tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21168436448605840992024-03-05T19:34:36.871-08:00RocketManLAmusic movies love laughterRocketManLAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12085856145517949665noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116843644860584099.post-17074665763423091862015-07-24T15:00:00.000-07:002015-07-24T22:03:59.255-07:00Flashback Friday. The summer of 1981, and I’m Coming Out on the Edge of Seventeen<div class="MsoNormal">
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The summer of 1981. I grew up on a farm in Northern Alberta, Canada and I went to high school in Edmonton, the provincial capital. At 17, I graduated high school in May. I turned
18 in June. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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I had known I was attracted to men for many years; my first crushes were Donny Osmond and then David Cassidy. The first
time I fell in love with someone (as much as you could call it that) was with a
boy named Dale, and we were in the 9<sup>th</sup> grade. He had sort of a page
boy haircut and I fantasized about him, but I never said anything to him. And in
junior high school, my band teacher had a short dark brown beard and blonde
hair; he looked like Kenny Loggins. The kids would gossip that he was gay,
which fueled my fantasies. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had such a
crush on him I could barely talk to him. I’m sure he thought I was an idiot
because I could never speak intelligibly in his presence. <o:p></o:p><br />
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But for 10<sup>th</sup> grade, my Mom took me out of that
rural school and put me into an academic school in the city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For the first few months she drove me, but once
I turned 16 I got my drivers license; my dad spent $200 and bought me a used
powder blue 1966 Ford Fairlane from one of his friends for my birthday. I was
mortified, but I put in an awesome (cassette) sound system, and, more
importantly, I was no longer stuck on the farm. <o:p></o:p><br />
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My high school friends were Sarah and Caroline. We had been
in school together for three years, we were the same age (within a few months),
we had the same taste in music (they were the ones who introduced me to The Police, The Boomtown Rats and David Bowie), and we loved going out dancing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was the only one who had a car, so I was
more or less the leader. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I had been working in a record store for a year (my last
year of high school I went half days, and worked in the store from noon til 9.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two of my all-time favorite records were
released that month; Stevie Nicks “Bella Donna” had the opening song, ‘Edge of
Seventeen” and even though I had just turned 18, I was technically still on
(albeit, the other) edge of seventeen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Rickie Lee Jones’ second album, Pirates, was released on July 15<sup>th</sup>,
and I played that record so much I literally wore it out and had to buy another
copy. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The manager of the record store was Roger, and his boyfriend
was the DJ at a gay bar downtown, The Roost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Even though me and my friends had been going to clubs for a year (we
were under age, but we could usually get in). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We never drank at the clubs, because it would
have been pushing it to get drinks at the bar. But once I turned 18, Roger took
me down to the club, to “see the sound system.” which was amazing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>we would take certain records to see how they
sounded. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He also gave me my first real
drink, a screwdriver, which was orange juice and vodka. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I drank a LOT of screwdrivers.<o:p></o:p><br />
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The club decided to try me out as a DJ, and I did
“alternative” nights; I think it was Thursdays. As a rule, the club played pure
gay disco all the time. I had my one night where I played, at the time what was
called “new wave” music . . .<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Duran
Duran, The Pretenders, Human League, the Police, Gary Numan, Joe Jackson,
Blondie, Boomtown Rats, etc. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would
also “stand in” for the other DJ’s when they needed a break (which was actually
very stressful). So I was there a lot, but I was still “in the closet”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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<i>this was me in the summer of 1981. note the Bella Donna poster and the 45 sleeve for "Stop Draggin My Heart Around" on the wall. I was wearing very tight Calvin Klein jeans and that olive leather bomber jacket was with me for at least a decade.</i> <i> You can also see, in the window, my second cat. And a ceramic elephant I painted. </i></div>
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One day, and I don’t honestly remember the day very much,
but they had a gay pride celebration; it would have been Saturday, July 25,
1981. I know there wasn’t a parade (that would have been too much for the area,
and the time) but there were actually three gay bars downtown, within a few
blocks of each other, and I recall they had some string of events that afternoon,
which my friends and I went to see. <o:p></o:p></div>
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That evening, we were dancing (and drinking) at the Roost. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was this young man who had the most
beautiful eyes I’d ever seen. Dark hair, and dark 5 o’clock shadow. He would
not stop staring at me, and finally, fueled by several screwdrivers, I actually talked to him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His name was Robbie. And as the
night began to taper out, he asked me to go home with him. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYn__Y5COQGm7IiQGJOWqOVZdnruW3zi4fN_FkMM6P4w6ftoq1ib_tIG4MPxaVQanOMwW7g0TE_EJh90V8ylEikcY46O5Wagf_2W5sYjBiJfx4lwCB3bS4yxGYzNq1iC16TLKpTrHIS7E/s1600/RCR7153472.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYn__Y5COQGm7IiQGJOWqOVZdnruW3zi4fN_FkMM6P4w6ftoq1ib_tIG4MPxaVQanOMwW7g0TE_EJh90V8ylEikcY46O5Wagf_2W5sYjBiJfx4lwCB3bS4yxGYzNq1iC16TLKpTrHIS7E/s320/RCR7153472.jpg" width="223" /></a><br />
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<i>this was my friend Sarah with one of my two cats </i></div>
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Well, my friends Sarah and Caroline were there, as was my boss and his
boyfriend the DJ. I just told them, this guy here doesn’t have a car and I’m
going to drive him home. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was more
nervous about telling them, than anything. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So I drove Robbie home, and he asked me in, and we were both
pretty drunk, so not much happened. I remember him asking me if this was my
first time, and, of course it was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
that put a damper on things for him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So
we more or less just kissed and cuddled, and, yeah I did taste my first wiener.
Dark and musky, as I recall. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and it
seemed massive. But we fell asleep, and at some point I got up and drove myself
home. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The next morning, my friends called me to see what happened,
and I told them. Sarah said, “so I guess that makes you a cock sucker then,
huh.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was mortified. She obviously
realized what she’d said (and Caroline was in the room with her) and she said,
“well, we’ve all sucked a little cock, so don’t worry about it.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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Growing up on a farm, my Dad was pretty much always drunk. I
seriously don’t recall a single day when he wasn’t. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was also fairly mean, and never held back
on what he thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of his favorite
words to call people he didn’t like was “cock sucker,” which never made sense
to me because I thought straight guys LIKED having their cocks sucked. Which
would mean a “cock sucker” would be a desirable thing to have around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But by his tone, when he called people that,
it never seemed complimentary.<br />
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Robbie and I never really connected. Over that summer, the lid to the box had been blown off and was never going back on. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I “dated” several guys, and had several “first times” in various forms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My first boyfriend was Danny; he hung around a lot and he was amazing, but he was a drug addict (and I wasn’t) so it was never meant to last.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there were, as they say, plenty of fish in the sea, and I was in fresh meat.</div>
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The single that stands out for me, is “Feels Like I’m in Love”
by Kelly Marie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Technically it was
released in 1980, but it was still being played every night in the clubs that
summer, and it was my “coming out” song.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I still get a bolt of excitement every time I play (DJ) that song, and
it means a lot to me, as do my two favorite albums from that summer.<br />
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Oh, and, a couple years later, my band teacher was at the Roost, recognized me, and ASKED ME TO DANCE. But, i was so nervous, I said no.<br />
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©2015 RocketManLA Rod Reynolds </div>
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RocketManLAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12085856145517949665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116843644860584099.post-64900997904936545472012-09-15T16:13:00.003-07:002012-09-15T16:13:44.086-07:0033 years ago: I saw the first night of the ABBA Voulez Vous tour<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It was the summer of 1979, for my 16th birthday my Dad bought me my first car, a powder blue 1966 Ford Fairlane. The stereo I installed in it cost more than the car. The stereo ROCKED. </div>
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<a href="http://arizonafoothillsmagazine.com/autos/wp-content/uploads/2011/12/1966-Ford-Fairlane-blue-silver-scottsdale-phoenix-Arizona-valley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="196" id="il_fi" src="http://arizonafoothillsmagazine.com/autos/wp-content/uploads/2011/12/1966-Ford-Fairlane-blue-silver-scottsdale-phoenix-Arizona-valley.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="320" /></a></div>
The ABBA single, 'Does Your Mother Know,' came out a few weeks before the Voulez-Vous album, and was my favorite song in a year of favorite songs. I played the 45 over and over, dreaming that Benny (who I had a crush on) was singing it to me (I know, Bjorn sings it, but I didn't know that then). I loved the album. I played it endlessly. Every song was great (and still is). For many many years I named "Voulez Vous" as my favorite ABBA album. The radio station started playing 'Summer Night City" and it went Number One, and it hadn't even been officially released.<br />
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Then they announced the tour was opening in my city (Edmonton, Alberta, Canada) and the hysteria was unbelievable. It was all over the radio and newspapers. People literally came from all over the world. It was so exciting. ABBA was front page news (these newspaper scans are the original newspaper articles I have saved all these years). The tickets were $12.50. Today those tickets would easily be $250 face value.<br />
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Note: Click on the photos to make them larger)<br />
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This photo was on the front page of the Edmonton Sun the day after the show. It was printed in red as shown.<br />
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This was on the front page of the entertainment section of the Edmonton Journal when ABBA arrived in town for rehearsals. Sept 11, 1979<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjybWqJ3_g8gfrwn5W4oRpA7WoO0ArZ6sn20aj6qkJtzcvqp3zBGmWLBNfP3rKFspv_QsjsON-i2R6OBrk8wIt9xFWkbixr8L1qFbQlpVUjmF5vB3mknw5sSy8bEuNbY3DhMU8p6jArRaI/s1600/abba979j.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjybWqJ3_g8gfrwn5W4oRpA7WoO0ArZ6sn20aj6qkJtzcvqp3zBGmWLBNfP3rKFspv_QsjsON-i2R6OBrk8wIt9xFWkbixr8L1qFbQlpVUjmF5vB3mknw5sSy8bEuNbY3DhMU8p6jArRaI/s320/abba979j.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Interestingly enough, when I was scanning the page, I noticed on the back an ad for ABBA the Movie; this was at a repertory theatre that played "art films."<br />
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And this is the review from the Edmonton Sun, Friday Sept 14, 1979. sorry the bottom is torn off.<br />
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The only thing I remember about it was the opening ROAR, when the lights went down in the Coliseum, was unbelievable; I've never heard anything like it before or since. The whole place literally shook. My friend and I didn't have very good seats so I couldn't really see anything, but I do remember the stage show, the backdrops of the Polar mountains, and the light up ABBA logo. I bought the program at the time, but have long since lost it.<br />
<br />
31 years is more than a lifetime for some people. Think about all that has happened, all the people who were born, married, divorced, died. All the places I lived, all the people I loved. It's mind-boggling. It<br />
makes me really sad, and really happy at the same time.<br />
<br />
Rod Reynolds<br />
Los Angeles CA USA ©2012<br />
RocketManLAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12085856145517949665noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116843644860584099.post-18736906762086041992012-04-23T01:28:00.001-07:002012-04-23T01:28:55.850-07:00I Took Jesus to Jail - Is A Course in Miracles REALLY practical?<style>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitM9nPwSVYcCRSJzVl4byRIgKb1-vRqHCM7hrU6WsWoprFlXLlBx-gSV0yMnim9pFdoNo1opClSiPa74bL_a8d1z8c1bZAauyH7rR59M5AaUWQ5LGL1tWlM2xulKZZcA109PHjOxAKUDA/s1600/GQ+Jesus.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitM9nPwSVYcCRSJzVl4byRIgKb1-vRqHCM7hrU6WsWoprFlXLlBx-gSV0yMnim9pFdoNo1opClSiPa74bL_a8d1z8c1bZAauyH7rR59M5AaUWQ5LGL1tWlM2xulKZZcA109PHjOxAKUDA/s320/GQ+Jesus.gif" width="229" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Twenty years ago, when Marianne Williamson was so successful
in Los Angeles, I went to all her lectures and did A Course in Miracles a
couple of times through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then she
went away for many years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When she
returned to L.A. just over two years ago, I started the Course Workbook again,
and have attended every one of Marianne’s lectures and workshops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Marianne often says ACIM prides itself on being practical; so
this idea of taking the spiritual principles and applying them - can A Course
in Miracles work when you are arrested in a sting for prostitution? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I worked for many years in music doing graphic design,
marketing and promotion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the
music industry collapsed a few years ago, and after a couple of years of getting
no work, I had to let go of my career, and did a practical inventory to
determine what do next.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I now do several
things: DJ-ing, graphic design, photography, handyman work, cleaning and organizing,
refinishing furniture, reading exams for the disabled, massage and body
grooming. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It might sound
pretentious, but I realized (through ACIM) that my goal on earth is to help
people (extend love), and each of these activities meets this criteria. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The other day, though, one of these part-time jobs landed me
behind bars. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The moment the undercover cops threw me to the ground and
handcuffed me, I began praying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
was praying to be safe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, to be
honest, I was praying (more like begging) to go back in time five minutes and
make a different decision.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
girl who met me on the sidewalk— in front of the building where I would soon be
arrested— seemed nice and I was just being polite, a common Canadian trait. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought she wanted a massage, she said
she wanted a massage; I had absolutely no intention of having sex with her. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Tell it to the
judge.”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The quick realization that she was not who she was
pretending to be, ACIM reminds me, does not mean that she is not a good, or
innocent person, and I am trying hard not to judge her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She and her team are just doing a job; luring
people in under (it seems to me) flimsy and/or false pretenses, and arresting
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thirty minutes later, they’re on to the next one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They don’t know my name, I’m merely a
statistic for their monthly quota.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One of the herd.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They don’t
know or care what happens to me, or what effect this will have on my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thirty minutes later, I am in a holding cell downtown, handcuffed,
with no money, no phone, no shoelaces and no idea what just happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This incident will be with me, haunt
me, upset me for the rest of my life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It will be pondered, re-told, hushed away, hidden in a box, an
embarrassment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And being from
another country, I could actually be deported.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After living in L.A. for nearly 23 years, I have no place to
go back to in Canada.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They may as
well ship me to Mexico or Germany.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At least, in Canada I can speak the language (plus there’s socialized
health care). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCQCvwus3ueQL8bjvq-uxuL1MWC2QUnIGIuNI4jfX7gMVFAk8IusuB8Y0ssnwvopeat5Q36sXFh2wRgQmmLXiF1HvUoi72Fw_dNoe-swjzNzQivkyuyOoDkyxYP9W7EeXz7ojitWyC52k/s1600/Jesus-Christ100.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCQCvwus3ueQL8bjvq-uxuL1MWC2QUnIGIuNI4jfX7gMVFAk8IusuB8Y0ssnwvopeat5Q36sXFh2wRgQmmLXiF1HvUoi72Fw_dNoe-swjzNzQivkyuyOoDkyxYP9W7EeXz7ojitWyC52k/s320/Jesus-Christ100.jpg" width="320" /></a>Plus I am now facing a minimum of $4000 in lawyer fees, or
more if it goes to trial.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
AND I’m out of one of my more lucrative jobs. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
So this girl - I must see her as a beautiful innocent child
of God. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to assume she is
doing something she feels is important.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Snagging people off the streets who illegally massage other people and putting
them behind bars (or deportation) “where they belong”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have to assume that she thinks she is
doing the best for all concerned. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is her career; no one is forcing her to do this, it must
be her choice. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Marianne would say, when you can’t see it, pray:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lord,
I cannot see the innocence in this person. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know it must be there, so I surrender my thoughts about her
to You</i>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lord, I can’t see the
purpose in this situation, so I surrender my thoughts about this to You.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am willing to see this differently. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I am not a victim of
the world I see. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lord, I can’t see
that now, because I sure feel like a victim right now. But yes, I am willing to
see this differently. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am more
than willing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am begging to see
this differently</i>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In jail, I am stripped of everything but my clothes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no idea what to expect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have never been arrested before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am terrified that I will be
deported.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am allowed access to a
phone, but in the age of cell phones that are smarter than you, I previously had
no need to and therefore can’t remember anyone’s phone number. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no idea how long I might be in
jail. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s Friday night. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">There
is no court until Monday morning. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
will probably be here at least that long. OMFG. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have things planned for that evening: a quick and easy massage
