinner playing “Celebrity.” Everyone writes celebrity names on pieces of paper and puts them into the celebrity keeper, an empty cereal box.

I write “Lord Chamberlain” and “Patty LaBelle” and put them in the box with several more popular choices.

It was my turn after Cher, Princess Di and Michael Jackson fall easily out of people’s mouths. I reach in and read “Lord Chamberlain” to myself in the dim lantern light.

“For the Nazi’s in WWII” I scream.

“What?” from the crowd.

“My Blank and Ladies,” I try again.

Everyone’s yelling but not what I need to hear.

“Gay actor who played the priest in the Thorn Birds-”

Someone shouted “Richard Chamberlain.”

“Yes!”

“Time!” Yells Ron.

In the fog of alcohol I realized that I’ve picked names to stump others that have stumped me. I can’t remember a Patti LaBelle song but know that I’m going to pick her name out of the box for the next round.

MONDAY. AFTERNOON.

2009-08-30T12:15:00.000-07:00

Playing dirty scrabble with Hil. Our best game yet. There aren’t enough “c’s” to play dirty scrabble well so we cheat to stretch the game out.

Hil gets up and goes to the bathroom. Sandor walks to the couch where I’m sitting and leans over the board. I cover it with my hands.

“You don’t want to see this,” I say with a shy smile. “We’re playing dirty scrabble.”

Sandor sits on the edge of the couch and picks up letters. Looking at the board, his only concern is that we aren't playing by the rules. We put letters on top of others not caring if they make sense up and down.

“It would be a very short game if we played correctly,” I explain to Sandor.

Hil walks back into the room and mouths “w h y i s h e h e r e?” pointing at Sandor who’s concentrating on the board.

I shrug as Hil sits down. We smile at each other as Sandor sets his word down on the board.

I wish I'd have thought of it.

SUNDAY - Africa redux

2009-08-28T11:07:00.000-07:00

Relaxing day sleeping in. Clare makes Aztec soup for lunch. It's made with a broth that she put chicken, avocado, corn, tomatoes, onions, homemade chips - pretty much everything that you have in the kitchen. It's an as-you-like-it soup and we like very much.

TUESDAY, 1AM

2009-07-19T09:25:00.000-07:00

Clove cigarettes and a chat with Elena on the patio outside our room before calling it a night.

I drop the toilet seat with a bang trying to get a moth out of the bowl. I hold my breath. Paula stopped snoring. I woke her.

TUESDAY. LATER.

2009-07-18T11:51:00.000-07:00

We’ve just arrived back at ol donyo wuas and are milling around the entrance when Jonathan, one of our guides, says there are Cheetah outside the lodge. We clamor into jeeps and take off in the dark. By the time we arrive behind the others, we can see long spotted legs disappearing over a small hill among the acacias.

“You just missed three,” Greg tells us, “but one is just there.” I follow where he points and see a long cat lying under a tree. It’s stretched out casually, thin and relaxed. Exquisite.

TUESDAY, 4PM.

2009-07-17T10:43:00.000-07:00

My first mosquito bite.

The sundowner tonight is on the top of a small hill. Canvas chairs are waiting for us in a semi-circle around a large fire. With drinks in hand, we see the land stretching out before us. Every hill seems to have a secret and ancient name.

There’s a distant sound, a chorus, getting louder. Spears appear over the hill as Maasai warriors wrapped in purple and red clothe dance and sing trance-like over the horizon. There’s Daniel. Emanuel comes from behind the drink table, throws a red blanket over his shoulders and joins the walking dance, his signature smile even wider than usual.

I quickly sit down by the fire to take it all in thinking of all the white people sitting in this spot and all the Maasai proudly showing off their fierce beauty throughout time.

"Humm rumm. Humm rumm" they sing. After circling the fire the young men stand in a tight group on the far side. A warrior steps forward and starts to jump. His tall body launches from a dead stop, rigid. His walking stick in hand, he lands bending his knees only slightly to take the shock.

A young Maasai invites LeDoux to join the dance. Convinced that girls can’t play, I’m shocked when Daniel reaches for my hand, pulls me up, and walk/dances me to the group of men. I’ve watched them closely so move my neck and body as I’d seen, jutting my neck out and stamping my feet.