client, $120 in my pocket, hit the gym, and then a movie. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A good kick off to the weekend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The next day, I have several appointments, errands and
obligations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sunday, I am to pick
my cousin Barbara at LAX.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have
no way to call her. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no way
to even check what time she is coming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Even if I could remember a phone number to have someone pick her up, I still
would have no idea what her phone number is in Canada.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I picture her standing on the sidewalk at
LAX with her luggage, calling my cell phone, no answer, no idea what is going
on. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe eventually taking a cab
to my house, MAYBE finding a key, VERY confused and frightened in a city where
she knows only one person, and no way to find me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiMNRKzBrR2hajBGhsdtxyJkD0GRpxRdOG08e8uJAOXuhyKL-1PGzFHd8QrH7zDjN7FR_5NgayTYaPbHMsrexBplkGlc7ChQP6jXgS05zMMb0-6zOBfIkuE111fMBrqi4HXcPq_YoJQPU/s1600/timthumb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiMNRKzBrR2hajBGhsdtxyJkD0GRpxRdOG08e8uJAOXuhyKL-1PGzFHd8QrH7zDjN7FR_5NgayTYaPbHMsrexBplkGlc7ChQP6jXgS05zMMb0-6zOBfIkuE111fMBrqi4HXcPq_YoJQPU/s320/timthumb.jpg" width="320" /></a>I am terrified that I will be deported.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>W<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hat
happens if they keep me until Monday morning and then put me on a bus to
Winnipeg Monday afternoon?</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Would I be allowed to go home and get my stuff?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What would I do about my cat?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What would happen to my possessions?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Could I somehow get everything shipped
to Canada?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How much would that cost?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And my truck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d left it parked on Wilshire in Koreatown, my camera,
wallet, iPad, laptop, and jacket, all inside, on the seat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If it sits there all night, would someone
break into it and steal my electronics and wallet?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the morning, when there is no parking allowed, my truck
would get ticketed and towed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where
would they tow it to?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How would I
get my truck back?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My wallet is in
my truck; how would I get my wallet back? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tremendous anxiety begins to completely overwhelm me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wonder what would happen if I started
to cry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I haven’t cried in fifteen years. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I think, as I often do: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What would Marianne say?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The only thing I need
to be saved from is my insane thinking about this, which would keep me in
pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>None of this is real</i>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This feels very real.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The handcuffs on my wrists feel very real.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This feels real on the mortal plane, but I know that my true
Self (with a capital S) cannot be harmed here. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">OK. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Breathe.</i> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not sure how reassuring that is right now. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">All of this is
happening in my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All my fears
and worries are about what could possibly happen in the future.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t do anything about the past. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t do anything about the future</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Right now, I am alone, locked in a small concrete room,
sitting on a metal bed, with a very thin army blanket; <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">if there were even a slight breeze in here, it would blow right through
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>There is no breeze, however.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a metal toilet/sink combo attached
to the wall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing in here can
hurt me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And nothing outside
myself can save me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am locked in
here and cannot leave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have
literally NO OPTIONS.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I may as
well be here in this moment, rather than worrying about what possibly could
happen in the future, rather than wishing I could go back in time those five
minutes and tell the girl on the sidewalk, “No, thanks, I have to get to the
gym.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmkVxjDelX9Tsa3JJARXQz7pHoqGGy-iBbWm1yA2JNb2tPqEW9eLWYywoTFF80CiOtkHhusb7b6ZtCFLrYxTQ63gcaCco-8m0JEp_16_VBHP9Xhulkl9RLId5wpr6ayDT1Nzg1T-uukMk/s1600/marianne-williamson-385x578.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmkVxjDelX9Tsa3JJARXQz7pHoqGGy-iBbWm1yA2JNb2tPqEW9eLWYywoTFF80CiOtkHhusb7b6ZtCFLrYxTQ63gcaCco-8m0JEp_16_VBHP9Xhulkl9RLId5wpr6ayDT1Nzg1T-uukMk/s320/marianne-williamson-385x578.png" width="213" /></a>Marianne quotes Blaise Pascal, “All the problems in the
world stem from our inability to sit quietly in a room alone.” Okay, so here I
am in a room with nothing but my thoughts. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Let’s do this.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I try to shut my mind down. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I take a deep breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I listen for Marianne’s voice:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I see a little ball of golden
light.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I see it grow larger
and larger until it covers the entire inner vision of the room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I see the light spill out into the
hallway and into the street, surrounding the building.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is a rectangular slot in the door and I can see men
outside in the hallway, in the booking department, the policemen and other
prisoners, many of whom appear to be in much worse condition than I am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I see each of these people as innocent
children of God.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I blast them with
love and light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pray for the
other prisoners, who are probably not having their best day either. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although, who am I to know? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is clear that in the scheme of
things, within 100 feet of where I am sitting, there are others who are in much
worse predicaments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And, they don’t have the luxury of Marianne talking to them
in their heads, attempting to calm them down. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Part of my daily morning meditation— and every time I leave
the house, meet a client, enter a room, or get on the freeway— is, “May I be an
instrument of light to every person I see, talk to or think about.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I surround myself in white light and
protection, and a small regulation grey blanket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the cell I lie down and try to sleep (which proves to be
impossible) and pray for God to keep me safe and to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">please allow me to be released soon</i>. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This all feels so wrong though. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Am I a criminal?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Am I a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">prostitute</i>?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had no intention of having sex with
that woman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She replied to my online
ad via text; I thought she was a guy who wanted a massage. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I agreed to a massage. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Standing on Wilshire, she never
mentioned the word, “massage.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or
sex.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Confounding, vexing,
unfathomable… </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are no clocks, no TV, no radio, no newspaper, no
magazines, no iPad, no cell <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>phone
- nothing to do, nothing to read, nothing to look at except either the blank industrial
yellow concrete wall or the inside of my eyelids. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no idea what time it is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one says anything to me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a constant murmur of voices outside, but I can’t
understand a word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I decide there is
nothing I can do, so there is no point in planning. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In that, there is a relative wave of freedom. For some reason
unbeknownst to me, the universe wants me to be here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That seems pretty clear, because at this point there are no
options.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I must sit quietly in a
room alone with my thoughts. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I must control my thoughts, because when I let them get
away, they go into fear, and I start to hyperventilate. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hours later, there is a knock on the door and the guard says,
“Get up, they are releasing you.” I sign a small blue form, which looks like nothing
more than a speeding ticket, and they give me back my phone and shoelaces and
car keys. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“There’s the door.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have no idea where I am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tell the lady at the door that I need
to get to Wilshire and Vermont. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
says it’s too far to walk, but she waves, “it’s that way.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I step out into the night. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s 4am and I’m traversing downtown. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t stop to put my shoelaces back in
my sneakers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just walk as fast
as I can.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to get away. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I walk fast enough maybe I can make
it never happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just want to
get to my truck and back home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
don’t know where I am going.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m a
little scared, but the relief of having being released is overwhelming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">If
I can just find a hotel, they will have cabs in front, and I can get back to my
truck, which hopefully hasn’t been broken into.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>WHY did I just get it detailed?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because Barbara was coming, and I wanted it to look nice and
it looks so brand new.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>WHY did I
leave my laptop on the seat? Because I thought I’d be back in an hour. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the largest question: WHY did my angels,
my spirits, my instincts not warn me that something was amiss with this woman who
had started chatting me up on the sidewalk several hours earlier. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This one I can’t get past. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had done my Workbook lesson that morning (and every
morning).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My prayer, every morning
is, “Where would You have me go?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What would You have me do? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What would You have me say, and to whom?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve been clean and sober for decades, and
try at all times to be quiet enough to hear the small still voice for God.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have a great therapist and a
wonderful spiritual advisor/astrologer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’ve spent years studying A Course in Miracles, Science of Mind, Seth, Ramtha,
Louise Hay, Shirley MacLaine, Esther and Jerry Hicks, Richard Bach, John Gray, Wayne
Dyer, et al.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m supposedly all
spiritual and in touch with my feelings and senses and open to the whispers of
the angels: “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Don’t turn down that
street,”</i> and I avoid hitting a little old lady. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Don’t go out to a
movie tonight</i>,” and I end up being home and getting an important phone
call.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those messages I get.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those messages I pay attention to. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But when I’m just being polite to this young Latina girl on
the sidewalk, saying, “Okay, I’ll give you a massage,” - not because I’m
interested, but because I’m being a nice person.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yes, I can use the money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, it was confusing. But there were no alarm bells going
off in the back of my head: “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Just say no.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is a trap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t do this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just walk away.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>Nothing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuc39Eh9sVFXSgkV26xbdTtGIYNFVF4pMd2LWQ_4WzfUyiqDc9qQOeuu7jFh0iycnBw7UMyoOdKOrn9zFXyDkm702GgJEkdaQuTdyDmO9_LwBV-J2tHoPK-SR7W24jahUclKFXn1e0B44/s1600/jesus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuc39Eh9sVFXSgkV26xbdTtGIYNFVF4pMd2LWQ_4WzfUyiqDc9qQOeuu7jFh0iycnBw7UMyoOdKOrn9zFXyDkm702GgJEkdaQuTdyDmO9_LwBV-J2tHoPK-SR7W24jahUclKFXn1e0B44/s320/jesus.jpg" width="320" /></a>A Course in Miracles would say, “Blessed are those who
believe when they cannot see.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a reason for all this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lord, I cannot see the
reason for all this, but I am willing to see this differently.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lord, do not allow me to close my heart
to this woman, these cops who arrested me, the lawyers who want thousands of
dollars to “fix it,” the people who will judge me or discriminate against me
because I now have a criminal record, and am “in the system.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I get pulled over for making an
illegal U-turn, the arrest record will come up. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I am heir to the laws of the world that I identify with.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In that world, I am a criminal and a
prostitute. I know my true Self is neither of these things. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can I choose not to identify with that
world, when every computer associated with this incident will want to prove me
wrong? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The only righteous way to respond is to realize this is a
call for love on their part.” Lord, please allow me to see these people through
the eyes of Jesus, who would stand back and say, “I like ‘em!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am not a victim of the world. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I must take 100% responsibility for this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All things are echoes of the voice for God. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
These people were sent from central casting. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“All who are destined to meet shall meet and all who meet
are destined to meet.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is up to
me whether they are my crucifier or savior, depending on what I choose to be to
them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can I choose to be a savior
to this undercover cop who lured me in with a lie and had me arrested?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How could I possibly be a savior to
her? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can she be a savior to
me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It feels right now that I am being
crucified. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I guess I am a savior to her because I am a collar for her,
one of several that evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
can send in her monthly report: “I arrested 37 deviants that evening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cleaned up the city of illicit back
rubs.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQk9FcQX1VWUHS1WRszzPGtB5GKocoMZVHMrZX4F40ghQaZ6QqTyIuGRO7OE30zqxCkMUL0m-8hc9EcGi6RJRRt9YRHBDgUoHe8ToKwVMPFPXcaxHl1sHstzDnkkdW8VfNsRk6Me4hnCs/s1600/jesusR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQk9FcQX1VWUHS1WRszzPGtB5GKocoMZVHMrZX4F40ghQaZ6QqTyIuGRO7OE30zqxCkMUL0m-8hc9EcGi6RJRRt9YRHBDgUoHe8ToKwVMPFPXcaxHl1sHstzDnkkdW8VfNsRk6Me4hnCs/s320/jesusR.jpg" width="255" /></a>Who do I have to be to be a person who can be bigger than
this, who can laugh it off?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who
can say, “I can absorb the loss,” of thousands of dollars in lawyer’s fees and
even more in lost income?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Right now, it doesn’t seem fair. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s hitting where it hurts - in the pocket book, and in the
threat of being deported and losing my life here.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I am willing to let go of my perception of this
situation. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am willing to see this differently. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I found a cab, on some dark street downtown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wondered, if he knew I had no money,
would he stop and pick me up?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
he did. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He took me to Wilshire and
after a few false stops (I had been through a lot and was a little disoriented)
we found my truck, safe and sound, everything intact. I drove home and was
never so happy to turn into my driveway, turn the key into my front door, feed
my cat, climb into my bed, and say good night to this day… </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