“Humm. Rumm,” I join the singing. “Humm. Rumm.”

When I start to jump, Daniel pulls me down. I understand that it would be bad form to jump higher than a Maasai warrior. My second jump is low. I thank Daniel and grab my drink to steady myself from the excitement before sitting down.

THURSDAY. MARKET DAY... CONTINUED

2009-07-16T07:57:00.000-07:00

It was a long exhausting trip and I’m not relaxed until the earth turns to red clay. It’s a relief after the rocky and pitted road from town. I feel even better when the red earth gives way to the black volcanic land of our mountain home.

With a shower and lunch behind me, I curl up in a chair looking at the acacia trees giving way to the open green plains and, in the great distance, Kili. I drift off listening as Kip and Michael talk as they put a puzzle together on the coffee table next to me. The hurricane lamps are lit. Hilary and Ed sit on the couch nearby and talk of love and loss.

THURSDAY. MARKET DAY.

2009-07-15T09:26:00.000-07:00

Ostriches.

Zebra.

Kori Bustard. Because they are so heavy, they tend to walk more than fly. Bustard means birds that walk.

It’s a long bumpy jeep ride before we arrive at the Maasai village and the open air market. I’m uncomfortable because I feel like a rich American among the poor Maasai. It’s as if anything the West brings only works if it’s money. Western clothes—jeans and t-shirts—look dirty and dingy. Traditional Maasai clothes are bright and colorful red and purple wraps that look beautiful against the dark skin and long limbs of the Maasai. The women wear elaborate beads and the warriors carry walking sticks or spears. I see Moses, my favorite guide, wearing a green linen shirt and pressed pants and realize that what they wear is irrelevant. Guides are paid pretty well. So, again, it comes down to money.

Schools and medicine are always welcome. We visited a few schools on our way to the market. The religion that paid for the school becomes the faith of the students. Presbyterian. Catholic. Lutheran.

Now that I want to spend my dollars at the market, I realize that I’ve foolishly spent all of my money at the little shop at the lodge. All I can do is admire the bright fabric and the Artful Dodger, Stephen, who charms and smiles for the most gum and trinkets from our party.

After wandering through the market looking at coffee, potatoes, clothes, shoes, sandals made of tires, bright patterned fabric, and children wanting, we go to the cattle market where the men are packed in a corral buying and selling cattle and goats.

Clare buys a dark brown goat for the staff at the lodge. It’s a beautiful little thing and I’m afraid it will be slaughtered and served for our dinner. LeDoux thinks the same thing so we decided to ride in a different jeep on the return trip. We ride with Moses.

The Range Rover dies a few times on the way home, once when Moses stops for me to pee behind a huge tree called the wait-a-minute because the branches catch on your clothes and stop you in your tracks until someone comes to release you from its grip. Moses being Moses, jumps the gears and gets us going from a dead stop. With the Chyulu Hills in sight, we see a group of ostrich and Moses slows down.

“Don’t stop,” We yell. “We don’t need to stop!”

WEDNESDAY.

2009-07-14T10:11:00.000-07:00

A lone Grants Gazelle on the prairie. Larks and shrikes in the trees. A pale chanting Goshawk looks like an eagle but with a yellow beak and gray feathers.

Moses lets Hilary drive the Range Rover and they sing, “Jambo. Jambo Bwana. Hakuna Matata.” We bounce in the jeep past Acadia trees on our way home as the sun goes down.

TUESDAY P.M. GAME DRIVE.

2009-07-13T09:37:00.000-07:00

Wattled Starlings—light grey with yellow around the eyes.
Oryx.
Gerenuk.

On the drive home from the sundowner, it’s dark but the sky is ablaze with the Southern Cross. A giraffe appears on the road in front of us. It runs in our headlights as we drive slowly behind it. Curve after curve of the road go under the giraffe’s hooves as it gallops in the dim beams of light. I think that it’s frightened.

TUESDAY A.M.

2009-07-12T12:05:00.000-07:00

Bats have been reported in rooms, but so far, my roommate, Elena, and I haven’t been visited. Not true for Paula and Hilary. They share our house and had a bat this morning. Hilary’s named him George Clooney.

“You wouldn’t mind having him visit your bedroom,” she said.

After breakfast of papaya, mango, oranges, cereal, eggs, toast, muffins, sausage, bacon, coffee and tea, I talk with Wilson, the chef, and Isaac, who work in the kitchen.

He tells me that he thinks Al Gore is a good man.

“Yes,” I say, “He would have been a great president.”

Isaac, a guide, thinks that Gore can’t ever be the president because he lost an election, but I assure them that he could. He should.

I say, “We don’t like George Bush.” That’s probably not true of everyone on the trip, but I’m generalizing in Africa.

“How is your president?” I ask.

“He is a good man,” says Wilson. He explains that at least this Kenyan president spends some of the country’s development money on the people.

“Corruption is always a problem,” adds Isaac.

Sandor calls for a morning game drive.

ZEBRA.

2009-07-11T11:17:00.000-07:00

Grants Gazelles stand in a patch of sun with perfect twisted horns. Moses says that they lose their black stripe as they get older.

We’re a little tired after an afternoon game drive under the African sun. Driving toward Kilimanjaro, Ron yelps as a butterfly flies into his face, searing his cheek. We’re looking at Ron when tiny specks in the distance suddenly grow. Our first herd of Zebra. And Gazelle. Wildebeest. Hartebeest. There were none and then there were many. I know Zebra from zoos and pictures. But they look more unnatural in the wild. Like black and white striped cartoon animals sticking out from the green. Moses points out the Wildebeest and Hartebeest before giving us a lesson.

Kongoni or Coke’s hartebeest can go up to two months without water. On the open plains we see two light brown and white rumps. The one with the bulging sides is pregnant. The other might be the mate. We like to think they are partners.

Zebra are non-ruminant animals like horses, and wildebeest are ruminants like cows. The animals graze together because they eat different parts of the grass. Their teeth grow in the opposite direction so they aren’t competing for the same food.

Zebras live in family groups with the stallions at the head. Their call of flight and call to gather the herd sounds like a donkey’s bray. At least the movie donkeys that I’m familiar with. Zebra stripes are like fingerprints. Moses says that the black stripes have fat underneath them that absorb heat and the white stripes repel heat so they regulate their temperature, making them drought resistant.

Africa is an evolution soup.

Bethlehem skies flood the plains as light filters through the clouds. We are surrounded by hundreds of Zebras. Two little ones wag their striped tales against their striped butts. We drive closer and a group of black and white heads looks up and walk toward us.

Everyone can’t help but squeak, “They’re so cute.”

Another mighty and goofy wildebeest shows up and bucks and twists as he runs. It’s a crazy, energy wasting way to move, more like be-wilder-beast, comic and outrageous. Legend has it that the wildebeest was the last of God’s creations so was made with the spare parts of other animals. Its head is a buffalo’s. The lump on its back is a cow’s. And it runs like a horse.

The herd is on the move as a low thunder of hooves surrounds us like wind would sound if it landed.

Moses tells us that the Burchell zebra, or common zebra, were named after the first naturalist to visit South Africa in the early 1800s, William John Burchell. The Grevy zebra was named after the President of France in 1882, Jules Grevy. I have lots of questions, but I let them go not wanting to break the spell the zebras have over me.

On our way to the lodge, back to the now-familiar trees of the Chyulu Hills, we see a bright blue roller and an orange bird with a long beak. Moses picks up a dung beetle for Ron.

From the elephant to the beetle, it’s as if the baffling worlds of cosmology and molecular biology surrounds and confounds us at every turn.

Giraffic Park

2009-07-10T11:25:00.000-07:00

Paula Calls it “Giraffic Park.”

Butcher birds. They skewer their bait on a thorn and save the kills to eat later.

Small thistle trees are thick on the side of a hill. The branches are short and packed with needles and dark hollow balls that house ant colonies. Moses pulls the jeep along side a tree. It’s barely as tall as the wheels and as Moses pulls on one of the long thorns, ants swarm out of the ball. Moses says they emit a nasty smell to keep animals away. The holes in the balls make a whistle when the wind passes bye. The giraffe are experts at eating the tiny leaves and don’t bother the ants.