©2012 Rod Reynolds RocketManLA.com</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>RocketManLAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12085856145517949665noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116843644860584099.post-62512366713361940862012-03-05T11:37:00.010-08:002012-03-09T11:32:30.814-08:00You Want the Tooth? You Can't Handle the Tooth!Shortly after new years, the right side of my head started to hurt. I often have sinus congestion, so the sinus pain was not unusual. I take a claritin every morning so I can breathe (and sometimes another at night so I can sleep). My teeth always hurt; my dentist says I have a genetic pre-disposition towards bad teeth, but I have great hair, so god gives a little here, takes a little there. The unusual thing was that my ear was hurting. <br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFFiz6Ny_cUlCno1Ncd4VUDTsJu_9ujW5RPBcmCd1j95ZmKlVlJxJkVj_w4-Usyx7W434ixWPhmffQbn3gM5Dx_LivNXqK7TMEUl0gtAN5QX941VbI60wp_nUDqHEO-LiZPEWOIukmkU4/s1600/claritain.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 143px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFFiz6Ny_cUlCno1Ncd4VUDTsJu_9ujW5RPBcmCd1j95ZmKlVlJxJkVj_w4-Usyx7W434ixWPhmffQbn3gM5Dx_LivNXqK7TMEUl0gtAN5QX941VbI60wp_nUDqHEO-LiZPEWOIukmkU4/s200/claritain.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716503544778076418" /></a><br /><br />I went to my dentist, the same one I’ve been seeing for nearly 20 years now. He checked my teeth and said, no, everything looks fine. If your teeth were infected, your jaw would be swollen. Which is true, I have had that experience. <br /><br />So I went to my regular doctor. I can never get in to my regular doctor by simply calling and making an appointment (unless I want an appointment 3 to 6 weeks from now). I have to call and leave a message for the nurse, who screens the calls and decides, I suppose based on her discretion, whether I ‘deserve’ an appointment or not. My head was throbbing, so much so that I could not get to sleep, would constantly wake up throughout the night and have to take pain killers all day long just to get through. <br /><br />My message obviously conveyed my discomfort enough that I got in to see the nurse later that day. She checked out my mouth, nothing there to report. She checked my ears. Hmmm, nothing there. She suggested I probably had a sinus infection, but she couldn’t diagnose me or prescribe medication. She suggested I take cold medicine to clear my sinuses and to sleep. And she set me up an appointment with my doctor for the next day. <br /><br />That night I took some NyQuil and actually slept through the night, which was a glorious treat. I went to see my doctor, when she took her instrument and looked deep in my ear she said, you have something stuck in the back there. She had to get the attendant (nurse? But a different one from the day before) and they spent the better part of an hour removing the foreign object from my ear. Which turned out to be the end of a Q-Tip. <br /><br />THIS is causing all this pain, through my jaw, ear and sinuses? <br /><br />“Yes, that will do it. They are all closely connected”. <br /><br />She gave me antibiotics and sent me on my way. <br /><br />It did get better, and provided an anecdote that my friends found highly amusing. <br /><br />But after a week, the pain began creeping back up the scale. <br /><br />I went to a different doctor because it was a Friday and there was no way I would get into my real doctor before Tuesday. My head hurt so much I couldn’t sleep, my teeth hurt so much I couldn’t eat anything harder than eggs and potatoes. And I was downing all the pain killers I could find, none of them were working. <br /><br />There’s a clinic I go to on Fountain; when I started going there twenty years ago you could get in and our for $40. Now, it’s $85. It’s an expensive gamble, but there’s no way I could wait four more days to see my doctor. So the doctor at the clinic, assessing my sinus infection and resultant ear ache and jaw pain, gave me a higher dose of antibiotics and sent me on my way. <br /><br />Again, the pain went from a ten down to a two, but after another week, it began creeping back up. <br /><br />I decided to go to my secondary dentist. I had discovered him a few years ago by doing a google search; I had gotten a new crown but it was hitting a bit high and giving me a massive headache when I ate. My dentist only works Monday through Thursday and this was a Friday. There was no way I could go without chewing for four days. Even though eating nothing but eggs and rice would be good for my figure, it’s not very satisfying. <br /><br />So I went to my secondary dentist, who works on Saturdays. I said, my teeth hurt so much I can’t even chew and I haven’t slept for four days. <br /><br />He dug around in there with his little metal pointy tool, and said, well, you have a cavity in your wisdom tooth (the last one at the back) and that might be causing the pain. He wanted to pull the tooth (he is “not a fan” of wisdom teeth) which seemed extreme. We talked about options, and he said, well let’s do an x-ray first. <br /><br />The x-ray revealed that the tooth in front of the wisdom tooth, which has a crown on it, was infected all the way down into my jaw. But no one could see that because it was under the crown.<br /><br />“Well, that’s where all this is coming from. You need a root canal, and you need one immediately.” OK, $750 for the root canal and $750 to replace the crown. At least this will be done with. <br /><br />He took the crown off and showed me what was underneath. It was black and brown and gold and slimy. Delightful. This is INSIDE my mouth. No wonder I have a headache. <br /><br />He removed all the decay, did the root canal and sent me off with more antibiotics. The pain was definitely lessened, but different; of course having a root canal is traumatic for your mouth. And it would take a while for the infection to clear. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfZ7d39YYHUdaxSuN401ukBTSyzgqkkvHjq8ILJcYT7w2altre-nu9A6b3reuGSwgAx4ccaYXmby1pVtde8IbuJX6cbgssZmbZUjRneXbAGjxS5wTK0sNnW_FQzh79uz19kgsHpH-GVpw/s1600/RodC.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfZ7d39YYHUdaxSuN401ukBTSyzgqkkvHjq8ILJcYT7w2altre-nu9A6b3reuGSwgAx4ccaYXmby1pVtde8IbuJX6cbgssZmbZUjRneXbAGjxS5wTK0sNnW_FQzh79uz19kgsHpH-GVpw/s200/RodC.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716499794540001394" /></a><br /><br />(these are actual x-rays of my teeth, click on them to see larger) <br /><br />But after a week, it was still very painful, so I went back. When the dentist took the temporary filling off of the tooth, he discovered that there was a fourth root that he had missed. Apparently most teeth have three roots, but sometimes the ones in the back have four. He closed me up and said, “I have to send you to the root canal specialist in Glendale.”<br /><br />actual files used in my root canal (click on pic to make larger) <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6_nqDfw-cLXnz05umNNNVtKLpZbNPRgZDKkkSeoKQCYqW1CBT5IaTKmGfsGMt18K6FUyuLkjnkN5pcBjDwP8VaUqQqhVO9F8S_OxSG7tXKDxAjuQfckenLpdKChWImToe9Y4yOfT8-mQ/s1600/picks741.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 159px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6_nqDfw-cLXnz05umNNNVtKLpZbNPRgZDKkkSeoKQCYqW1CBT5IaTKmGfsGMt18K6FUyuLkjnkN5pcBjDwP8VaUqQqhVO9F8S_OxSG7tXKDxAjuQfckenLpdKChWImToe9Y4yOfT8-mQ/s200/picks741.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716509789427874418" /></a><br /><br />I was able to get into see the endodontist the next day. I had been to see him years ago, when I had another problem root canal that had got infected under a crown installed by my first dentist. That second root canal had cost $1600 (above the first root canal that was $1000 including the crown). That particular tooth had eventually cracked and had to be pulled, and I got an implant and another crown ($2700, for a total of $5200)<br /><br />He did an x-ray and said, “this will be $1100”. I asked, even thought it’s already more than half done – 3 out of the 4 roots are already gone. “No, in fact it’s even harder that someone else has been working in there.” Not sure if that’s a line, but what can you do. <br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVEzojbfIimDhaSinEyQuew9vsqVzJF0aHeS2JdYG7otYqc-2CYSqs94yWII-97f5AnzOOD2zhD7VIY8bRwHUBpqV9GqQ9VuSNMpv524kttTQz__7SqxChQxAWTDg4M_UDDkOb8kGpGrY/s1600/RodC01.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVEzojbfIimDhaSinEyQuew9vsqVzJF0aHeS2JdYG7otYqc-2CYSqs94yWII-97f5AnzOOD2zhD7VIY8bRwHUBpqV9GqQ9VuSNMpv524kttTQz__7SqxChQxAWTDg4M_UDDkOb8kGpGrY/s200/RodC01.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716499798922491314" /></a><br /><br />He also did an x-ray of the tooth above it, which revealed a problem up there too. “You have an abscess on the root of the upper tooth, which is in your sinus. This is why you have had a sinus infection for two months. You need a root canal up there, and you need that root canal immediately. <br /><br />Well, finally we get to the ROOT of all this. <br /><br />Another $1100. <br /><br />But, he said, you’ve been on enough antibiotics. Let’s take out the problems and let your body get back to healing itself and see if it can take care of itself. So that was some good news. <br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHQYJmsOoDubcDXy2zR0ycW5CArPh2Cu7XAQP4oVhfvwG4UkymW0iJMXDir-fjWX8dWNX9REz2CQn_yZC-W19lvSIu94X2SZi_5BYnsBvk9VbdvjR_4bNG46KBe9yJddDjjRscQiQHHa8/s1600/ROD3.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHQYJmsOoDubcDXy2zR0ycW5CArPh2Cu7XAQP4oVhfvwG4UkymW0iJMXDir-fjWX8dWNX9REz2CQn_yZC-W19lvSIu94X2SZi_5BYnsBvk9VbdvjR_4bNG46KBe9yJddDjjRscQiQHHa8/s200/ROD3.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716499791366998578" /></a><br /><br />So I got one root canal that day, and another one the very next day. I had to go back and do the first one twice because he discovered that one also had a fourth root. But once the second root canal was done… Imagine having a headache for TWO MONTHS and trying every pain killer possible, and none of them really work (especially at night). Extra Strength Tylenol is not available. Neither is extra strength excedrin. For whatever reason. I got some Tylenol from my dentist, and I found the CVS generic excedrin worked. One of the dentists had given me a prescription for vicodin but I’ve found that vicodin makes me feel nauseous and sleepy, so I didn’t take any. <br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9NZX0H7w042cmFvu56n3ldoN-9INwfvQaG1pdGsNqYi75s_aDXhJlDluWgkR4b51U-DzaTgeNHcHclnneDy0ov5_fXInV-Xp7hYUDHeEWvM84uJXr0YoAXNtaj5_gqkH4xv8QGN5sJP0/s1600/tylenol.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 160px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9NZX0H7w042cmFvu56n3ldoN-9INwfvQaG1pdGsNqYi75s_aDXhJlDluWgkR4b51U-DzaTgeNHcHclnneDy0ov5_fXInV-Xp7hYUDHeEWvM84uJXr0YoAXNtaj5_gqkH4xv8QGN5sJP0/s200/tylenol.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716503553505077154" /></a><br /><br />Imagine having a headache for two months so bad you can’t get to sleep and then waking up at 4am because your head is pounding. Imagine designing building and then doing a workshop for Marianne Williamson with a headache so bad you can hardly hold your head up. <br /><br />Then imagine, one afternoon in March, it suddenly is gone! <br /><br />It’s like that annoying noise that’s coming from SOMEWHERE but you have no idea what it is and can’t control it anyway, like construction workers that get up far too early and start drilling and humming and sawing and hammering and beeping when they back up. And you sort of tune it out. But it’s still there. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdZfz421wE1Gf_JHdB5L4acTiu82F852EI0RkB7Y6vGgq01L-uzFaEHIwzNNjPkpopBRcVDmQUyE9FpMgHZl329SFQm1tvFe9GgL5sLzHya3GRXUPAJNKfIp6yJUx4lZ9iw5tqPbxLgzU/s1600/hallelujah.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdZfz421wE1Gf_JHdB5L4acTiu82F852EI0RkB7Y6vGgq01L-uzFaEHIwzNNjPkpopBRcVDmQUyE9FpMgHZl329SFQm1tvFe9GgL5sLzHya3GRXUPAJNKfIp6yJUx4lZ9iw5tqPbxLgzU/s200/hallelujah.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716503547910057522" /></a><br /><br />Then all of a sudden it’s their lunch time and the sounds STOP and you’ve forgotten that they were even there in the first place but suddenly there’s this blissful peace. <br /><br /><br />Blissful peace, yes. Eight weeks, four root canals, six doctors, three bouts of antibiotics and more pain medicine than you can imagine (“I don’t know, I can imagine quite a bit”) and $4300 later… blissful peace….RocketManLAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12085856145517949665noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116843644860584099.post-65640658961674794012012-01-28T18:24:00.000-08:002012-01-30T14:48:14.604-08:00Nails in the coffin of my virtual world.<span style="font-weight:bold;">NAIL #1</span><br /><br />For many years I made a living selling things on eBay; I sold approximately 20,000 items (mostly cds) in a 13 year period. I listed items 5 days a week and spent 3 days a week packaging and mailing (yes, that’s eight days a week, just like the Beatles song). My house looked like a warehouse (still does, some weeks). My positive feedback was over 12,000 and my negative a tiny fraction; in all that time I never ripped anyone off, but people will leave negative or neutral feedback at the drop of a hat. One guy left me negative feedback that read “nothing really wrong, I just felt like it.” I had one guy leave me negative feedback because the jewel case on his cd was cracked when it arrived. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiweBI5RHFf_Wa9ThjjDNiqWG5ATBagqANh4n3kq2sicRWnKhnajmOoiImRuWkgISACsUxK0jdIjEC5A2n3xtTAe-lHMzYPninpWHyNN5Q1Qx3ORxq6n1vwByejqv_tabTdwrOejXMFzI0/s1600/Ebay.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiweBI5RHFf_Wa9ThjjDNiqWG5ATBagqANh4n3kq2sicRWnKhnajmOoiImRuWkgISACsUxK0jdIjEC5A2n3xtTAe-lHMzYPninpWHyNN5Q1Qx3ORxq6n1vwByejqv_tabTdwrOejXMFzI0/s200/Ebay.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703557985715664434" /></a><br /><br />I learned a lot through eBay. Dealing with “the public,” albeit virtual. Also dealing with the US Postal service, which is an entire mini series unto itself. I can’t tell you the number of times I have thought to myself, just because you hate your job doesn’t give you the right to take it out on me.” 13 years ago eBay was a novelty; a cultural phenomena, it was new and shiny, and we were all on a learning curve. I learned to rise above the nastiness people would hurl at me (via cyberspace). At one point I was selling hundreds of items a week; the people at the post office know me by name. I never ripped anyone off, but people ripped me off. I learned to take it as part of the territory. I had one lady steal a $100 antique quilt from me; she said she never got it, she got a full refund from paypal. I had another lady say that one of the three dresses she bought was stained; she got a full refund from paypal, and she didn’t return any of them. <br /><br />When eBay bought Paypal was major stab in my business model. Now, the only form of payment you can use to sell something on eBay is paypal. And, a fact known to some, is that you can ALWAYS get your money back with PayPal. File a dispute, they will refund your money. They will conduct an “investigation” and they will ALWAYS side with the buyer. eBay will ding you once with listing fees, then seller fees, then paypal fees. They make more money than Oprah (seriously) and do a lot less running around. You are no longer allowed to accept cash checks or money orders on eBay. Only Paypal. There is something wrong with that (I believe it’s called a monopoly)(or extortion), but what can you do. <br /><br />The decline for me came when they introduced, in addition to the feedback system, the 5 star seller rating system. Buyers could now leave ratings on a scale of 1 – 5 for their transactions, rating the seller on communication, shipping prices, shipping speed and item as described. <br /><br />I learned that people online will say whatever they want. It’s far too easy to click on the cute little stars and rate someone you’ve never met and could care less about. And why give anything 5 out of 5 stars? That mplies they are perfect, and no one is perfect. Don’t be ridiculous. I think one thing we all learned is there is little to no accountability in the virtual world. You can be whoever you want, say whatever you want, and no part of it will (likely) ever intrude into your real life. So just go for it. <br /><br />eBay realized that they were losing money on shipping (both amazon and half.com take a percentage of ‘shipping fees). Because they could only take a percentage of your SELLING price (PayPal takes a percentage of your total payment including shipping). So they devised a system which encouraged sellers to offer “free shipping” thus negating buyer’s voting feedback on your shipping prices, which if the shipping is free, how can they vote anything but 5 out of 5. By the way, shipping prices on eBay are CLEARLY stated on the auction page, so as far as I’m concerned, you see upfront that shipping is $5 you have no right to complain that shipping was $5. During our phone conversations, they encouraged me, in order to improve my feedback ratings, to offer free shipping. As we know, there is no such thing as free shipping, you have to factor the shipping price into the selling price (thus increasing eBay’s profit margin). But that means if I am selling an item that is worth $10, and costs $4 to ship, when I am coerced into offering free shipping, I must increase the price to $14. If other people are selling the same item for $10 (it’s real value) then my price is not competitive. Win-win for eBay and Paypal, lose-lose for the seller. eBay has since changed their policy so now they take a percentage of the selling price and the shipping, so no matter what you do, as a seller, you lose. <br /><br />It really ramped up when eBay decided that sellers could ONLY leave positive feedback for their buyers. But buyers could leave positive, neutral or negative feedback for their sellers, or none at all. With absolutely no accountability or repercussions. eBay said this was because buyers were afraid to leave negative feedbacks for their sellers, and this new system contributed to a “safer” trading community. <br /><br />What kind of system works when only one side of the participants can vote. People totally ripped me off and I could not leave anything but positive feedback for them. This is America? <br /><br />My feedback rating started to slip, and even though I had close to 13,000 positive feedbacks, most of them “didn’t count,” for whatever reason (the reason is they were more than 6 months old, in today’s eBay world, anything that happened more than 60 days ago is out of your control, let a lone 6 months ago). But the negatives sure counted. If you take my overall positive feedbacks and lay them side by side with my negatives and neutrals, they total less than 1%. But that is math in the real world, like using a calculator, or the law of gravity. eBay math significantly weights the negatives more than the positives. That is not fair on so many levels, but also because most people who are happy with things (see the missing 7200 feedback ratings) don’t bother leaving feedback at all. <br /><br />According to eBay math (and I discussed this with several employees on the phone who attempted to explain their unique formula to figure out the percentage of positive vs negative) my negative feedback hit 2%. Then they put me on ‘restriction’ so I could only sell a few things per month. What that really mean is, I could only LIST a few things per month, whether they sold or not. They said this was to teach me a lesson. No, they said this was to teach me to be a better eBay seller. And to “give me the opportunity” to raise my feedback percentage. Which, I think statistically was impossible. Realistically it was simply impossible. <br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxh7EdgWqWIb1yubUoLs7QnqjTsIjz31e8I7QdZvn1LIO-XbrEpB79HFUOWZN13qT6izsr-QSZxynzyA150obQjT0Mk0w9WBtdWYeY5OHykxiY3E6skgbFkW_CJfOt0-xiyoaoO-ns5pg/s1600/TomPetty.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 195px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxh7EdgWqWIb1yubUoLs7QnqjTsIjz31e8I7QdZvn1LIO-XbrEpB79HFUOWZN13qT6izsr-QSZxynzyA150obQjT0Mk0w9WBtdWYeY5OHykxiY3E6skgbFkW_CJfOt0-xiyoaoO-ns5pg/s200/TomPetty.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703557991199752962" /></a><br /><br />So the day came when my feedback slipped to -2.4% and they cut me off. Completely. One day I woke up and my entire inventory (I had nearly 2000 books listed on half.com, a division of eBay) had disappeared. I called them and spoke to several young individuals who attempted to justify their rationale. One of them actually said to me, “you are a hindrance to the eBay community and we cannot allow you to list or sell items on eBay.” Even though I had been a member more than 13 years and sold nearly 20,000 items. Another one of them told me, “we invite you to sell your items on amazon.com.” I kid you not. How much money did eBay (and PayPal) make off of me? A hell of a lot I can assure you. Some months my eBay seller fees were in the hundreds of dollars, which because it’s all linked together (eBay PayPal half.com and my bank account and credit card) they never hesitated to take their fees directly out of my bank account. <br /><br />I opened a new account, under my pseudonym. But that only lasted a couple weeks because it all filters through and they realize I’m using the same ISP, and have the same bank account. So that account got pulled as well. <br /><br />So, I hijacked one of my friend’s accounts (with his permission). Not as easy as it sounds. Even though he had been a member of eBay for 10 years and had 100% positive feedback, he had only used the account to buy things. once I started selling things, the virtual walls started popping up. And to my friend’s credit, and patience, he trusted me and he jumped through the hoops for me. <br /><br />We did this all in the fall, and, again, I appreciate my friend’s tolerance. I listed and sold several items and his feedback remains 100% positive. But then I had a couple real big jobs and then with the holidays, and I didn’t list anything on eBay for a few months. Lat week I started listing some of my collectible and expensive items (artwork, antiques). I got a prompt, “you have reached your selling limit for the month of January. What? I had only listed 5 items. My selling limit was set at 10 items, or $1000 maximum opening prices. I have three Japanese prints from the 1850’s which are $300 each, so my $1000 limit went fast. These are LISTED items, not SOLD items. So I can’t list any more items for a full month. I have a lot more items to list. There is a button on the eBay page, “how to increase you seller limits”. I had my friend call and pretend to be (uh) himself. The eBay employee told him that because he hadn’t listed anything in the last 9 days, his seller account had been restricted. And there is nothing he can do about it for 90 more days. So at the moment, I am stuck with 4 items listed maxing out my $1000 listing limit. And I can’t do anything else. <br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">NAIL #2</span><br /><br />Now, a similar situation is happening with craigslist. I have managed to open several accounts, which I need because they “they” consistently, no there is no consistency whatsoever, and no rhyme nor reason. They periodically flag my ads down, which means remove them. Some days all my ads are pulled and I can’t psot anything until the next day. The flagging system is Craig’s notion that, being a free society and a free site, the natives, as it were, self regulate themselves through the flagging system. If you find someone’s ad inappropriate, you can click a button on the corner and “flag” it. Once a certain number of people (this number apparently varies according to traffic) flag your ad, it is removed by Craig’s computer. Also, Craig’s staff can remove your ads. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVorNisIG3ISQPjdjqfGfzcvNX5n9O6QV-1jEdycwRKPsuwYPobAnHqrEmUCxSI_b1EYPf6b4m3t3rw7savgyTk-HYhwmGNGW4q5nAYHQgmX4QDFiXq0NYrt9fotsCLIcUGtKfHA_vYyo/s1600/Craigslist.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 54px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVorNisIG3ISQPjdjqfGfzcvNX5n9O6QV-1jEdycwRKPsuwYPobAnHqrEmUCxSI_b1EYPf6b4m3t3rw7savgyTk-HYhwmGNGW4q5nAYHQgmX4QDFiXq0NYrt9fotsCLIcUGtKfHA_vYyo/s200/Craigslist.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703557980496667858" /></a><br /><br />Both of these situations, there is no accountability and no reasons given. So, you can sift through all the ads on Craigslist, and flag every one of them if you feel like it (and have the time, which clearly some people do.) CL also has a very secret system known as “ghost listing.” Once someone’s (let’s say, for example, mine) account has a significant number of flagged posts, some posts still go through, but they are actually never posted on the site. Now, I’ve been manipulating the CL system for years; I also spent many years working in the music business in the marketing and promotion department, so I do know how to write ads. I’m also a photographer, so I know how to take amazing pictures. So when I post an ad I know I will get responses. Many of them are spam (I have learned how to spot the spam responses very quickly, although occasionally I fall prey and within seconds of an errant mouse click, I am receiving spam phone calls and texts. <br /><br />So when I post an ad and don’t get ANY response, I sometimes look on the site to see if my ad is there. Most of the time, it isn’t. The post went through the system but was never posted on the site. That’s just mean, and, honestly, doesn’t make any sense to me. It’s so underhanded and passive aggressive. Frankly, can’t you just say no, this post is not approved, let’s see what we can do to make it fit within our guidelines. <br /><br />I do post “dummy” posts, in order to get them off the Top 100, then I can change them to say what I really want. The flaggers in general, stick to the Top 100 (first two pages), but not always. You can do a specific search (obviously), let’s choose, oh “handyman” for example, and flag every ad that has the word handyman in it (ie mine). Some days every single ad I post will be flagged, including the dummy posts (which are specifically so innocuous no one could find any fault or inappropriateness). One time I made the mistake of “complaining” about a flagged post. When your ad is flagged down, CL will (usually, not always) send you an email that is extremely condescending, and says 98% of posts are flagged down because they are inappropriate. If you are in the 2% we apologize and invite you to re-post.” Or you can send the flagged post into the “help” board and say, why was this flagged, there is nothing against the terms of service (TOS) in this ad. <br /><br />I did that once, and within minutes, every single ad I had posted was flagged down. No reason, no jsutification, no response to my question, nothing. Just disappeared (not unlike my half,com inventory). Thus proving that one mustn’t complain. Once you get flagged too may times, you will start getting ‘error’ messages like “you have reached the posting limit for your account.” And nothing more will be entertained. After you have been flagged too many times, they will close your account. To this, there is no warning, no justification and no appeal process. Not dissimilar to eBay. All bow down to the almighty Craig. Do not make eye contact, do not speak unless spoken to (and even then). <br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg65FoK3d8SIYtyJIdRI17sMVk2ogSqYuXI6NOUyEjVnj5PeoNHZV6MHYwn-N_ttdNjLhLGA_aUPgOL488NApm0JlHivp-4pHAvcc3MsjbhFH3K0A1kLca_EBELXPPMbc61fy0ZngPe3GY/s1600/megaupload-logo.gif"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg65FoK3d8SIYtyJIdRI17sMVk2ogSqYuXI6NOUyEjVnj5PeoNHZV6MHYwn-N_ttdNjLhLGA_aUPgOL488NApm0JlHivp-4pHAvcc3MsjbhFH3K0A1kLca_EBELXPPMbc61fy0ZngPe3GY/s200/megaupload-logo.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703558759411232482" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">NAIL #3</span><br />The last week, the file share market has collapsed. File share server Megaupload was sued and shut down and billions (yes billions) of dollars confiscated. Very quickly, several more servers stopped working. This has thrown the world of file sharing into turmoil, scrambling to find servers who are still operating (mostly European and Asian based), reloading their movie and music files. At this point the long term implications are uncertain. It could be the end of file sharing as we know it. Or it could be a blip, and after a couple weeks things will be back to normal (albeit on new servers) and the incident will be forgotten. <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />TRUTH AND CONSEQUENCES</span><br /><br />After a decade of being able to download pretty much any music or movie or software we wanted, will we be forced back into brick and mortar stores, back into buying cds and DVDs again? Is this a little too late, considering there are only a handful record stores left to go buy cds. The only choice we have is amazon.com or eBay (coincidence? Or just ironic?)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Ysp1KH9hZWJCVbLAx_ArnwObhdVUaOcTMsLg_OoiUur279tazH7kdRiCFa4K0HHNumfgvhX4gqIxEjI0JWZdjZYEEa_5OJveUS7Db58DNqlKZbijXGoiA1c2C8Tv8_wlp9MaauUl3jQ/s1600/Truth+Consequences-500.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Ysp1KH9hZWJCVbLAx_ArnwObhdVUaOcTMsLg_OoiUur279tazH7kdRiCFa4K0HHNumfgvhX4gqIxEjI0JWZdjZYEEa_5OJveUS7Db58DNqlKZbijXGoiA1c2C8Tv8_wlp9MaauUl3jQ/s200/Truth+Consequences-500.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703559154889528514" /></a><br /><br />After a decade of selling things on eBay, they have made the selling process so expensive (in eBay and PayPal fees) and convoluted, not to mention risky (with regards to customer feedback) and, with PayPal’s extremely liberal refund process, expensive, since several items are being shipped out not only for free (when people get a refund) but at an expense (eBay fees are still in effect regardless.) Yes, eBay has a ‘dispute’ department, weighted almost entirely toward the buyer and only available to a seller for a few weeks (often not enough time to realize that a buyer has ripped you off). <br /><br />After years of using Craigslist to basically market and promote my businesses (I have several irons in the fire at all times), with their newfound enthusiasm for removing my ads and posts, has effectively become more effort than return. <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu4UuujgzAKUwVjfbh1iIc120Xtg6o0vDqeNf28cCiFQjKpwYxC6U8J81J8hTQYLhPph5nMfSG-svEK7TJ8SM2j34IVa50KD0gvoGKTHxSv9fpYPN_rOI60VFAlDAajmJvA8z6xRLoV6k/s1600/captain-and-tennille-shop-around-am.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 199px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu4UuujgzAKUwVjfbh1iIc120Xtg6o0vDqeNf28cCiFQjKpwYxC6U8J81J8hTQYLhPph5nMfSG-svEK7TJ8SM2j34IVa50KD0gvoGKTHxSv9fpYPN_rOI60VFAlDAajmJvA8z6xRLoV6k/s200/captain-and-tennille-shop-around-am.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703560344263937074" /></a><br /><br />The most successful days (financially) I have had in the last year have been doing yard sales in front of my friend’s hair salon in North Hollywood. You get a fraction of what things are worth at yard sales (people seem to want everything for basically nothing, which is their perogative). As opposed to eBay where you get more or a market value (especially on collectibles such as art and antiques). Or craigslist where you can get at least a reasonable return (albeit at a much slower pace than a yard sale). Yard sales are a lot of work, a lot of effort, and try one’s patience. I have to do a lot of praying to get through yard sale days. But I do. <br /><br />And you do get immediate result$. You are working with your feet on the ground. You do get a feel (real quick) of the value of the things you are peddling. What flies and what just sits there (online sales are a little less tangible). You also deal face to face with people, you have one to one interactions, you can get a little attitude from people but you can also have interesting conversations and make some real contacts (nothing like putting a business card into someone’s hand as opposed to doing an email blast). It reminds me of the fun I used to have working in the Rhino Records store in Westwood. Wow, human contact!<br /><br />Is this the future? Analog interaction? Face to face transactions? Conversations that don’t involve electronic mail or digital pictures or iPads? People picking up an item, holding it in their hands, falling in love with it, and asking,“how much is this?” <br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSALqSND7S3SQY6_KGXW5NEl1Fj2wzY4QvXFohFWBM7yJqd1UALpPAVnTqNl0_5CmlqtlW_JZyARnJltVVvRtUVAdopktdNMX0hfGDWZHAYpsqCXG-pFKuM7sHrCcVtwZ81xiCK-vrU2c/s1600/grindr.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSALqSND7S3SQY6_KGXW5NEl1Fj2wzY4QvXFohFWBM7yJqd1UALpPAVnTqNl0_5CmlqtlW_JZyARnJltVVvRtUVAdopktdNMX0hfGDWZHAYpsqCXG-pFKuM7sHrCcVtwZ81xiCK-vrU2c/s200/grindr.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703557987372331746" /></a><br /><br />What’s next, will people start going out to bars and roller rinks and dog parks again to meet people instead of opening Grindr on their smart phones?RocketManLAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12085856145517949665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116843644860584099.post-47761158640714350922011-11-13T13:17:00.000-08:002011-11-13T15:10:56.304-08:00How not to kill yourself, one day at a time.It’s funny (well, not funny, perhaps odd) but over the past few days a couple people have told me they are contemplating suicide.<br /><br />I have been there, more than once. <br /><br />And I know that someone saying, “oh no! don’t do that!” <br /><br />That doesn’t help. <br /><br /><br />So when these people said this to me, I said, “I understand.” Hopefully not to be misconstrued as,”I approve” but simply “I understand.” <br /><br />And I know that a conversation that could, or maybe should, or maybe should not follow, is complicated, intense, frustrating… and a lot more… <br /><br />I suppose when someone tells you that they are thinking of killing themselves, it is a cry for help. I am not now, nor have I ever been, good at small talk. One thing I admired about my dad was that he could talk to anyone; he would walk up to complete strangers anywhere, in the parking lot, in the campground, wherever, and 5 minutes later would be deep into conversation. <br /><br />I think, the constant beer in one hand was a good social lubricant. I decided long ago not to go there (and have been sober for 27 years) but clearly my social life suffers because of that. <br /><br /><br />So I will instead, write down what took me out of the dark place. I hope I never have to go back there; I hope my pendulum has clicked out of the “all is lost” and into the “there is hope.” But in case it hasn’t left permanently, I will save this to possibly read to myself at that point in the future. Perhaps, in the meantime, you will get something out of it. <br /><br />Because there wasn’t just one thing that did it. It was, and is, a cumulative process. It’s not something you (well, maybe YOU will, but I never did) one day wake up and say, to yourself or no-one in particular, shucks, I’ve decided not to kill myself. It’s more like something that gets set to the back; as the days go by, hopefully further and further back, until maybe one day, you forget that it’s even there. <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV-LVcDQeTmu2M1TP9pB-lSQ0GkbofCyty2jF8hCQ_CHTMe6oAB8SlIwYz3lYwzxgXJeL286mAwBJ3ivzmzX2Hjolra6B70iKQ5YTMPyPp0g6Y60oEuUFX1WSDQ5VX_Zw8JR9jbcfBQ4I/s1600/physical.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV-LVcDQeTmu2M1TP9pB-lSQ0GkbofCyty2jF8hCQ_CHTMe6oAB8SlIwYz3lYwzxgXJeL286mAwBJ3ivzmzX2Hjolra6B70iKQ5YTMPyPp0g6Y60oEuUFX1WSDQ5VX_Zw8JR9jbcfBQ4I/s200/physical.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674600316196270626" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Let’s Get Physical</span> <br />First, for me, working out. Working out is something that is, at least for me, extremely hard to motivate. Marianne (Williamson) often says, with regards to doing the workbook of A Course in Miracles (CIM), which is a 365 day self study program in changing your thoughts of fear (world based) to love (spirit based); you are directed to do a lesson/mediation every day. She says, it is, like physical exercise, often hard to motivate yourself to do, but the more you do it, the easier it becomes. For me, though, the minute I start debating with myself, “I don’t really have time, I am tired, I haven’t eaten, I’ve just eaten, I’m going to be late”, whatever it is, I lose. I try to go to the gym every morning for cardio, so I feel better. I don’t have to think about it, I am tired in the morning, groggy, don’t feel good, am cranky, don’t feel attractive, it’s too hot, it’s cold, it’s raining, the sun is shining. Ignore it. I put on the sweat pants and I go. Then I go to breakfast at the same place and have the same thing. Later in the day I will go do weight training so I look better.<br /><br />When I am working out, I am never depressed. Well, unless I look in the mirror (and there are a lot of mirrors at the gym), or look at other guys who have much nicer bodies than I. I try to use their “perfection” to my advantage rather than dismay. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlj-VutXM0BrtwfEA8yTc4B2AXNzp75HV7-m8B2S0D59qTF0RrtrcHGIvJu2wDgcH1tEp0dIfQL9Ud-Bmc-0oDaMtllljTnwhPxyDZfMmAsSOcyPFXafZOvMfNBGAhk-O3xpCkuyxmlEA/s1600/justin.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 126px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlj-VutXM0BrtwfEA8yTc4B2AXNzp75HV7-m8B2S0D59qTF0RrtrcHGIvJu2wDgcH1tEp0dIfQL9Ud-Bmc-0oDaMtllljTnwhPxyDZfMmAsSOcyPFXafZOvMfNBGAhk-O3xpCkuyxmlEA/s200/justin.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674608066609025826" /></a><br /><br />Sometimes I really wonder if I am not gay, because when I see a gorgeous man at the gym (or jogging down Franklin with his shirt off), I don’t think, “ooh, I’d love to kiss him.” I want to BE him. <br /><br />Jacob Glass said this a few weeks ago at a CIM lecture. He said, “when I see a gorgeous guy in front of me in line, I say, “thank you god, that was clearly put there for me. Life loves me.” And then a friend might say, well, did you get his number? And Jacob exclaimed, “oh no, I don’t want to TALK to him, that would ruin EVERYTHING.” <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTiBR1aMG-g_GKSD4wfgvOL9nhnqftBnLaM-YrCAWqVLyFwEiKWpVYxyQunDDUrG_HCGpo_45YM1XFCs7tjMZKSB5lynqacJkJhBSF1mEy_LNDCCM08fcFYrts4A3Yu-08cXjKSp8nCQo/s1600/david-cassidy.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 198px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTiBR1aMG-g_GKSD4wfgvOL9nhnqftBnLaM-YrCAWqVLyFwEiKWpVYxyQunDDUrG_HCGpo_45YM1XFCs7tjMZKSB5lynqacJkJhBSF1mEy_LNDCCM08fcFYrts4A3Yu-08cXjKSp8nCQo/s200/david-cassidy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674600302904789650" /></a><br /><br />I often wonder this about myself because my first crush, in 1973, was David Cassidy (Partridge Family.) Now, when I look back, I never wanted to KISS David Cassidy (or Keith Partridge). I wanted to BE Keith Partridge. A good thirty years later, I have met David Cassidy a few times, and even standing in front of him, I never wanted to KISS him. (and, after having read his autobiography, I don’t want to BE him either.) <br /><br />But back to working out. Jacob also has said, whenever you compare yourself to anyone, you lose. You walk down the street, better than, worse than, better than, worse than. This does not make you feel better. CIM says everyone is an individual, with a highly individualized curriculum, and no one else has the same program. So, saying, “I wish I had that guy’s job,” or “I wish my arms looked like THAT” is simply not fair. <br /><br />Easier said than done, but it’s something I try to keep in check. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBTL8fKb8ltUjbAuIonjXyTmKbvOtl5cRaw7QCScvSyTS-VZu_KBPjwnCDqs8ypCokKbMW-xILeFndjTgtb39fGuAldcx9kl5nAwd2fgSm7HmwhzJW6eQRCfwmjcv5Mjpy3dGV-L1J2F8/s1600/Chris%252Bhemsworth%252Bshirtless%252Bin%252BThor%252BMovie.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 186px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBTL8fKb8ltUjbAuIonjXyTmKbvOtl5cRaw7QCScvSyTS-VZu_KBPjwnCDqs8ypCokKbMW-xILeFndjTgtb39fGuAldcx9kl5nAwd2fgSm7HmwhzJW6eQRCfwmjcv5Mjpy3dGV-L1J2F8/s200/Chris%252Bhemsworth%252Bshirtless%252Bin%252BThor%252BMovie.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674612769881661362" /></a><br /><br />And, it’s perfectly acceptable to say, “that guy has PERFECT pecs, thank you god for putting him in front of me, life love me!”<br /><br />Aside from that, it is impossible to be depressed when you are working out, or after working out. So I try to go to the gym every day. I don’t always make it, often I am working too late and am too tired and/or dirty to drag myself to the gym, but I try. Because I know it takes me out of my head. <br /><br />Which is the scariest place I could be. <br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz0AYTOYb-R2iZkIIgUNYFx0XjoO3r_kgx7FooJykgmYiOO58MPgyzQBWMJxrzqX78C3CD5lQl9fg26sTlbIS6_L5NDOsCyYYCTaoYQQXw-SP1S71YFITf9cBQIKYNib-kqxchoDZmF9Q/s1600/billwithers.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 199px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz0AYTOYb-R2iZkIIgUNYFx0XjoO3r_kgx7FooJykgmYiOO58MPgyzQBWMJxrzqX78C3CD5lQl9fg26sTlbIS6_L5NDOsCyYYCTaoYQQXw-SP1S71YFITf9cBQIKYNib-kqxchoDZmF9Q/s200/billwithers.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674600305195047442" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Lean on Me </span><br />#2 – A support system. For me, there is an army. My therapist, my homeopathic doctor, my western doctor, my astrologer, my psychic, my trainer, my chiropractor. Sometimes these people come and go depending on my finances, but I think I know better than to try and do this on my own. As Marianne often says, your best thinking got you here, perhaps you might want to try another way. <br /><br />And of course friends. In the past year, through various circumstances and issues, I have lost a lot of my closest friends. Some people say, the older you get the harder it is to make friends, but for me, it was just as hard when I was young. Probably harder, because when I look back, to put it bluntly, I was often an asshole. Never intentionally; in all honesty, I can say I have never intentionally hurt someone. <br /><br />“Well, Blanche, but you did.” <br /><br />A friend and I were talking this afternoon (he is one who has told me he is thinking of killing himself) and he said he feels a lot of guilt. As do I. Now, admittedly, he has a lot of things one could say he needs to feel guilty about, but to him I would say, “you did the best you could, right. You always act from the best of intentions to the best of your ability, at the time. And therefore, you have nothing to feel guilty about.” Besides, guilt is a useless emotion. It’s not even an emotion. It’s just useless. <br /><br />Although, for me, doing the 12 steps is always good. You look at your mistakes, your errors, and you make amends. And hopefully you grow. As Marianne says, you look at the crucifixion but do not dwell on it. Because if you allow yourself to BECOME your character defects, you will drown in them. Marianne says, imagine yourself as an airplane that is trying to take yourself to the next higher level. But you have TOO MUCH BAGGAGE and the plane simply can’t take off. You need to sort through all that crap, acknowledge it, and let it go. <br /><br />Which is one of the reasons, after 25 years in AA, and identifying myself as an alcoholic, I decided I didn’t want to be labeled as “defective,” and decided to let it go. I let the lid off the box. I let the worms out to see the light of day. I had to let go of the fear of having a drink or taking a drug. If I am carrying that (or any fear) with me, as the CIM says, “you create what you defend against.” <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzxS4t3vmibCr1-BIQwMEg0CpSYMslw4b_dJhsEFGbofkr0BApnAJbEc-cZs5OuAYRMY5cZl_6Di21RFuB3wD_KwtqNdhU9NBxSy9o-vET37HlFHSZi60gB0geB1L4vhqwaqpuSvCr7b8/s1600/eagles.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzxS4t3vmibCr1-BIQwMEg0CpSYMslw4b_dJhsEFGbofkr0BApnAJbEc-cZs5OuAYRMY5cZl_6Di21RFuB3wD_KwtqNdhU9NBxSy9o-vET37HlFHSZi60gB0geB1L4vhqwaqpuSvCr7b8/s200/eagles.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674600311482173138" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Take It Easy</span> <br />#3 How do you eat an elephant. A therapist many years ago told me, when I was in a deep deep hole and couldn’t see my way out of it, he said, I know you can’t even conceptualize taking your life one slice of pie at a time. But I want you to take a sliver of one piece, make one tiny tiny change. <br /><br />For me, at that time, I was working three jobs (as opposed to the eight that I have now) and was exhausted and completely stressed out. I never took care of myself, never had lunch, ate standing up or driving, or, more likely, not at all. My bargain with my therapist was that I would take a lunch break every day. Go to the park across the street and take some lunch and a book and just STOP IT. <br /><br />It sounds easy, and it may or may not be, but for me, it was a huge breakthrough. As my science of mind teacher says, “How do you eat an elephant. One bite at a time”. As AA says, “one day at a time.” That’s not a suggestion. You only have one day at a time, even though in your HEAD you are thinking days weeks even years at a time. All of your fear is in the future, which technically never gets here, in fact, doesn’t even exist. The simple fact is, all you have is this moment. And the universe is infinitely forgiving. As Marianne says, God is not sitting up on a throne somewhere saying, “well, I’d love to help you but your father as an alcoholic, my hands are tied.” Or, “I’d love to help you, but in this economy….” God is God, the universe is infinitely malleable and abundant. There is no shortage of anything. That is impossible. What is all encompassing can have no opposite. The first line in the text of A Course in Miracles, is, “there is no order of difficulty in miracles.” As Marianne said the other day, it’s not a course in manipulation, fixing things, making thing happen. It’s a course in MIRACLES. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT07JjFtS2elhyj059_sS9Fk03sQ9nCnR1BmPQqkJ-W_PbkMt-gXEc-2ki7dnspBF7J8LxiXjiNFrf2jsWRWww3UGzMNCkQ0xI7trgBAq1Q5-g49kmC3XYqreNnTamqe7CLLFjbtJzHNc/s1600/shinyhappy.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 178px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT07JjFtS2elhyj059_sS9Fk03sQ9nCnR1BmPQqkJ-W_PbkMt-gXEc-2ki7dnspBF7J8LxiXjiNFrf2jsWRWww3UGzMNCkQ0xI7trgBAq1Q5-g49kmC3XYqreNnTamqe7CLLFjbtJzHNc/s200/shinyhappy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674603304544467314" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Shiny Happy People</span> <br />#4 Find something that makes you happy. Something to look forward to. It doesn’t matter what it is, how big or small. It doesn’t have to cost anything. Sometimes even reading a book or going to a movie is enough to get you out of your head. There have been times where I plan to see a movie on opening day, that doesn’t come out for weeks or even months in the future. That can be enough. Sometimes a song can change your life. I’ve written many times about how the songs “Hold On” by Wilson Phillips and “You Get What You Give” by the New Radicals, I heard them in moments of deep deep despair, and they saved me. I was at an AA meeting one time and this girl said, “I realize I don’t take a drink one day at a time, and I don’t kill myself one day at a time.” The Wilson Philips song says, “Hold on for one more day,” and that moment, in the bathroom at a TGI Fridays in Burbank, was enough for me to think, “ you know, I don’t need to kill myself TONIGHT. I’m kind of tired anyway.” <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiujfl-qP5ULuznGhGJfJJ0tMJTOBxx5MVQZafLUTjEiFxCML7SV8P92UM3TAa04txcyJOgsFwmSkcy0SGf1AMf17Dw4_3SfetwD0N0bknciF5Sc44nHjGwNcJpNntP-162WGMpS1-Bh9Y/s1600/letyourlove+flow.