Moses drives around the trees in a zig zag up the hill occasionally running over one of the smaller ones. They pop up defiantly behind us as we move up the hill.

Ah giraffe. It’s a family. They are vaguely curious about the small jeep but, without a natural predator, indifferent to us. With a slow glance, they return to feeding on the trees or move further up the hill.

We can see LeDoux, Annie, and the boys walking across the plain and all giraffe necks turn lazily to watch the low creatures make their way past.

We end the day with drinks in hand on one of the volcanic hills overlooking the valley. Nothing man-made can be seen forever. It’s a revelation.

Just for Lowell - Kenya

2009-07-09T12:41:00.000-07:00

We no sooner drop our things at the lodge than a jeep ride is arranged. Paula, Pam, Craig, Ron, Clare and I clamor into the open Range Rover. Our guide and tracker, Moses, stops to show us plants and birds along the black lava road winding through the hills thick with Acadia trees and brush. Clare and I immediately start using the rough leaves from the sandpaper bush to file our nails. We chew on bark from the toothbrush tree. It’s also good for treating malaria we’re told. There’s a peace tree that the Maasai place around their homes when there is conflict with family or neighbors.

Ron spies what he thinks is a small animal but turns out to be a pile of elephant dung. We stop the jeep and look down. Dung beetles are working on the pile rolling the dung into perfect balls. They use their back legs to push the balls of dung down the road until they find a good place to lay their eggs.

Ron accepts the beetle as his logical totem.

We approach another Land Rover and Moses talks to the driver who has seen elephants. After driving in small circles over bushes and trees trampled by an elephant and littered with dung near by, we turn a corner and stop short. 100 yards away stands an elephant. He raises his trunk in alarm and a trumpet of anger and warning comes our way.

I’m terrified. Moses turns off the engine.

Clare wants to know if the elephant is mad. In a loud whisper, Pamela tells Clare to be quiet. I’m thinking that if it’s like a dog, the elephant knows I’m scared. Will it charge? It’s so close and my heart is pounding so hard I think the jeep is rocking. Suddenly there is a rustling from a tree that I didn’t notice until it starts to make noise. Another elephant emerges aggressively rubbing the tree with his body. Once he clears the tree in front of us, he backs up and shits. Great, two elephants to attack us. I see two tusked elephants on the day of arrival and we’re tragically stampeded to death.

I’m thinking how ironic this is when the elephants start butting into each other.

Clare asking Pam in a loud whisper, “Are they playing or fighting?”

“Are they playing or fighting?”

Pam says, “Fighting.”

They push their enormous bulk into each other, clashing tusks and flapping their ears. Their mighty legs push first in one direction and then another. Acacia trees tremble. Their movements are strangely quiet except for what Clare later describes as the hollow sound of tusks cracking together like baseball bats. Moses says they are adolescent males fighting for dominance. This becomes a theme during our trip.

We can’t take our eyes off the slow motion battle of bulk. One of the elephants grabs a chunk of tree and throws it.

Ron whispers, “He just threw a tree at him!”

My fear changes to excitement as the elephant battle moves further into the bush. When separated, their heads roll around, their ears flap and tusks rise and fall in circles in the air. The fight continues.

Moses starts the engine and we move closer.

Kenya Journal May 2006

2009-07-09T10:04:00.001-07:00

I've decided to publish my journal from a trip to Africa. It's summer but travel seems out of the question, so I wanted to remember a special trip in May of 2006.

Day One. Elephants.

Kenya, Africa.

My terror of flying was exhausted after 18 hours in the air, so I was almost calm on the 45-minute puddle jumper from Nairobi to ol donyo wuas in southern Kenya even with the wind taking fierce stabs at the plane.

Twenty-five hours to get here and what a here to be. Green and noisy with life: birds, bugs, green plains stretch out dotted with trees and then the hills. The pilot, James, says the hills are covered with green Acacia trees and bushes because of a steady cloud cover. Where the clouds end on the Chyulu Hills, the tree line ends abruptly and the plains begin. It’s nothing like I expected Africa to look. It’s the end of the rainy season and the earth is full.

Africa. The cradle of civilization. The mother of us all. With one exception, the dominance of Mount Kilimanjaro in the distance is Africa’s son (it’s in Tanzania).