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiujfl-qP5ULuznGhGJfJJ0tMJTOBxx5MVQZafLUTjEiFxCML7SV8P92UM3TAa04txcyJOgsFwmSkcy0SGf1AMf17Dw4_3SfetwD0N0bknciF5Sc44nHjGwNcJpNntP-162WGMpS1-Bh9Y/s200/letyourlove+flow.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674603302227292098" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">There’s a Reason</span><br />#5 There is a reason. Many years ago, at a CIM prayer group, in Jacob’s living room, he said something that changed my life, perhaps it was only a sliver of one small piece, but it was enough. He said, “there is a reason you are here. You know how I know that? Because you are here.” <br /><br />For me, one of the things that dragged me down was feeling like I was useless, that I didn’t belong, that I had nowhere to go. No, I will say this to you, there is a reason you are here. You know how I know that? Because you are here.”<br /><br />Maybe we don’t know what that reason is, (although for me, now on my fourth time doing the Course in Miracles, the answer is in there, clear as day.) And it doesn’t matter if you know what your reason is, what your “life’s mission” is. It’s not like you are going to get a text from the universe, saying, “go here, say this, to this person.” But the daily prayer in CIM is, “let me know, where do I go, what do I say, and to whom.” <br /><br />And then you have to be very very quiet, because the truth comes in whispers. And often your ego dismisses it. “No, that’s not right, I can’t do that, that doesn’t make sense, I’m too old/young, that would cost too much money, I don’t have time.” I love when Marianne says, “you pray and you pray and you ask for guidance from the holy spirit, then you get guidance, but you don’t like the answer.” <br /><br />The world is loud, noisy, obnoxious, fearful, even toxic. Spirit just is. It speaks in whispers, in that little thought in the back of your head, that you say, “I don’t have time to do that now.” But it is true and real and it will keep whispering until you hear it. The universe has all the time in the world, and isn’t going anywhere. God has infinite patience, because God knows the truth, and can afford to wait. <br /><br />Can you? <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji3JQLb6xn5EnvW_mTQHcmXXyL1ba8ZWHqUbbdiOb4zxoZ4ZdigFjcxZVdZbeHxcXOfzrxPZnm8UcGnQZ8qamx0MjCr7g5F6pH5BzQutGTB8B-qB16BWvQ1ed9gq4bDEy6uwdh4ucWjqs/s1600/1000beaut.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 199px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji3JQLb6xn5EnvW_mTQHcmXXyL1ba8ZWHqUbbdiOb4zxoZ4ZdigFjcxZVdZbeHxcXOfzrxPZnm8UcGnQZ8qamx0MjCr7g5F6pH5BzQutGTB8B-qB16BWvQ1ed9gq4bDEy6uwdh4ucWjqs/s200/1000beaut.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674600310271592802" /></a><br /><br />A Thousand Beautiful Things<br /><br />It’s such an old cliché by now, but many years ago Oprah’s idea of a Grateful Journal really changed my life. One thing I have learned by going into people’s houses and helping them clean and organize, is how it puts things into perspective. Being invited into other people’s homes, and seeing how people live (we tend to think that people live more or less similarly to how we live, and I can tell you, that is not the case) has been an amazing and humbling experience. And I so appreciate all that I have, including my health, and try to focus on all that I have in my life rather than what I think I am missing. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9n-uH0IJlMq91oAK__727oWJZoUbuuRjC-ehHfR-gW5qk6QydfY6WVkerbEJGMuOPzRG9mtdkY3qLQE1Ofm44PBsaD68eqlmgSos_Z8kzLabWT9u3-oKqNOkC7kwwry0iNuFMmAS5dds/s1600/album-get-closer.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 199px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9n-uH0IJlMq91oAK__727oWJZoUbuuRjC-ehHfR-gW5qk6QydfY6WVkerbEJGMuOPzRG9mtdkY3qLQE1Ofm44PBsaD68eqlmgSos_Z8kzLabWT9u3-oKqNOkC7kwwry0iNuFMmAS5dds/s200/album-get-closer.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674610245632122418" /></a><br /><br />Every morning when I wake up I proactively fill my day with light. CIM says “Happiness is a decision I must make.” Every morning I ask, may I be a light to all people that I meet today, talk to today, and think about today. CIM says, the only thing lacking in any relationship is what you are not giving. Remember that song, by Seals and Croft, “Get Closer,” which says, “darling if you want me to be closer to you, get closer to me.” <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs_kBAO2GaYC1cgWdR2bXVBHA5pfl7CaqB4w9FxJLjXBPpRZwbWB3D-aPcxC9fv9sawUmQ8U6rpAPE3OQVinRhe3OSA-OXNJzAz5clX9osNDY8ohXbcd7axxvxoeZcyx1CsitjvkJM8SI/s1600/PAVEMENT.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 166px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs_kBAO2GaYC1cgWdR2bXVBHA5pfl7CaqB4w9FxJLjXBPpRZwbWB3D-aPcxC9fv9sawUmQ8U6rpAPE3OQVinRhe3OSA-OXNJzAz5clX9osNDY8ohXbcd7axxvxoeZcyx1CsitjvkJM8SI/s200/PAVEMENT.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674609919569163042" /></a><br /><br /><br />Sometimes I stop on my driveway and see a tiny little flower growing up through the pavement crack. And I think, that is the most amazing thing I have ever seen. That somehow, against seemingly impossible odds, this seed that was so small you could probably not even see it, found its place, and even if the “world” would say, no, you can’t grow there, in the middle of the concrete in the middle of this dude’s driveway in the middle of one of the biggest cities in the world, with practically no water and probably way too much sunlight, that is impossible. <br /><br />And yet, there it is. Maybe I am the only person who will ever see that little flower. And it is my gift from the universe, just as much as that guy jogging past me on Franklin, with his shirt off, in the first week of November. I just have to appreciate it. <br /><br />And not swerve into a tree while I am doing so.RocketManLAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12085856145517949665noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116843644860584099.post-15789962000374811772011-11-01T17:15:00.001-07:002011-11-14T00:24:45.583-08:00Music gets the best of me, Marianne and Course in Miracles.<span style="font-weight:bold;">What it was like.</span> <br /><br />I grew up on a farm in Northern Canada. I hated it and felt unloved and in the way and like an alien. I had no self confidence and got beat up every day at school by what are now called bullies. Consequently, I hid as much as I could, at school and at home. When I was little, before I was in school, I taught myself to read. So by the time I started school I was eons ahead of everyone, often including my teachers. This did not help matters. I got straight A's without even trying, the academic part was all so easy for me, and boring. The social part was a nightmare and I often made myself sick before school (not consciously, but I was so upset about going to school that I would often get physically sick). In junior high I was out sick for nearly three years, I only went to school every few days. And I still got straight A's. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtJQdcPaZlPMEWdW_c2olsd7SZIakNwmpXgCTRmNeCbZg_R8OJtnxYIAmiNnlKQWfJf9lhNIMo5vlOnzwGgs8d_fGJSMX2xhHCXPZRFfKfIxAaM2cGrIlUlqMduudm1iURi7x9vVSohsE/s1600/albertamap.gif"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 128px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtJQdcPaZlPMEWdW_c2olsd7SZIakNwmpXgCTRmNeCbZg_R8OJtnxYIAmiNnlKQWfJf9lhNIMo5vlOnzwGgs8d_fGJSMX2xhHCXPZRFfKfIxAaM2cGrIlUlqMduudm1iURi7x9vVSohsE/s200/albertamap.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670297335593480482" /></a><br /><br />I spent a lot of time home alone, which I loved. My Dad was gone, my Mom was at school (she was a teacher), my brother was at school. I read and read and read. Being raised on a farm, my parents only listened to country music, which I hated. In time (like 25 years later) I would grow to admire the country music of the era, like Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline, Lynn Anderson, etc. (Although I still cannot stomach Hank Williams.) But at the time I just hated it and, thinking that was what music was, wasn't interested. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixu6KFOOlaRRPc0XGYnQOuNJiDTUoJDmWHr1VlnYl2A4ptTV-8Y2fCeU1R31NZ6EdgMJdCn5qD0dqvj2cqJWJe3SPy53wMexzU_BnEOQD_Bg3su1QdctQ4Aj45u0Oqt__gKuLYkSrjbPM/s1600/ring-of-fire-the-best-of-johnny-cash.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixu6KFOOlaRRPc0XGYnQOuNJiDTUoJDmWHr1VlnYl2A4ptTV-8Y2fCeU1R31NZ6EdgMJdCn5qD0dqvj2cqJWJe3SPy53wMexzU_BnEOQD_Bg3su1QdctQ4Aj45u0Oqt__gKuLYkSrjbPM/s200/ring-of-fire-the-best-of-johnny-cash.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670185840683857058" /></a><br /><br />One thing I did when I was young was I'd enter contests. All kinds of contests, like puzzles in the newspaper, etc. And since I entered so many contests, I won a lot of contests. One time, there was a new TV station that started, and as part of their opening celebration, I won a stereo! So suddenly, I graduated from my little hand held portable pop up record player that I played Disney 45s on (the ones with the booklets that you could read along with, that's a big part of how I taught myself to read.) to real records, an amp and big speakers. And headphones. <br /><br />There was a newspaper that I won their contests so many times they eventually told me I wasn't allowed to enter any more. Their prizes were records. I could go into a certain store and pick out whatever records I wanted. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNEpTjqbPsIszGpALnCyr_i5kuHqxrXJZGzXMEqd3O1qkx6wWBhlhSwp-HPn_SK3PRcKlsXRjI0RzRezlR69Afe_-apceN3pURykEdSa8fajqEwzrIYlVANzTqsCq5bhwh85XtMaZe4l0/s1600/LWKUT.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNEpTjqbPsIszGpALnCyr_i5kuHqxrXJZGzXMEqd3O1qkx6wWBhlhSwp-HPn_SK3PRcKlsXRjI0RzRezlR69Afe_-apceN3pURykEdSa8fajqEwzrIYlVANzTqsCq5bhwh85XtMaZe4l0/s200/LWKUT.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670296811689096018" /></a><br /><br />I discovered there was much more to music than my father’s country music. The first two records I got were Captain & Tennille's first two albums. I loved them so much and still love them so much I can barely stand it. They are criminally under-rated. I know you are snickering, but know that there is so much more to them than what you know, otherwise you wouldn’t be snickering. But that is OK with me. <br /><br />The next record I got was ABBA's "Arrival." I had heard "I Do (x5) on the radio and just loved it, it was unlike anythign I'd ever heard. I had bought the record of "Greatest Hits" and I remember thinking that was extremely presumptuous of them, how could they have a Greatest Hits album when they'd never had any hits. At first, there were only a few songs I liked on the GH album, but eventually listened to it enough that I really liked nearly every song on the album. And then "Arrival" came out and I just wore that record out. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs1A9qDvfOIj2iU-i_fKStwF8h4fm454PBNg7htmzbfHdf2SvqyaYROO6-So9Z1K_mySfPAQfgt8KyQ3dE7rUkj2vdVH3mixC1B-wXUARXEsD2LW_nM-W-CUYNqry5q85UBDTl_u2DqO4/s1600/abba-arrival.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs1A9qDvfOIj2iU-i_fKStwF8h4fm454PBNg7htmzbfHdf2SvqyaYROO6-So9Z1K_mySfPAQfgt8KyQ3dE7rUkj2vdVH3mixC1B-wXUARXEsD2LW_nM-W-CUYNqry5q85UBDTl_u2DqO4/s200/abba-arrival.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670296816258548690" /></a><br /><br />The other group I loved loved loved was the Carpenters. I'd heard them on the radio but didn't really know what was going on. Then one time I was in my uncle's basement. He was a garbage collector; he drove a garbage truck and picked up garbage. He also collected a lot of the stuff in his basement, and he had a lot of records. That was where I first heard the Carpenters album, (the tan one, with the fold out cover), and I've loved them ever since. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4dLLBXgScwuGcYw4faDyu8HwYFfeOpgpNBdqGD13sFTQXVTS_ry9KOMAcYJ6lLaIKMOl8we2_FMZYMWD3Qv_xo09EJo5XdAR5jzFqYHxDopFhnbhtfalFKzLMIUmhjozibjuhpzEBPzQ/s1600/The_Carpenters__Horizon__FrontBlog.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4dLLBXgScwuGcYw4faDyu8HwYFfeOpgpNBdqGD13sFTQXVTS_ry9KOMAcYJ6lLaIKMOl8we2_FMZYMWD3Qv_xo09EJo5XdAR5jzFqYHxDopFhnbhtfalFKzLMIUmhjozibjuhpzEBPzQ/s200/The_Carpenters__Horizon__FrontBlog.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670185846841395906" /></a><br /><br />I think what I love so much about these three groups, is the dimensions to them. All three acts have tremendous female singers; I would say all four singers use their voices as instruments. Years ago, that might have been a derogatory statement, but to me, what that means is they use their voices as tools, as part of the entire song. I would say KD Lang does the same today. The second part is the male counterparts, which in all cases did the music, played most of the instruments, did the arrangements and production. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQU6Kbcp8AKcH0p0DZLTpg_HyMdxtxgxY5H-GHm-YZrmK59gcIGCumTjEbRro3y0511syUGpJhbJ4PHKXxcPRjviI13JUv0GaZPSiftrts5LtyQso-Eqf-riPAOamkZVIqDf-CPQRG_5s/s1600/CTdream.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQU6Kbcp8AKcH0p0DZLTpg_HyMdxtxgxY5H-GHm-YZrmK59gcIGCumTjEbRro3y0511syUGpJhbJ4PHKXxcPRjviI13JUv0GaZPSiftrts5LtyQso-Eqf-riPAOamkZVIqDf-CPQRG_5s/s200/CTdream.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670185834319574018" /></a><br /><br />When I listen to Captain & Tennille’s “Dream” album (1978), Carpenters “Horizon” album (1975), or ABBA’s “The Visitors” (1981), when I sit there with the headphones on and just drown in the music, it just blows my mind how creative it is; on an artistic level, it is incomprehensible to me how any one person (or two, in the case of ABBA) could even conceptualize such astounding works. <br /><br />And the fact that I can listen to it, 30 or 40 years later, and in fact understand and appreciate it even more than at the time. Well, that’s an achievement, as an artist myself, that I could only dream of. I am so glad that in each case, I have been able to have, in sometimes brief and sometimes lengthy conversations with these men, been able to tell them how much their music means (and meant) to me. <br /><br />Because, as I said, when I was young I retreated into music. There was always safety there. They would never say, ‘not now’, or call me names, or not want to play for me. They would never be too drunk to play, or make me feel like I didn’t deserve for them to play for me. I could put my headphones on and be in my bedroom and listen to these records over and over, holding the sleeves in my hand, looking at the pictures, studying the liner notes, the lyrics, the photos. Trying to imagine what worlds these people came from, and how they got to the places they got to. When I was that age, and completely miserable and alone, the music made me feel like there was someone out there, some place other than where I was, and that one day, I would be one of them, and out there too. These people were different, and I was different. They were special, and I knew I was special too. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCVZGq0BEXadz5fU1VvKb-1fzlxmqgbgPaMY6LERbB-YkFeZZxe4bCTmZLjfu5ekcabzVrdIInLxsO-amlczyVf2kKYLtgQflnQrOEbWiOie7wdg5cw0ekHyW7_kqq-H33iOt5oG08_is/s1600/visitors.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 194px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCVZGq0BEXadz5fU1VvKb-1fzlxmqgbgPaMY6LERbB-YkFeZZxe4bCTmZLjfu5ekcabzVrdIInLxsO-amlczyVf2kKYLtgQflnQrOEbWiOie7wdg5cw0ekHyW7_kqq-H33iOt5oG08_is/s200/visitors.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670185834319574018" /></a><br /><br />Also, these acts were all keyboard based. I started playing my grandmother’s piano when I was five years old; she was so astounded, she gave me her piano so I could learn, and take lessons, and play. I took lessons for many years but never learned more than I did from listening to and copying the melodies I heard on the records. I bought the piano folios (still have them) and while much of it was far beyond my level, I could play along, and dream. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQYDO-LWOhOVPeowlJGzO-qHK2nScBEI_LNBpVrNJPZs_dYEjcFj7xLoCE2g80br1G4jfak5RlDNXG7v91PgQRK_e54ojebZPPRp91H-ReLIY5ZRJnoSxuOSUBs0jNlPBmxc1IjA9vUr0/s1600/abbalive.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 154px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQYDO-LWOhOVPeowlJGzO-qHK2nScBEI_LNBpVrNJPZs_dYEjcFj7xLoCE2g80br1G4jfak5RlDNXG7v91PgQRK_e54ojebZPPRp91H-ReLIY5ZRJnoSxuOSUBs0jNlPBmxc1IjA9vUr0/s200/abbalive.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670294785038758978" /></a><br /><br />Captain & Tennille was my first concert, in 1977. I barely remember it, but I was so excited I couldn’t sit down. My friend who went with me said, “sit down, this isn’t a rock concert!” I was so appalled at his lack of understanding. I saw ABBA in 1979, my friend and I had tickets at the far back of the Coliseum (same place I saw C&T) and, again, I barely remember the show itself. I do remember the screaming; when the lights went down, the roar from the crowd (it was ABBA’s first North American show, there were people from all over the world) literally shook the building. The Carpenters, well, I never did get to see perform live, although I saw Richard perform at the Carpenters Center in Long Beach. That was the first time I met him, and I’ve talked to him a few more times. C&T I’ve met many times, I have had many conversations with Daryl and, at one point, was possibly going to write a book about them, but the project never solidified because Toni had a breakdown during the Victor/Victoria tour and cancelled everything on the table, including their 25th Anniversary tour. Of ABBA, I’ve met Benny and Frida (at the Mamma Mia premiere in Las Vegas) and Bjorn (at the MM premiere in Los Angeles). I never met Karen Carpenter (although I’ve been to her grave (both in Downey and in Thousand Oaks) and I’ve never met Agnetha.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKV7arkGaP1GmsUpJYXW_EBnHuDoHr_-UAkqsD9KzrfqjEj1Cx8O2N87RHNfX0qriVB0hniDryJqJCrLXblyMGKs2HFOkaQpZFx2WPA4kHf6pvtKFhNHlKXl_S5xC_FwiQ_ohssxWPNP8/s1600/wilson-phillips.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 198px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKV7arkGaP1GmsUpJYXW_EBnHuDoHr_-UAkqsD9KzrfqjEj1Cx8O2N87RHNfX0qriVB0hniDryJqJCrLXblyMGKs2HFOkaQpZFx2WPA4kHf6pvtKFhNHlKXl_S5xC_FwiQ_ohssxWPNP8/s200/wilson-phillips.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670294790635964466" /></a><br /><br />There have been a few times in my life when I was suicidal, for various reasons. There has (obviously) been something at each juncture that stopped me. In many cases, it has been music. One time, I specifically remember thinking, what if there is no Carpenters music on the other side. (I don’t believe this, but that would be a whole ‘nother story). Another time, there was a song, “Hold On” by Wilson Philips that came on the speaker while I was in the bathroom at a restaurant, having just made the decision that “tonight, when I get home, I will do it”; the song goes, “hold on for one more day,” and I thought, yeah, you know, I don’t have to kill myself TONIGHT. One of my therapists a few years back said, whatever it takes to get you to your happy place. For me, that happy place, is sitting with the headphones on, listening to one (or all) of these performers. Or, driving in my truck. When I bought my last two trucks, the first cds I played were Captain & Tennille’s “Dream.” Just the sheer beauty of that music, Toni’s voice at the peak of it’s perfection, Daryl’s astounding production, the exquisite song choices (C&T wrote some of their songs but most were covers). It’s so beautiful, it can make me cry; I am in my happy place. <br /><br />(Duran Duran, Wynonna Judd, Sarah McLachlan, Kate Bush, Tori Amos, Linda Ronstadt and Fleetwood Mac also work for this, but not to the same extent. I love Elton John too, his music means so much to me (see my DJ/Photographer name RocketManLA) but his music is so vast and diverse; it affects me, but not on the same level, he is in his own different category, he is my idol (and also a piano player). <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAwbWGSnNpbWQqZ9RVqpZgcLj-6jsvPoRiVYbO2O5iEtW8e4Ir1aTzT90WjIklxbVcwOzPyV9v-bY_sPDsnidFK4-xq0g2p9fpmAFzob4bT0cFSpvaGN5784cSPEWVZ_aeDh9y1GmwYys/s1600/Elton-John-Rock-Of-The-Westies-1975-Front-Cover-34106.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 193px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAwbWGSnNpbWQqZ9RVqpZgcLj-6jsvPoRiVYbO2O5iEtW8e4Ir1aTzT90WjIklxbVcwOzPyV9v-bY_sPDsnidFK4-xq0g2p9fpmAFzob4bT0cFSpvaGN5784cSPEWVZ_aeDh9y1GmwYys/s200/Elton-John-Rock-Of-The-Westies-1975-Front-Cover-34106.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670298422517117634" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">What happened.</span> <br /><br />In the late 1990’s, around 1997, I got my first computer and got online. One of the first email groups I joined was ABBAMAIL, and what a ride that was. As I’ve said before, ABBAMAIL was unique in that people were encouraged to make Off Topic posts, and talk about their personal lives. Without a doubt, that is what made all the difference. After all, ABBA had broken up decades ago. Sure, there was sometimes extremely exciting news (Mamma Mia premieres, Agnetha’s wonderful wonderful album, etc) but for the most part, the heart of the list was the people, and the NAR (Non ABBA Related) posts. None of the other email groups that I joined at that time are even in existence now. Yes there were certainly many characters, and many many fights; several times I was kicked off the list, but eventually Graeme let me back on. I met both Graeme and Grant when they were in LA (separately) and each was a unique bonding experience. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwRBJiSkUrYyjFLiXbjfqDxycGLWkJLXqt8Nf8I4LUHonLUYi-pdZg3h8SjN07VZUccSFdUmgPTccFQRqTAxTc75KWVD427QIjDlIqRdPHKD4yMw-XfzY2KnZbnDYA-MnkwQLL0ZtkUsU/s1600/abbamail.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwRBJiSkUrYyjFLiXbjfqDxycGLWkJLXqt8Nf8I4LUHonLUYi-pdZg3h8SjN07VZUccSFdUmgPTccFQRqTAxTc75KWVD427QIjDlIqRdPHKD4yMw-XfzY2KnZbnDYA-MnkwQLL0ZtkUsU/s200/abbamail.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670299647827245698" /></a><br /><br />Several other members of ABBAMAIL became very close friends that remain until this day, some in real life (Hi Merrick, Ryan, Pepe!) and some in virtual life (Hi Dora, Chris!). One member of ABBAMAIL became my wife when she moved to Los Angeles from Australia; we were married dressed as ABBA and performed two ABBA numbers, and had a 70’s theme wedding (which I was the DJ of course). Things didn’t work out, for many reasons (“no more care free laugh ter”), we are now divorced and have lost contact (“si lence ev ver af ter”), which is sad, but I learned so much from the experience, and it allowed me, no, let me rephrase that. The devastation that caused, emotionally and financially, forced me to deal with some major things in my life. I try, I have to, look back with no regrets. The past is over. All that matters is now. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD8VIAEB9ModgZVDqLkIBdvlI_LsNSCSVL7x7UASeiUXcGpJfQijXDn3Umfi5BCb3llz2QPRnMOIJoMELV6vQZjVONHE6qNabxYC3kY_v-l_8b0GRk_Q3Xw8nLh65CFIMGExB55XuBmgE/s1600/A-Return-to-Love-Williamson-Marianne-9780060765101.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 182px; height: 200px;"src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIYMKWveNBBJFg-WIrOd2hbYNWNW3X-Ao6epFK_neiPHFaXVhX345mTWHVlOENudixYsR-V66ysiIULO4ucT2cGbOldo4NOLFbweRT3inkvYpbtleBxqqB512FqlNlZCihQ2KZiqkwkRY/s200/26057.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670173497341237010" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">What it’s like now.</span> <br /><br />One of the things that really pulled me out of all this was the return of Marianne Williamson to LA. In the mid 90’s, A Course in Miracles and her book, A Return to Love, LITERALLY changed my life. A Course in Miracles (CIM) is a 365 lesson, self study spiritual and psychological workbook that trains you (in the first half) to let go of fear, which, to make a long story short, is what the world runs on. (If you don’t believe that, just watch the news). The second half of the course trains you to think in what CIM calls “love.” CIM uses Christian terms (God, Jesus, Holy Spirit, etc) but in decidedly non-christian ways. I think, for most people, these terms cause their minds to instantly reject the entire course, which is of course, “throwing the baby out with the bath water.” When the exact same principles are explained or discussed (or written about in songs, ala the Beatles) they are embraced. The word “love” in CIM terms (in my understanding) is the same word as “God” “Spirit” “Energy” or even “The Force”. Love is everything, and there cannot be an opposite to something that is everything. I did the course twice in the 90s and both times it was revelatory. Marianne lectured every week, but then she left for about 15 years. <br /><br />In January 2010, just as my divorce and bankruptcy were done, Marianne returned and began lecturing at a theatre on La Brea in Hollywood. I have been to every single lecture since the first one. One of my friends had volunteered (as an usher) for ulterior motives that were quickly squelched, but in one of the staff meetings, they decided they needed some music before the lectures, and my friend said, “I know a DJ.” So I started DJ-ing for Marianne, before and after the lectures (and sometimes during meditations), which was both a wonderful and bewildering experience. But I got to sit at the front of the stage, and play music for hundreds of people every week, and Marianne would sit beside me before she went on. So that was rewarding. And interesting. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBCaRoM8plFehJ9W7EGDyN9gW-Dr1Z5POT8h7maTyB0qP5xR0CRI5JSflTMOci3aUUoRsHkDwFz1PCLbfYunnA9K9Ro9fXhrj1tN5gjM5Gkm9DiQbI6hW_ga7Lkgjf4ZNJbw54uyLGmd8/s1600/51TQ42NE8AL._SL500_AA300_.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBCaRoM8plFehJ9W7EGDyN9gW-Dr1Z5POT8h7maTyB0qP5xR0CRI5JSflTMOci3aUUoRsHkDwFz1PCLbfYunnA9K9Ro9fXhrj1tN5gjM5Gkm9DiQbI6hW_ga7Lkgjf4ZNJbw54uyLGmd8/s200/51TQ42NE8AL._SL500_AA300_.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670173496476458306" /></a><br /><br />When the contract at that theatre expired, we moved to a much nicer theatre in Beverly Hills, which allowed for live music in the theatre. So no more DJ-ing, but they decided they wanted to record the lectures as they happened, and sell the cds at the end. So they asked me to do that, and I’ve done that every week since. I also sometimes DJ for Marianne at events and workshops, and have started doing graphic work for her as well. And of course I record the lectures and burn cds and post them online. I also do transcriptions, which means I have to (get to) listen to the lectures several times over and type them all out. So I am deeply immersed in the lectures. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQRZC41gQy6voqXynFG5TBrhx8fLzkO06IPqSsXllTMWk_cFnEgusnXwdSV8slLSBuWG6H1xx8QrGr2OibbyboGWEvXgk9Y4NMq-fYpzq1zFB23susTDkeAz1Xm-x331pMfpIi4-iKsX0/s1600/acim.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 136px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQRZC41gQy6voqXynFG5TBrhx8fLzkO06IPqSsXllTMWk_cFnEgusnXwdSV8slLSBuWG6H1xx8QrGr2OibbyboGWEvXgk9Y4NMq-fYpzq1zFB23susTDkeAz1Xm-x331pMfpIi4-iKsX0/s200/acim.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670173509560806818" /></a><br /><br />And, at least as significantly, I also began the workbook again in January 2010; I worked through the course over the year, and then started it again in January 2011, so I am almost through it for the fourth time. As before, each time through the course, each day reading the course, has changed my life so much I cannot express. My astrologer (as is my therapist) is a wonderful wonderful resource for me; both have enabled me to make significant changes in my life. My astrologer told me one time, years ago (I have all our sessions on CD, just as I have all the Marianne lectures on CD), that it was hard to explain, but for him there was a tiny but significant point in his life when the needle clicked ever so subtly from the “all is lost” side to the “possibility that things will be all right” side of the emotional spectrum. <br /><br />This has been extremely significant for me. I have lost many friends in the last few years, for various reasons, which has been hard, and I will admit, scary. But, as someone who has been sober for nearly 28 years now, when I speak at AA meetings I will say, there are only two ways to get sober. One, you have to actually want to stop drinking. And Two, you will lose all your friends. But you will get new friends, who are healthier, or, at least, on the same wave that you are. So I have to have faith that while the crowd from the 4:15 showing has left the theatre, I am here sweeping the popcorn up, waiting for the 7:30 crowd to arrive. I have to have faith that they will come. Even though I am not MovieFone and don’t sell advance tickets, so I have no idea who will show up or when. <br /><br />So, ABBAvillage, (nee ABBAMAIL) remains one of the few constants that have been in my life for the last, what, nearly 15 years. I have moved several times, I have lived in completely different cities, I have changed my career three times, I have married (both to a man and to a woman, separately) and divorced, been rich and been broke, been robbed and broken into and had my inheritance stolen, I have lost and I have won, been sick and been healthy, been afraid, been very very afraid, and been happy, sometimes only in fleeting moments. People have died (my father) and been born (my nephew’s girlfriend just had a baby). People have come and gone. Some with good riddance, some with anxiety. Some have come back, others never will. <br /><br />I’ve lost weight and gained weight, lost my hair and grew it back, been pudgy and been buff. Been acupunctured and cleansed and homeopathed and hypnotized. Bought flannel shirts and donated flannel shirts. Bought cargo shorts and donated cargo shorts. Fallen asleep and woken up. Been on the top and been on the bottom. Seen literally thousands of movies. A lot of it has gone into posts on ABBAMAIL (I have them all saved), my website, then MySpace and now Facebook… but ABBAMAIL/Village remains. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSBcR-3dNrSg90Fohw1mK-TfH64-1T3_9H6EC6wACV7cmrW_E65JI2M-NbmXc-ci0blIajgkJspHoC8BT0N9qzcJ9QFWq73RPrvz88sqtUoAcDU8_zApWt7SF-fiGBWxjNl-I9T7QpuOU/s1600/saab-9-7x.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 120px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSBcR-3dNrSg90Fohw1mK-TfH64-1T3_9H6EC6wACV7cmrW_E65JI2M-NbmXc-ci0blIajgkJspHoC8BT0N9qzcJ9QFWq73RPrvz88sqtUoAcDU8_zApWt7SF-fiGBWxjNl-I9T7QpuOU/s200/saab-9-7x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670298520478146434" /></a><br /><br />That, and the music, which is always there. It has sure changed many times, from the vinyl LP record to the cassette to the cd to the MP3 and iPod and now I DJ almost exclusively with my laptop. I have had several cars, from a beat up 66 Ford Fairlane to a brand new Honda CRX to a classic Mustang Convertible to a Ford Explorer and now a SAAB 97-X SUV… and in all of those cars and trucks, and all of those record players, cd players, tape decks, iPods and computers, I’ve listened to the music of Captain & Tennille, the Carpenters, and ABBA. <br /><br />I remain. I am. <br /><br /><br /><br />©2011 Rod Reynolds RocketManLA.comRocketManLAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12085856145517949665noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116843644860584099.post-1141342881624563282010-10-16T17:48:00.000-07:002010-10-17T23:37:45.274-07:00a new era begins; a new SUV and the battle of the logos.<span style="font-style:italic;">click on any picture to make it larger <br />note: the only ones that are actually mine are the first one and the last one</span><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHGr6pTisAdFGcGUuyACZj1yr8xhAZkK72c2hNnKhbt4aU-guqsvhCJKQet9Xjfsq2HWqWHH7JNi8FZzWapLYNlZm35A2R-UPZo_qAnfgEdQJuOgiJf1_hLigVSEyrj5t1YZwDq3W-7NA/s1600/PA151924a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHGr6pTisAdFGcGUuyACZj1yr8xhAZkK72c2hNnKhbt4aU-guqsvhCJKQet9Xjfsq2HWqWHH7JNi8FZzWapLYNlZm35A2R-UPZo_qAnfgEdQJuOgiJf1_hLigVSEyrj5t1YZwDq3W-7NA/s200/PA151924a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529157149565037458" /></a>So I got a new truck last week. The accident was two weeks ago Monday and it took me until last Thursday to get back on track. That's more than ten days. This involved the rainy Monday being a total disaster. Many many phone calls with insurance people. Trips to the auto shop to talk about repairing my truck. Then they told me the truck was a write off. So I had to start looking for a new truck. I had borrowed my friend's car, who was on tour in England, and I only had until Thursday when he returned. <br /><br />I can't tell you how much I hate car shopping. Mainly because I don't know much about cars. I really only care about the color and the stereo. Because of my work I need something that can carry stuff around (photography equipment, DJ equipment, paint, ladders, other people's clutter, furniture to be repaired or refinished, etc). <br /><br />I thought about buying a pickup, because you can carry more stuff. But then the back is open and you can't really store anything in there. And I would have to have a truck with an extended cab. I can't just throw my DJ equipment in the back of a pickup. So that’s getting big when I live in the slightly cramped area of silverlake and hollywood; I have to keep traffic and parking in mind. <br /><br />I love(d) my Ford Explorer (SUV) and it seemed perfect for me and my needs. So I swung back to the SUV. <br /><br />Several trips to car dealers. Wrenching. They all seem to be trying to take advantage of me (one) and of course are trying to make money. It's hardly a humanitarian venture, owning a used car lot. Every car I saw was "the best", at least according to the dealer of the moment. "Do you want me to go get the keys?" "(no, because the color is completely wrong and I don't even like the logo). <br /><br /><br />I have only ever really bought four cars in my life. Each time I felt like I had been put through the ringer and left out in the desert while they drained my bank account and rifled through my most private papers (ie bank accounts, tax records, etc). <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH4hqeT9oHoz7ieokIhd4Ogj_rNxsfz1-s7IkLfETmEK7rUhLJgaBOT9qFNgMdrVp8kvOyPCiv2OvE9AGRU4EzQYXxopkm8SLKrqOlRXwdDNyTtsC3xQzMXkwGLXZnDC1twAbExKMuNl8/s1600/1966_Ford_Fairlane_500_XL_390_V8_For_Sale_Front_1.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 146px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH4hqeT9oHoz7ieokIhd4Ogj_rNxsfz1-s7IkLfETmEK7rUhLJgaBOT9qFNgMdrVp8kvOyPCiv2OvE9AGRU4EzQYXxopkm8SLKrqOlRXwdDNyTtsC3xQzMXkwGLXZnDC1twAbExKMuNl8/s200/1966_Ford_Fairlane_500_XL_390_V8_For_Sale_Front_1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5528811795120139874" /></a>My first car was a gift from my dad for my 16th birthday. It was a 1966 powder blue Ford Fairlane. It was only three years younger than me and my dad bought it off a local farmer for $250. The stereo I installed cost more than the car. But at this time, I was in 11th grade and going to an academic high school in the city, a 30 - 40 minute drive. Having my own car meant I could drive myself and I didn't have to rely on my mom to take me to school and back. <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYjVJ1sJKNB_H5ZuDE9D0YwOPuKFvJnTci74Q59o-tK9ukTNXP84NuhYxAFWAmru4R3jyMQyCcFSEiom4JtwWRlAPhPW4V0FMNWAl0WFAVFosaUUAhkPcWBNSlKvmTOOBJJxqGJvmiK1k/s1600/2759919860101453251JWxIVC_ph.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 152px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYjVJ1sJKNB_H5ZuDE9D0YwOPuKFvJnTci74Q59o-tK9ukTNXP84NuhYxAFWAmru4R3jyMQyCcFSEiom4JtwWRlAPhPW4V0FMNWAl0WFAVFosaUUAhkPcWBNSlKvmTOOBJJxqGJvmiK1k/s200/2759919860101453251JWxIVC_ph.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529222462516932258" /></a>Which, looking back, was kind of a nice time and I miss that. <br /><br />But having my own car (with a kick ass stereo) was awesome. <br /><br />Most of my “friends” took advantage of me, asking for rides to concerts and anywhere else they wanted to go. Sometimes it annoyed me, but most of the time it was ok; even though I knew they were using me, it was kind of nice to be included, even if it was only as a chauffeur. <br /><br />(Not a lot of self esteem in my family, as you can probably guess)<br /><br /><br />I also had a job, working at a record store, which was more a full time than a part time job, so I had a fair amount of money and access to very cheap records. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAceIpmA48uRZjXV6S9QeWkANRWBpdmWbXjohkn1bppWyeqpwfXo1RVuy4O-KJmLDZvwNXQuUiYYI_OQnHW6EfqGNKdZ4JqThyjG-0r6Q-h2otrBpDIrnr-U_BCjJUAFAQo6SS6H93N14/s1600/1973mercury.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 100px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAceIpmA48uRZjXV6S9QeWkANRWBpdmWbXjohkn1bppWyeqpwfXo1RVuy4O-KJmLDZvwNXQuUiYYI_OQnHW6EfqGNKdZ4JqThyjG-0r6Q-h2otrBpDIrnr-U_BCjJUAFAQo6SS6H93N14/s200/1973mercury.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5528811799828558306" /></a>At one point I was in a minor fender bender, but being that my car was so old and somewhat fragile, it didn't take much. By this time I was in college and my dad again got me a car, it was a 1973 Mercury Montego GT, and while it was originally red, it had faded (as red used to do) and was kind of a dusty pale orange color. But it was very sporty (which didn't go with my personality at the time one bit). But it had a nice logo and more importantly it had an awesome sound system. The cassette deck had AUTO REVERSE and you could play a tape either way.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic0YHDaU1CGxxqmgIrm_ygqGDS_1mDEvzHUe1qxWOv1GWVPMKjiVOgjIIkl86tLDj_hKZ6OjIpNkRIHIg_gX0MNPAfdEAjNZbcxtLA7Tj4_jXhhE9ZtZu2aanbJP1N_SIU8JEfegvbTbQ/s1600/Front.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 194px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic0YHDaU1CGxxqmgIrm_ygqGDS_1mDEvzHUe1qxWOv1GWVPMKjiVOgjIIkl86tLDj_hKZ6OjIpNkRIHIg_gX0MNPAfdEAjNZbcxtLA7Tj4_jXhhE9ZtZu2aanbJP1N_SIU8JEfegvbTbQ/s200/Front.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529157145291272482" /></a>That sounds totally lame now, but at the time it was pretty cool. I also had an amp and a pre amp and I remember blasting Frankie Goes to Hollywood "Two Tribes" at unearthly levels. I was in heaven. God bless Trevor Horn. <br /><br />I don't remember what happened to that car, but I moved to Toronto to continue my education and I assume my dad took the car back. <br /><br />Several years later I was again living in Edmonton and needed a car. I bought a car off my friend's brother for I think $200. I don't even remember what kind it was, it was a total beater car and had no brakes (I'm not kidding). One day, in the winter as I recall, the drivers side floor fell out and that was that. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6BVutfoFqZRul5FMNE7BnBuXfRC3DipDmuZUMXFNk2WlLqxXNAt9Nimh-kGY62ukSWRUNkEVAjb493J8ZlQvdRLS4xno0hJSfq58rs2185onOCxMEcMS_dIXavufJgEHVO09-nx8s8c4/s1600/honda_crx_hf_white_1988_2.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 136px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6BVutfoFqZRul5FMNE7BnBuXfRC3DipDmuZUMXFNk2WlLqxXNAt9Nimh-kGY62ukSWRUNkEVAjb493J8ZlQvdRLS4xno0hJSfq58rs2185onOCxMEcMS_dIXavufJgEHVO09-nx8s8c4/s200/honda_crx_hf_white_1988_2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5528811796718492130" /></a>But by this time I had graduated college and was working as a computer graphics artist and had a pretty good job. I was also working part time in a record store. I can't remember how it happened, but I ended up buying a brand new 1988 Honda CRX, which I totally loved. I loved the hatchback. It was white, and brand new, and had a great stereo and an awesome logo. And, even more importantly, given that I was living in Edmonton in the winter, it had a great heater. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkEWZs6ieKNKO9A1ENiqM8x9pU13d4NnBlaicq_1SmoPbuun-s9kUNTiqZkLoe9Bij-_tMQwDP-josmdTWKpFxiVxOCRB9Ctzw5AIoAwNrLXaVAZ49XBrVMj2JECACPCWtS0U3GPB4FDc/s1600/Honda-Logo.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 135px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkEWZs6ieKNKO9A1ENiqM8x9pU13d4NnBlaicq_1SmoPbuun-s9kUNTiqZkLoe9Bij-_tMQwDP-josmdTWKpFxiVxOCRB9Ctzw5AIoAwNrLXaVAZ49XBrVMj2JECACPCWtS0U3GPB4FDc/s200/Honda-Logo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529153803444498242" /></a>I was living with a guy I had known for several years, one of my semi friends, a friend of a friend, who hung out with us in Vancouver and did a lot of drugs while we went out dancing every night (they did the drugs, I did the dancing). I knew he was a bit sketchy, and he was still doing a lot of drugs, but we had fun. <br /><br />One day when I got into my car, I noticed that the heater fan was on full. I never ever turned the fan on full, so it was a bit curious, but I never thought much of it. The a few days later I got into the car and there were pistachio shells on the floor of the drivers side. I had never eaten pistachios in my life. <br /><br />I realized that my room mate was borrowing my car while I was asleep to go on 7-11 runs (I'm again giving him the benefit of the doubt). Without asking me! So I began taking my keys to bed with me. He still borrowed it sometimes during the day, with my permission, but one day he came home and he had been smoking in my car (ugh!) but worse, he had tossed his cigarette out the window while he was driving, and it flew back into the car and land on the back seat, burning a hole in the seat. <br /><br />Which was there, of course, until the day I sold that car several years later. That was the end of him driving my car, and when I ended up getting a different place to live, without him, that was the end of our friendship. I don't recall that I've ever seen him since that day, which was 22 years ago, <br /><br />With the Honda CRX I moved to Vancouver and then to Toronto, and then I moved to Los Angeles. I sold every thing I owned in Toronto, I shipped a few boxes of cds and records, and I drove across America in my CRX, from Toronto through Detroit, Memphis, Nashville, etc, stopping at the Grand Canyon and Las Vegas on the way. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjX7sRuAfrnZgGJJj179anAKj2yYqj9PFu-3Is5CggLgrS1AzPZAkszBjGfY4U1TqbE9eeqZlIgithD3vg5lr7WjGvN-_qSvfxf-_31ToOOuLPWvlP2DyVbUXteYpHwKXn3_W0xNxB50I/s1600/1987-1988-1989-1990-1991-1992-1993-ford-mustang-5.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 98px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjX7sRuAfrnZgGJJj179anAKj2yYqj9PFu-3Is5CggLgrS1AzPZAkszBjGfY4U1TqbE9eeqZlIgithD3vg5lr7WjGvN-_qSvfxf-_31ToOOuLPWvlP2DyVbUXteYpHwKXn3_W0xNxB50I/s200/1987-1988-1989-1990-1991-1992-1993-ford-mustang-5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529213949528707570" /></a>I lived in LA for several years with that car, I ended up working at Tower Records and Rhino Records (at the same time) and was doing pretty well. I decided to buy this car that I had fallen in love with, it was a Mustang convertible, 1992 and only had 17,000 miles on it when I bought it from a used car dealer in Santa Monica. I can't tell you how much I loved that car, and I drove it until it literally fell apart. <br /><br />It was to the point where the top didn't close any more, so it was permanently down. This is OK in the summer as it doesn't rain, but it was coming on fall, 2002, I was living in Silver Lake, and I was doing all right financially, so I decided that before it started to rain I had to buy a new car. <br /><br />I had been looking at cars for several weeks and getting very frustrated, and concerned that it was going to rain and me stuck with a car with no roof. One Sunday, in fact it was the long weekend in September, I was on my way to the Pasadena Flea Market and I drove past the Ford dealer on Hill St, they were having a huge Labor Day sale, with balloons and everything short of a guy dressed in a chicken suit. I just stopped in to look, but I found a black Explorer Sport SUV that once I sat in I knew this was the car (truck) for me. I ended up buying it that day and driving it home. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu3-BkQ-sTtd75kmEOS9_GQ6Ib3aB2nExWwNo9M1Fxkiut8-Ld2yNwnA0Z59ZzX0f09yZSA9TppHX-7sv95BeJpiFvfUwdp5dHxK496Kj-lOZGe3uRrkKpqp3-0J-RQMWmVszcuMzy1CM/s1600/Ford_Logo.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 100px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu3-BkQ-sTtd75kmEOS9_GQ6Ib3aB2nExWwNo9M1Fxkiut8-Ld2yNwnA0Z59ZzX0f09yZSA9TppHX-7sv95BeJpiFvfUwdp5dHxK496Kj-lOZGe3uRrkKpqp3-0J-RQMWmVszcuMzy1CM/s200/Ford_Logo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529153801951633250" /></a>And it served me well, up until last Monday when it was done in by a light sprinkling of rain while crossing the Hyperion bridge over the 5 freeway. (see previous blog for details and photos of the death of my SUV). <br /><br />It's funny, you don't usually realize "this is the last time I will be doing this." Like "this is the last time I will see this person" or "this is the last time I will have sex with this person" or "this is the last time I will get in my truck and drive to the post office." <br /><br />(Maybe sometimes you know when this might be the last time you have sex with someone.)<br /><br />Sometimes you think, "this will be the last time I see this person." and it turns out not to be the case at all. Sometimes for better or worse. <br /><br />The last time I saw my grandmother I thought it might be the last time I saw her (she had been very sick and was in the hospital). The last time I saw my Dad it never occurred to me that would be the last time I saw him (he died very suddenly). I said goodbye to my truck a few days ago, I took all my stuff out of it, it was very sadly smashed up and wouldn't start. But a week earlier when I had gone to the gym, and got in and drove across the bridge on my way to the post office and breakfast, I never thought, "this is the last time I will turn this ignition key." <br /><br />Hmmm. <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxCEsuZbnqtxyF-NopHHSLNKkusYpoUnFkjNmEGP26YzuIGHfgCoI9c6LKLS1CV_0UspMmoQM9RcRj-XaX1uq4E6hnERxk_ZSt9fTbjSvanSE1HH-N7LlDGq0QC_wdr3Ywbj_EOnWzeUU/s1600/10086582_2009414105218.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxCEsuZbnqtxyF-NopHHSLNKkusYpoUnFkjNmEGP26YzuIGHfgCoI9c6LKLS1CV_0UspMmoQM9RcRj-XaX1uq4E6hnERxk_ZSt9fTbjSvanSE1HH-N7LlDGq0QC_wdr3Ywbj_EOnWzeUU/s200/10086582_2009414105218.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529213943122388082" /></a><br />The first place I visited was the Ford dealer in Glendale, because I sort of knew them, having gone there for several years for maintenance and repairs. I had also gone there a while back, when they had the "Cash for Clunkers" extravaganza. It turned out my truck qualified, and I was really on the market for a new one, but when I discovered that they were going to kill my truck (literally, they would pour a chemical in the engine so the truck would be scrap metal) I just didn't have the heart. Sure, the explorer had seen better days, they don't make trucks like they used to, and even though it was only a few years old, once the warranty expired, things started to fall apart (coincidence?). But it wasn't ready to be put down. Taken out back and injected chemicals that would kill it. I just couldn't do it...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJZTZKg1OwHvldSUGCeKVfJdDAYI5k7QLSARrCM6Y8r3wTTqrbc_3ZoIE40aKFHvK8iOmroV7JiIgMR77jkPFVvJjVLRS0ij-GmOV768tpmuLzC3-1OMttj0p69Ro9fBN0vl7uQTPuzZk/s1600/jeepcher1.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJZTZKg1OwHvldSUGCeKVfJdDAYI5k7QLSARrCM6Y8r3wTTqrbc_3ZoIE40aKFHvK8iOmroV7JiIgMR77jkPFVvJjVLRS0ij-GmOV768tpmuLzC3-1OMttj0p69Ro9fBN0vl7uQTPuzZk/s200/jeepcher1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5528811801130497554" /></a>I went to all the car dealers on Brand Blvd, in Glendale, the Auto Row. I looked at several trucks and had more or less decided I would get this Jeep Cherokee that I sort of had a crush on, and it was only $8500 (plus tax and licensing). I love the Jeep logo, and the truck was a silvery blue which I quite liked.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr8nfsAbalkiemmfRYRjxLK9RKsrBs7204GXZmeDP4aAgLgBXAWdwI6O4VD2wH0t7PqHGKpF8DHS-Obu7O7FqauTPz31aWC9BIkX2YfA-gweyAwVJ-InXpLJCiCShKVfw_uGHvaIPp1Mw/s1600/Jeep_logo3.259201752_std.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 80px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr8nfsAbalkiemmfRYRjxLK9RKsrBs7204GXZmeDP4aAgLgBXAWdwI6O4VD2wH0t7PqHGKpF8DHS-Obu7O7FqauTPz31aWC9BIkX2YfA-gweyAwVJ-InXpLJCiCShKVfw_uGHvaIPp1Mw/s200/Jeep_logo3.259201752_std.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529222467713772258" /></a>But I had this friend who owns a car dealership in Santa Monica. While I was literally worrying about my truck situation, he butt dialed me and my phone showed "Jeremy car dealer". I took it as a sign from the universe and, while I knew that he was mad at me (long story, but basically because I wasn't moving at the same speed he was moving at (ie lightning") so I texted him that I had totaled my truck and needed a new one asap. He texted me that he had a truck for me, for $3000. <br /><br />Monday morning I drove out to Santa Monica to see the truck, but as soon as I saw it I knew it wasn't the one. First of all it was gold. and it had a padlock on the back. Jeremy suggested that I take the insurance money and buy this truck and have some left over. But when I told him it was important for me not to feel like I was dumbing myself down, he understood. <br /><br />He got online, a special 'car dealers' sites and checked out the upcoming auctions. He ended up finding this SAAB 9-7X, which as soon as he clicked on it, he said, this is the truck for you! Even though it was significantly more than I had been planning on spending. He said, it you're going to pay $8500 for a 2002 Jeep Cherokee, which isn't worth that, you should pay a little more and get something really worthwhile. He called the dealer in Santa Ana (about an hour from my house) and negotiated a deal. <br /><br />So the next day I somewhat reluctantly drove to Santa Ana, still more or less intending on buying the Jeep Cherokee, waiting patiently for me on a parking lot in Glendale, but I said I would check out the truck. While I was on the freeway, the Ford dealer called me to see if I could come in and I told him, I'm going to check out a truck in Santa Ana, and then I will come to you. <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPwa-hKblHVZkdDeM8-y8IXxLSOENHOAqX3MJV1y6kRiDo_B0IfggRayY9ChlGn1G3m3Vj01ONNB4RwYkSnNBdkuTosa5CTxcVIpAyQqNJPxTT_TmPmysvGKjtspd9UfFzCNMq7RfbqQY/s1600/PA151924a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPwa-hKblHVZkdDeM8-y8IXxLSOENHOAqX3MJV1y6kRiDo_B0IfggRayY9ChlGn1G3m3Vj01ONNB4RwYkSnNBdkuTosa5CTxcVIpAyQqNJPxTT_TmPmysvGKjtspd9UfFzCNMq7RfbqQY/s200/PA151924a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5528811802801199490" /></a>But once I got there, the truck really felt right. And of course it was much nicer (and newer) than the Jeep. It basically took the rest of my day to work out the details, but a deal was finally hammered out. the only hitch was that I had to wait for the check from the insurance company to come. I called them and they said it would be in my hand the next day. By now we are getting down to the wire, it's Wednesday and Phideaux arrives back from the UK on Thursday morning. <br /><br />But the check arrived Wednesday around noon, as the insurance company had promised, I took it to the bank and I took Phideaux's car in for a tune up. My friend Colleen drove me out to Santa Ana and dropped me off, she said she would stop in Anaheim and visit her dad. So it all worked out. <br /><br />When I arrived back in LA, I picked up Phideaux's car, took it to the car wash, filled it up with gas, took it back to his house, parking it in his garage, fed his cats and left the keys. Walked to where I had parked my new truck (next to the car repair shop) and promptly drive to Pasadena to see a movie (of course!). What else would I do in my new truck? <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSybhtthJh8eiiWVsp353sl9lnzyOmjERaPpmOVPCCo_TjX_MUVxYBPo8rOCfSB3cflZoqtU1TbjluZaNqn8sdz94E5_IbBDbILboy4fWV2_YDEPdzcgjKAJ5HsF3KvdFL95LGq_lN0SA/s1600/images.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSybhtthJh8eiiWVsp353sl9lnzyOmjERaPpmOVPCCo_TjX_MUVxYBPo8rOCfSB3cflZoqtU1TbjluZaNqn8sdz94E5_IbBDbILboy4fWV2_YDEPdzcgjKAJ5HsF3KvdFL95LGq_lN0SA/s200/images.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529271063251708050" /></a>I do want to take a road trip to Las Vegas to see the Beatles Love show, which I have see a couple times already but it's the most amazing spectacle I've ever seen. (and it has a great logo!)<br /><br />When I woke up this morning, my new truck was in my driveway, all shiny and clean. Waiting to chauffeur me into the next phase of my life. I feel like it's a little better than I deserve, or at least what I'm used to (it's by far the most expensive vehicle I've ever owned, or perhaps even been in) but I've decided that I will rise to match the level of my new truck. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijux_vUO7EKN_zXwUSdUrwLlJfsfxc5_tMNIKYrKNqBYm9nSZd6O7ugE5t6dbs00-8P9xOby9hauGMHcxjEpXrg0itQJqF-E3LQVZ8qwXcYvPvLYnm59qKI_rrWZpH4jWymd1PqxQFHVI/s1600/Saab-Logo.gif"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijux_vUO7EKN_zXwUSdUrwLlJfsfxc5_tMNIKYrKNqBYm9nSZd6O7ugE5t6dbs00-8P9xOby9hauGMHcxjEpXrg0itQJqF-E3LQVZ8qwXcYvPvLYnm59qKI_rrWZpH4jWymd1PqxQFHVI/s200/Saab-Logo.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529153803834047154" /></a><br /><br />Except for the logo, which I hate. It’s an eagle (?) with a worm in it’s mouth, on a navy blue background. Now, I’m an artist and I can appreciate all colors, but navy blue is the worst color ever. Once I had a BF and a year after we’d broken up and become friends again (not always easy, not always possible) he told me his favorite color was navy blue. I said, “you know, you could have saved us a lot of time if you’d only mentioned that in the beginning.” <br /><br /><br />The other lesson I think is to be grateful and live in the moment. Because you never know when this is the last time you will see that person or the last time you do this thing that you've done a hundred times. This just is, it's not necessarily a bad thing it can certainly be a good thing. I'm reminded of the saying, <br /><br />"This Too Shall Pass."<br /><br />©2010 Rod Reynolds RocketManLA.ComRocketManLAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12085856145517949665noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116843644860584099.post-7071034639258834042010-10-05T13:37:00.000-07:002010-10-06T23:20:57.306-07:00As fate would have it: the intersection of five random people on the Hyperion Bridge, and the death of my SUV.<br><br />As fate would have it: the intersection of five or more random (?) people on the Hyperion Bridge, high above the 5 freeway at 10:20 am last morning, in the first October rain. <br /><br />I awoke at the usual time, with no trepidation whatsoever. Not even a tiny clue from the universe that this day would be anything out of the ordinary. Meditated a bit, fed the cat and the fish, had a shower and set out. It was raining, but lightly, I made sure everything was covered in tarps before I headed over to the gym for cardio, all seemed copacetic. I left the gym at 10:20, carefully calculating just enough time to get to Eat Well for the breakfast special, which ends at 10:30. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4bokzbwnRgUW8Gow1MxDV6s1FYSKhnzw2FSUbntMBU94-mb7f2__E27O9U3s8kbF2KiRgyBcLCPxlXewB0VTNWcSYdv03c5GT6Z0INMsCMTvsLz4KC-eHZ1M7gcq62pBJGTgPoTWCqgQ/s1600/41fziUU2ziL._SL500_AA300_.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4bokzbwnRgUW8Gow1MxDV6s1FYSKhnzw2FSUbntMBU94-mb7f2__E27O9U3s8kbF2KiRgyBcLCPxlXewB0VTNWcSYdv03c5GT6Z0INMsCMTvsLz4KC-eHZ1M7gcq62pBJGTgPoTWCqgQ/s200/41fziUU2ziL._SL500_AA300_.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525185229386057298" /></a>Halfway across the Hyperion bridge, I'm listening to the new David Sylvian cd in the truck. Traffic is light, there's a little silver sports car in front of me, I'm paying little mind, listening to David Sylvian's wonderful voice filling my truck. But suddenly, the little silver sports car spun around and was facing me! Wha wha wha?? <br /><br />I hit the brakes, but not too hard, because I knew the pavement would be slippery, especially on the bridge. It was just barely raining, and it hasn't really rained here for many many months, so the oil on the road would be treacherous; imagine a very slippery frozen pond, then covered in oil. <br /><br />The silver car spun around in the middle of the road, and then someone coming from the other direction hit the sports car. Suddenly the sports car was heading back towards me, but coming at me sideways. I ramped to the left, but then I started to slide. I could see the side of the silver car coming towards me, in slow motion, like in some action movie, but by this time I had no control and the right side of my truck slammed into the left side of the silver car with a tremendous crunch, the sound of glass hitting steel, and losing.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(click on any picture to see it larger)</span> <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1r-WKKl9HvVLej8bxm-418XLdE8ATcLA18uzlZfpiMf1q0uARAQXFgLQCL3vjwWQUmZ6a9RYGe34NQQyWx6PVV05g2Ec_s4tmTYS5WGs1T_Xim-jWGUZQ6eEvF9fJQEDFBO4whhmTg8k/s1600/P1011432a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1r-WKKl9HvVLej8bxm-418XLdE8ATcLA18uzlZfpiMf1q0uARAQXFgLQCL3vjwWQUmZ6a9RYGe34NQQyWx6PVV05g2Ec_s4tmTYS5WGs1T_Xim-jWGUZQ6eEvF9fJQEDFBO4whhmTg8k/s200/P1011432a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524811416824499378" /></a>Both of our vehicles, side to side, slid over into the oncoming traffic, and a fourth car slammed into the right side of the silver car and careened over the road to hit the curb on the other side. The silver car flipped around backwards and slid to a stop, facing oncoming traffic, and eventually hit the curb and came to a stop. <br /><br />Of course, all this happened in literally a fraction of a second. <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg294bH36M-P3jmxrnV2JoNrahTOCfjQ_odliXMabCKARy7dr6pWB_bGuoUWaSov8z02ZW-K-jWv-u5Q3e8BWUOyZZEfIQxKeggQh4QjPIAG8Z2znPrRYX6Ps3pB3fnF0j3m3obnk-PcUo/s1600/P1011457a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg294bH36M-P3jmxrnV2JoNrahTOCfjQ_odliXMabCKARy7dr6pWB_bGuoUWaSov8z02ZW-K-jWv-u5Q3e8BWUOyZZEfIQxKeggQh4QjPIAG8Z2znPrRYX6Ps3pB3fnF0j3m3obnk-PcUo/s200/P1011457a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524812791731950530" /></a>I hadn't been going very fast, but it was all quite a shock. Not to mention the actual physical jolt of being hit by not one but two cars in rapid succession. Sideways. <br /><br />My truck sputtered and stalled. My head reeled. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh69v_laep0IkVDe2LoWnU2k5HQX-SSy0h2M_xv8jZoITC9sBRIoQ3Mcn0HkdtSc0J6u0iFORNudx7Umbx66NkPAaKlYURs7WuesMi13wXFHDSm1r71YD50dlaQkR77oFvJgfiC0bR2IPg/s1600/P1011430a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh69v_laep0IkVDe2LoWnU2k5HQX-SSy0h2M_xv8jZoITC9sBRIoQ3Mcn0HkdtSc0J6u0iFORNudx7Umbx66NkPAaKlYURs7WuesMi13wXFHDSm1r71YD50dlaQkR77oFvJgfiC0bR2IPg/s200/P1011430a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524811414111951378" /></a>I quickly got out and I could see the driver of the silver sports car was slumped over in the passenger seat of his car. The side windows had blown out, and the front fender of his car was torn off and lying on the road. There was glass and car parts all over the pavement and sidewalk, and the cars on the bridge had all stopped. There was also two other cars who managed to avoid crashing into anyone, but we were all askew on the road, with parts and plastic and glass all over the pace, as if god had shaken the road and we all just kind of landed where we landed. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_YhDI93ZTnRqC0bBJa7K4l0Iy-dCjiu6ixs0UU-YfCrpKFkxNbWOlZLajP7vhkpzhLMfDVh_ouc1S1FnSt6njKb7wEr6tqo0v9qQqCvkUIusX4zFniR_dXTRmBlTlqbaqdgWP-zMHPHo/s1600/P1011456a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_YhDI93ZTnRqC0bBJa7K4l0Iy-dCjiu6ixs0UU-YfCrpKFkxNbWOlZLajP7vhkpzhLMfDVh_ouc1S1FnSt6njKb7wEr6tqo0v9qQqCvkUIusX4zFniR_dXTRmBlTlqbaqdgWP-zMHPHo/s200/P1011456a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524812497597794226" /></a>I went over to the silver car to make sure the guy was ok, he was smashed into his car and the door wouldn't open, but he nodded he was ok but his leg hurt. Meanwhile the driver of the second car came over and he said he’d called 911. I told the guy in the silver car not to move, help was coming. He sat in his car for quite a while until the firemen arrived and pulled him out. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRdj3UwdLSXDeD5aaSwHWUMV5cija7FiHves9o4iZBC5cZEpmR2FZ8TtdlEmazNmiIT0MgsIZMYpUivHeohFGMt8-WORcivTQDl8nDJg2R-ridP9G9C-fBs7I8QTwWpWn9zyPJG6nzpOo/s1600/P1011439a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRdj3UwdLSXDeD5aaSwHWUMV5cija7FiHves9o4iZBC5cZEpmR2FZ8TtdlEmazNmiIT0MgsIZMYpUivHeohFGMt8-WORcivTQDl8nDJg2R-ridP9G9C-fBs7I8QTwWpWn9zyPJG6nzpOo/s200/P1011439a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524812147924794418" /></a>A firetruck arrived and two young firemen got out and went around asking if everyone was ok. They got the guy out of the silver car and he sat on the side of the road with his head in his hands. We were all basically ok, obviously a little shaken (more than a little shaken) but our vehicles had definitely seen better days. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixPwKZVbFsxy6G3iOeUEtTCKr8dwY9ltfHH-SVVxqghkOxq-HnkAzCpacLpb_4RYSUSdXGPvFpnFSXiGLLu8tvpHHXeGZNK6N3oNiwbY53iBKSEyziCLpZGLCD7AQRggCDgvG3Sd0jXtU/s1600/P1011449a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixPwKZVbFsxy6G3iOeUEtTCKr8dwY9ltfHH-SVVxqghkOxq-HnkAzCpacLpb_4RYSUSdXGPvFpnFSXiGLLu8tvpHHXeGZNK6N3oNiwbY53iBKSEyziCLpZGLCD7AQRggCDgvG3Sd0jXtU/s200/P1011449a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524812481330580562" /></a>I got back into my truck which was now facing the wrong way, in the wrong lane and effectively in the middle of the road. The engine turned over but it wouldn't stay running. I popped the hood and everything looked ok, but after several tries to get it running, I gave up. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq6gS8g2gBui3nI6nUMm-ot6mhWBcGkkDL3fJL1q182f6h9Q0kK-AVcL-zz2YeRIduDw6nOmhDKWp9FEtJKl46R5xAfzqmYNRA5B9855b8Pfm1q56Rl5pnv0ygakZofMINcERZllL3wQA/s1600/P1011454a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq6gS8g2gBui3nI6nUMm-ot6mhWBcGkkDL3fJL1q182f6h9Q0kK-AVcL-zz2YeRIduDw6nOmhDKWp9FEtJKl46R5xAfzqmYNRA5B9855b8Pfm1q56Rl5pnv0ygakZofMINcERZllL3wQA/s200/P1011454a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524812490204774882" /></a>My first call was to my auto body shop, and I asked if they could send a tow truck, which he dispatched right away. Everyone else was by this time out of their cars and on their phones calling various agencies and family members. It's so amazing that every single one of us had a cel phone. <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9svOxrJAC7Eycl5CkS3uVMmkz3cuRV2BEiOOTGJt8D6EMp6qHl5jMrbmnbrtf9MCjPVdKgsgGr7o3rsPxSjsw_t0A9vyQmoEcM0NT3YPbLQ7NvzE7f5bqR3H6zoITyVfzDtFXrcRzNG4/s1600/P1011453a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9svOxrJAC7Eycl5CkS3uVMmkz3cuRV2BEiOOTGJt8D6EMp6qHl5jMrbmnbrtf9MCjPVdKgsgGr7o3rsPxSjsw_t0A9vyQmoEcM0NT3YPbLQ7NvzE7f5bqR3H6zoITyVfzDtFXrcRzNG4/s200/P1011453a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524812487662189762" /></a>A few minutes later my tow truck arrived. The driver tried to start my truck, but it wouldn't stay running. So they pushed it out of the middle of the road so the traffic could get past. Then the police man arrived and stopped in the middle of the road, so once again both west bound lanes were blocked. <br /><br />The police man said none of us could leave until he had taken statements from everyone. So my tow truck driver had to stand there waiting. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyCco3IgAmL7B7Z58VxC4XJOGmCyVH8MGI3aO9RQCLkD8VCIM1S4zAr7F8KaUYzDyfFhscVtAI9_9MltwiFT-sGI4ng8wfQAlqKC29GFeVebSbcVZqahyOLNmhuLm-f0jMNgC05c5EFiY/s1600/P1011434a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyCco3IgAmL7B7Z58VxC4XJOGmCyVH8MGI3aO9RQCLkD8VCIM1S4zAr7F8KaUYzDyfFhscVtAI9_9MltwiFT-sGI4ng8wfQAlqKC29GFeVebSbcVZqahyOLNmhuLm-f0jMNgC05c5EFiY/s200/P1011434a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524811420522661874" /></a>Meanwhile, one of the people had called AAA, their tow truck driver clearly had been through this a few times, and he calmly collected everyone's insurance info, drivers license and registration, and began making photo copies (!!) in the back of his truck. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimyWZ3upS4A-jzikddF0uCP3-9sr4hcoC1J50EN8ERCDn0mrw10BjvW5DJwBSl4OpmAz35wPTq4JB4VW5BUpmxlTVW8fH6jQ9hkUUSwshTrmuVnpcEmd9OGPUIIw95v5jBBAxoXZvUZA4/s1600/P1011450a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimyWZ3upS4A-jzikddF0uCP3-9sr4hcoC1J50EN8ERCDn0mrw10BjvW5DJwBSl4OpmAz35wPTq4JB4VW5BUpmxlTVW8fH6jQ9hkUUSwshTrmuVnpcEmd9OGPUIIw95v5jBBAxoXZvUZA4/s200/P1011450a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524812486578671298" /></a>So the cop took statements from everyone and when he was finished with me he said, "Ok, you can go." The driver of the silver sports car was pretty much in shock, and wasn't saying much. Also his car was clearly totalled. He showed me his insurance and it was bare bones. So he had lost his car, and was clearly at fault in an accident involving 5 people (there were two people in one of the cars) and 4 vehicles including a 2010 Mercedes. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKLV-qVxTs-Z-CvLom1oWaVlly9Kbaf5IBj33vek8iGozMu3kPH6XNPRcA7Xgi55QMUh7IBvtQYaIJ5OA7TBrxoYY-8mTu0npnD0lsjwexPOoN2r4vu6WQ-geJHJUBByEIbKibonPOWLo/s1600/P1011447a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKLV-qVxTs-Z-CvLom1oWaVlly9Kbaf5IBj33vek8iGozMu3kPH6XNPRcA7Xgi55QMUh7IBvtQYaIJ5OA7TBrxoYY-8mTu0npnD0lsjwexPOoN2r4vu6WQ-geJHJUBByEIbKibonPOWLo/s200/P1011447a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524812157351634642" /></a>The damage to my truck is pretty intense, on the passenger side, and of course it's not running. Also the door on the driver’s side doesn't open very well, and the sport panel fell off. <br /><br />It is now sitting in my local auto body shop, waiting for the insurance inspector to come and look, which will hopefully happen soon, so they can start restoring my truck. But the mechanic told me they will probably write my truck off; because of the way the crash happened, the front end of my truck is twisted. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJRmEyP833R6ZYeFmqMwsfPXUhS74cl9OdnSD8tO2RhpEDCgJsbByBSXhP1ELYikO4anLDTZL5MNETgS5xfV2vSqQf0OWMUMvh-1Bc-Uok6CSGu3zTRPGU4tYA9mGNdzyolmHa0Rd1QLY/s1600/P1011435a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJRmEyP833R6ZYeFmqMwsfPXUhS74cl9OdnSD8tO2RhpEDCgJsbByBSXhP1ELYikO4anLDTZL5MNETgS5xfV2vSqQf0OWMUMvh-1Bc-Uok6CSGu3zTRPGU4tYA9mGNdzyolmHa0Rd1QLY/s200/P1011435a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524812140390497026" /></a>So clearly I had to rent a car. I was expressing concern over this at the auto body, and they said, "hey, there was just a guy here who is from a car rental place, his card is right there on the bulletin board." <br /><br />So they called him, and a half hour later he arrived to pick me up. He said, "sorry it took me so long to get here, there was some sort of accident on the Hyperion bridge and they had it closed off."<br /><br />We all laughed. “Ooops!”<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLKVQJWxBgS5NPwK0cY9f_aUohjWAbSkrygyCm0mFiMYshgnYS9WkFh5jmjUZSqIHsgvHmmvSiLJWBk105FhhBdEBMleqyccUlZUZIlS1TqDWE332tVAUhkbzFYBSn8wKbyXBqan6_e0w/s1600/P1011426a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLKVQJWxBgS5NPwK0cY9f_aUohjWAbSkrygyCm0mFiMYshgnYS9WkFh5jmjUZSqIHsgvHmmvSiLJWBk105FhhBdEBMleqyccUlZUZIlS1TqDWE332tVAUhkbzFYBSn8wKbyXBqan6_e0w/s200/P1011426a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524811411286190306" /></a>The tow truck had gone back to pick up the totaled silver sports car, which was facing the wrong was in the oncoming lane. I imagine they had to close the bridge to get the car and all the debris taken care of. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr3vK4khrvKex8Ze-DmigBbjvo3R5t8l29-HCPYKnyh1gcl2EVAq1D2dnyLQnnD2QizMyXa1HwYaw-UleWcoARCbXpJWkKkcSlQa5REiqnmx5vwVFCEdTp4LB6zO0NmVjcG99BFUEUdRM/s1600/P1011445a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr3vK4khrvKex8Ze-DmigBbjvo3R5t8l29-HCPYKnyh1gcl2EVAq1D2dnyLQnnD2QizMyXa1HwYaw-UleWcoARCbXpJWkKkcSlQa5REiqnmx5vwVFCEdTp4LB6zO0NmVjcG99BFUEUdRM/s200/P1011445a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524812150885433266" /></a>So I got a rental car, and then headed over to my insurance company, who I had already called a couple times. Since the drive is underinsured, I am responsible for payments to repair my truck and the rental car. Or, if they write it off, I will have to buy a new truck! <br /><br />Then the insurance company will reimburse me, minus my $1000 deductible, and I will have to submit the rental car bill to the silver sports cars insurance company. The insurance agent said they will recover what they can from the sports car driver, but it will not cover all the cars and people involved. So that kind of sucks. <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUHfwDWGPA7FZ_HtJxjwagufweRpND4GYu1txkYjE-gsh4U9OjYA4Rx5m7YtfmL5VBEclKC-u6VOMWi2EWrpKELsjZO_BAZwJ-tUckgzQEuM-5X1ZnZGRVWy7lUr2ekQ4iSORM4MiZpHo/s1600/P1011425a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUHfwDWGPA7FZ_HtJxjwagufweRpND4GYu1txkYjE-gsh4U9OjYA4Rx5m7YtfmL5VBEclKC-u6VOMWi2EWrpKELsjZO_BAZwJ-tUckgzQEuM-5X1ZnZGRVWy7lUr2ekQ4iSORM4MiZpHo/s200/P1011425a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524811403036723330" /></a>I am often bemused by the hands of fate, or coincidence. Some people say there is no such thing as coincidence, and everything happens for a reason. A Course in Miracles (or at least Marianne Williamson) says every person (or car?) who is in front of you (or beside you, or behind you) is an opportunity to learn, and it is our choice to learn through love or through fear. I crossed paths with a lot of people yesterday. The three drivers of the other cars, the tow truck driver, the policeman, the firemen, the mechanics, the car rental guy, two insurance people plus one on the phone. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRauZ9soNsYTDaoNHwqGqtQjnQ2VErNBCCkeCaRxcGAX5dk-ts6MJ0BoDg5rEPkKGY6etzBLDqztSLfcRRfbUvcOKomNBupPsEvWDhP8AFh9PElw2ybAPsmhk7EaSZ5a5u4w5YfcgD9e0/s1600/P1011460a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRauZ9soNsYTDaoNHwqGqtQjnQ2VErNBCCkeCaRxcGAX5dk-ts6MJ0BoDg5rEPkKGY6etzBLDqztSLfcRRfbUvcOKomNBupPsEvWDhP8AFh9PElw2ybAPsmhk7EaSZ5a5u4w5YfcgD9e0/s200/P1011460a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524812796659545010" /></a>And these things took up nearly my entire day. I was talking with the insurance agents at 5pm as they were closing, setting up a time for them to see the damage on my truck. I went to the gym and then to a movie; I was just too beat to attempt any work. <br /><br />I took a warm bath when I got home from the movie, I knew I would be sore when I woke up and thought the heat might lessen the damage. I sat there looking up at the ceiling, wondering what the lessons here were for me, and if I negotiated the day as well as I could have. And how in the world I am going to be able to buy a new truck! <br /><br />I thought, as I often do, one minute (or even thirty seconds) earlier or later either way, heading across the Hyperion bridge, my day would have been entirely different. And my truck would be safely sitting in my driveway when I woke up the next morning. <br /><br />But I didn't. And it's not. <br /><br />I wonder what this is all about? <br /><br /><br />©2010 RocketManLA.com Rod Reynolds Los Angeles CA USARocketManLAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12085856145517949665noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116843644860584099.post-44844024621000938262010-09-02T23:29:00.000-07:002010-09-21T12:38:52.954-07:00being inspected by the city of Los Angeles, and losing a friend...About a month ago, I got a call from a fellow clutter expert and friend. He had gotten a job in Sherman Oaks that was turning out to be too much for him. When I arrived, I found three people in near hysterics. The woman who was in charge, the place was her sister's, who had died a couple months ago; she and her husband had flown in from Chicago for a week to take care of the place and empty it out. But this dead woman, Bonnie, lived in a three bedroom, five story condo in Sherman Oaks, and, while certainly not on the level of a hoarders episode, a well lived in home. But the kicker was her two car garage, which was FULL of brand new merchandise. <br /><br />It turns out, Bonnie sold things at flea markets for a living, and her garage was full of brand new, in the package merchandise. Her sister was there, with her husband, and my friend Paul. They were just standing amongst piles and piles of STUFF, wandering around and occasionally throwing things into bags, mostly stuff they felt should go to goodwill. <br /><br />The main crunch of the situation, was that the sister (Teri) and her husband were only in LA for a week, and there was an open house scheduled for the upcoming weekend. So they were all a little tense to begin with, but faced with a house full of stuff and a two car garage full of merchandise, they were on the verge of a meltdown. <br /><br />Just the perfect situation for me to swoop in and save the day. Fear not, Rocket Man LA to the rescue! <br /><br />It was quickly apparent that the majority of the goods and nearly all of the merchandise was inherently saleable. So they quickly agreed that I would take the saleable merchandise and sell it (sharing the profits). So I started packing it all in my truck. Garbage bags were the easiest and cheapest mode of transport. Everything went into double lined garbage bags and into the back of my truck. <br /><br />She also had two walk in closets full of very nice clothes. VERY nice clothes. I called my friend who has a resale boutique in Studio City (nearby). She arrived and quickly realized that the majority of Bonnie's clothes were both quality and clean. So we filled up both my truck and hers with the clothes she thought she could sell in her shop. The rest went into the ubiquitous garbage bags to go to my house for organization and sorting. <br /><br />As any one who has visited (or seen pictures) of my house knows, there's never a lot of extra room in my house. On some days there is barely a path through. The irony of my helping people deal with their clutter is not lost on anyone. <br /><br />So all of Bonnie's stuff, clothes, housewares, artwork, furniture and all her merchandise was quickly and randomly piled up on my driveway. After about eight loads in my truck, the situation in my driveway was becoming critical, when we were all done there was barely enough room for my truck amongst all the boxes and stuffed trash bags. <br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(click on any picture to see full size) </span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUHH48iePx-tQoLkJwKePzA_gI3m0PvltaJej8e3VcTWy3LW4yQjOpg7dDVQMWY31zP4UgYGtOtzekczEMirlw_uQKAXDJ7hEYTDe3E7Nb8nB36uqgr9GVPQoXSlLkHSmEg-gQoDlmMdI/s1600/mydriveway.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUHH48iePx-tQoLkJwKePzA_gI3m0PvltaJej8e3VcTWy3LW4yQjOpg7dDVQMWY31zP4UgYGtOtzekczEMirlw_uQKAXDJ7hEYTDe3E7Nb8nB36uqgr9GVPQoXSlLkHSmEg-gQoDlmMdI/s200/mydriveway.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519451496239593618" /></a><br /><br />In of course, addition to all the regular stuff I have to sell and am working on repairing, refinishing etc. Not to mention the cds, dvds, records, books, etc. <br /><br />But at least we had gotten all the stuff out of Bonnie's house and it was ready for the painters to come, and then the open house on Sunday. In fact, they got an offer and already the condo is in escrow. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd2g5IzKzM0Bg8vA2IUtU59xArp3iM37fDVAbLqx5ZtOwn-UvbzM-cznvd_9mUzFTgDlPvvQMlSlVGZKi40-uoLLBse4JAHC6EG_OCPigzgsUQrawFd5WCnwidVLTL5kr6tOfHOeaI9B4/s1600/messdrive.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd2g5IzKzM0Bg8vA2IUtU59xArp3iM37fDVAbLqx5ZtOwn-UvbzM-cznvd_9mUzFTgDlPvvQMlSlVGZKi40-uoLLBse4JAHC6EG_OCPigzgsUQrawFd5WCnwidVLTL5kr6tOfHOeaI9B4/s200/messdrive.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512578761082781954" /></a>So the task ahead of me was to sort and organize all the stuff on my driveway, and to get it put away as soon as possible. I live on a small dead end driveway for only five houses, so it’s not like it was an emergency situation, but still it had to be dealt with asap. Also, the vagrants who come up the driveway sifting through the trash and recycling bins would surely take a peek at what was in all those boxes and bags. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5v_wS1nEX9fVjCiytoALzhDk5K9n197SPeGA6RPByZ8iPxofyp9II0QoOHECamxe1qySSWOf3z4ravLL08VgakQ1VBt25NPy07UbnMTjlwBJ14bvvbhyPxExGsLLN9Q6JzJoFBEaX3B0/s1600/messbed.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5v_wS1nEX9fVjCiytoALzhDk5K9n197SPeGA6RPByZ8iPxofyp9II0QoOHECamxe1qySSWOf3z4ravLL08VgakQ1VBt25NPy07UbnMTjlwBJ14bvvbhyPxExGsLLN9Q6JzJoFBEaX3B0/s200/messbed.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512582012949822466" /></a>So I set aside the next week to devote purely to sorting and packing. At first I considered buying a storage shed, but as I investigated them I realized how expensive they are, and that I didn't really want to spend that kind of money to store stuff that was earmarked for sale, and as soon as possible. <br /><br />So as I sorted and calculated (I'm pretty good with spatial relationships) I wondered if it could actually fit inside my house. This would also give me a reason to clean through my house and declutter my own clutter. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj72yBnhrreGYMFrh8WO1MxTFnq2oKX7D0pKXxfyy7OS7ZrGm-00rcUKTrQQSzKw291Xjkq6-ws1Ej52BAtAeGH0lr7muQO0jZvPx9IOp1ftXxgnzTp_V2-MwVJ0kYEj-Tlwb4sNYTjtwU/s1600/messliving.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj72yBnhrreGYMFrh8WO1MxTFnq2oKX7D0pKXxfyy7OS7ZrGm-00rcUKTrQQSzKw291Xjkq6-ws1Ej52BAtAeGH0lr7muQO0jZvPx9IOp1ftXxgnzTp_V2-MwVJ0kYEj-Tlwb4sNYTjtwU/s200/messliving.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512575789352094946" /></a>I went to Home Depot and considered storage options, because clearly the trash bags and dilapidated boxes the stuff was in would not be good for sorting and storage. I decided on clear hard plastic storage bins, with the lids attached (clever! so I wouldn't lose the lids and also I wouldn't be tempted to over fill them. They are stackable. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjVXtPYEBNzQiDnSi9k76Vp69vMu5bK3m8gHAmco7hpX2zOEDbW-aB_7qsxJpNjQg8PBvSFD7slKEm8VBXi7trtYeMTaARrZEj-uN1fngCuqM1OG6VQ5IwqC6zfY6O5HzSfKnPS7dUyNk/s1600/messpiano.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjVXtPYEBNzQiDnSi9k76Vp69vMu5bK3m8gHAmco7hpX2zOEDbW-aB_7qsxJpNjQg8PBvSFD7slKEm8VBXi7trtYeMTaARrZEj-uN1fngCuqM1OG6VQ5IwqC6zfY6O5HzSfKnPS7dUyNk/s200/messpiano.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512575794118451874" /></a>I totally cleaned out a couple closets (see my recent blog post re my destroyed Rickie Lee Jones poster I discovered in the back of one closet) and I completely emptied my dining room. I also stripped the floor; it's hardwood and it’s painted and it always looks dirty, even when it isn't. I thought, what a great plan, to slowly work though my entire house, stripping the floor and organizing from the ground up. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWGS3WyuZGT780CWUKYeUo-qZIp4bbvmq-zH-28Ut9-pi845jaN1tRwg63fW_l23OuR-Z6FySgBdVdu3Wt1nGhEvCWX5mXmlelS7ZVz9l7Sh1Ewo5QSooyaNx2pxOYQw3z20BaHW_UniE/s1600/messhall.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWGS3WyuZGT780CWUKYeUo-qZIp4bbvmq-zH-28Ut9-pi845jaN1tRwg63fW_l23OuR-Z6FySgBdVdu3Wt1nGhEvCWX5mXmlelS7ZVz9l7Sh1Ewo5QSooyaNx2pxOYQw3z20BaHW_UniE/s200/messhall.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512582023727865554" /></a>As it turns out, the stripping of the dining room floor went really well, and all the paint came off, which I honestly wasn't expecting. This, in a way, presented a problem because now the floor is completely bare wood. It looks and feels very cool, but there is an inherent danger in ruining the floors if there was a major spill or a small flood (both of which have happened) or even every day wear and tear. <br /><br />Not to mention, it took me three days (albeit not working constantly) to strip the floor in the small dining room. And it made my hands hurt and swell. And I used an entire can or stripper on the one very small room. So I subsequently put the stripping project on hold. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHhfDiwbkFCSYoB-Pt1fb7F1127b4JnnBaxzxcy4agxovzb-F70lBDQWiwoNC9WIszOyAssZLeR7LuUscDuA8SJPQKGXZ0oTYNndCxDAEv3FhsrBHB3SacduDwb10Mnedm67XksDE910o/s1600/messpatio2.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHhfDiwbkFCSYoB-Pt1fb7F1127b4JnnBaxzxcy4agxovzb-F70lBDQWiwoNC9WIszOyAssZLeR7LuUscDuA8SJPQKGXZ0oTYNndCxDAEv3FhsrBHB3SacduDwb10Mnedm67XksDE910o/s200/messpatio2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512578766510985234" /></a>At this time, there was a knock on my door. The city of Los Angeles wanted to come in and inspect the house. They were not happy with all the clutter (merchandise and furniture) on my driveway. When the inspector came into the house, he was pretty upset with all the stuff, and the tiny path through my living room. Not to mention the piles and piles of books in my kitchen hallway, coupled with the drying flowers hanging on every doorknob and protrusion. To get through my kitchen I literally had to turn sideways. This didn't go over well with the city inspector. <br /><br />He was also upset about the state of my bathroom. The ceiling has been leaking for nearly two years, and they've made a couple unsuccessful attempts to fix it, each time leaving more and more carnage. Not to mention the bee incident (see previous blog post) which also left two very large holes in my bathroom ceiling. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl0Koi-1O2MQA1a__OMBCdltOiEFU1EJbZ5jH7h7qcvg2HvXTbsKQQeyXedYBWRR2aL0FXAVs5Q59lV2S_u5mMGPWLeV3Ae74KuX_KEDv6exdcbtmuF_GTSk5HYNNjXkfIna5FEXiT_tc/s1600/messpiano.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl0Koi-1O2MQA1a__OMBCdltOiEFU1EJbZ5jH7h7qcvg2HvXTbsKQQeyXedYBWRR2aL0FXAVs5Q59lV2S_u5mMGPWLeV3Ae74KuX_KEDv6exdcbtmuF_GTSk5HYNNjXkfIna5FEXiT_tc/s200/messpiano.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512578773839465154" /></a>So he gave me a month to get it all cleaned up, including the repair of the bathroom. He sent a notice (and a fine) to my landlord, who was decidedly not happy, and he said if I didn't have it all cleared away by the end of the month, he would evict me. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9jbieFknZ-mRW7KI3fTMRlVo0DhJ8O1dFsEEcxReuKsaIp7Pdl5BUryrTsEbMHU5XhM9ZeKtx_C92IEkv4WIp_WgjQ8rbLSRFyMZa9cm32tBQsL1aaj_k9RNA4sdMSR3JGD6acq0kQh8/s1600/messkitchen.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9jbieFknZ-mRW7KI3fTMRlVo0DhJ8O1dFsEEcxReuKsaIp7Pdl5BUryrTsEbMHU5XhM9ZeKtx_C92IEkv4WIp_WgjQ8rbLSRFyMZa9cm32tBQsL1aaj_k9RNA4sdMSR3JGD6acq0kQh8/s200/messkitchen.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512582007879771778" /></a>Wow, that's so ironic. Evicting me because I have too much stuff. I have in the past considered moving, and realized that it would take me months just to get moved. Imagine having to clean this all and get it into inspection ready state in a couple weeks! <br /><br />So I've had a couple very stressful weeks. Trying to get everything packed away and cleaned and organized. My landlord had also not so politely "reminded" me that it is "illegal to operate a business from my home" so I had to make everything look like it belonged there (i.e. not imminently for sale at a swap meet or eBay). <br /><br />The inspection date loomed, September first, high noon. <br /><br />I can’t tell you how many trips I've made to Home Depot to buy more and more storage containers. Every day I fill them up and the next day I have to go buy more. But they do stack nicely. <br /><br />And how many sleepless nights I've had over the past few weeks wondering how I would get all this stuff organized, and whether or not I would be evicted, and if so how would I possibly move! <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBZuO_eTjB7EJmcBlH16Kg12ZDRR2rFgsRIYmEgfrfePQEEKfscFnEma3-ZZIaTi-KjT0dflRkbJLevVcUoyFgyCTPwNeUT5wxc54rdfq_Wu5JVOXLjCMouKpileErw6OpMFySbJ4V4vU/s1600/P9013596.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBZuO_eTjB7EJmcBlH16Kg12ZDRR2rFgsRIYmEgfrfePQEEKfscFnEma3-ZZIaTi-KjT0dflRkbJLevVcUoyFgyCTPwNeUT5wxc54rdfq_Wu5JVOXLjCMouKpileErw6OpMFySbJ4V4vU/s200/P9013596.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512572315620290722" /></a>A deep breath, and the support (and occasional helping hand) of my friends. A reminder from the course in miracles that all fear is based on the future, which never arrives. <br /><br />As inspection day neared, I started to panic. There simply wasn’t enough time. There wasn't enough room, there wasn’t enough storage boxes. There were far too many clothes! I had two rolling clothes racks set up in the eBay room and there were still bags and bags of clothes! <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrgY5GeD27LlSIUQ_Zc_ttLC_SgsiVrTezKgJHbYguq61i42H3SChYHJu65xm5JD2OWT1BFmwqKwgKJqL2VRiY8RUygluZ7bDutJ-5wNYqx9icEQxHYk4nwK8wGsf4FJDxX-85L2vbmFw/s1600/P9013605.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrgY5GeD27LlSIUQ_Zc_ttLC_SgsiVrTezKgJHbYguq61i42H3SChYHJu65xm5JD2OWT1BFmwqKwgKJqL2VRiY8RUygluZ7bDutJ-5wNYqx9icEQxHYk4nwK8wGsf4FJDxX-85L2vbmFw/s200/P9013605.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512572338889209202" /></a>I had drastically reduced the prices of all the furniture I had repaired and was selling, and I had to give away several hundred dollars worth of stuff because it simply had to go away. The option of renting a storage locker came up, but that's spending more money and it seems like such a waste. Not to mention schlepping all the stuff over to a storage locker and dealing with that whole miserable experience. To me, there are few places more depressing than storage warehouses. Full of stuff that people want but don’t really want, stuff that people can't let go of, stuff from people whose situations have become unmanageable, or lost their homes, etc. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb_pHJElRE3CwEsO-_fpwt_TPKwIgwlIDUndNbNqzEgblz-y4GhWNj2MhyRQ2_1l8IxVjtdyxCZTLlXIw71G_bEjZL2labQg1dprzBgGuly89HZcf6EQvPaIuITReGy-ezpfdQL4CoF6E/s1600/P9013601.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb_pHJElRE3CwEsO-_fpwt_TPKwIgwlIDUndNbNqzEgblz-y4GhWNj2MhyRQ2_1l8IxVjtdyxCZTLlXIw71G_bEjZL2labQg1dprzBgGuly89HZcf6EQvPaIuITReGy-ezpfdQL4CoF6E/s200/P9013601.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512572324038459954" /></a>Too much for me. <br /><br /><br />The day before the inspection I was so upset I considered simply not being home. I had cleared the driveway and porch of all furniture and boxes (I had stashed a couple pieces in the back yard that I simply hadn't had the time to fix/finish.) <br /><br />I figured the inspector would come, see the driveway and porch cleared, maybe look in the window. And hopefully go away. <br /><br />But that plan crashed and burned, as my landlord called on Tuesday to say he was coming to meet the inspector at my house at noon on Wednesday. Curses! <br /><br /><br />I did a lot of praying and meditating. A LOT. I felt pretty safe that the city inspector would be ok with what I had done (gotten rid of) but I was really worried about my landlord wanting to evict me for “running a business” out of my house (which I have been doing ever since I moved in) Several businesses in fact. <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMGwnioBBNusBnMwL1gxc4Zc_k_TS30Cg3vLNUQCP0ELqwIjiVbcm1RPu52o5ulJ5VUX4VXtr0D-3Gh97dC9-IsQcph4xpaskA2bNf5qWhwsEOvUCXvFiMYbSNm_VLlodhSRxSi9TMDaE/s1600/P9013604.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMGwnioBBNusBnMwL1gxc4Zc_k_TS30Cg3vLNUQCP0ELqwIjiVbcm1RPu52o5ulJ5VUX4VXtr0D-3Gh97dC9-IsQcph4xpaskA2bNf5qWhwsEOvUCXvFiMYbSNm_VLlodhSRxSi9TMDaE/s200/P9013604.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512572339587556226" /></a>The two contractors he had got to repair the bathroom couldn’t do it (ie never showed up) so last week out of desperation, I called a guy I had worked with and asked if he could do it. By Tuesday. <br /><br />But he managed to get the bathroom fixed. He put in a new ceiling, and patched the roof. We won't know until it rains next whether he was successful or not. (It hasn't rained since about February, but it will probably rain some time in October). He didn't have time to paint, so I said I would take care of that. I didn't think that was really much of an issue. I would rather paint it myself anyway.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNAoOlNvx31B8gGm6Y8VzkZWHjmU4wjWmbvvXqwv3hmOMeZyGlfMElT6OlexrmUfRHAlnH59bDuIJ_XLAhjGPVxSz36i8heBNmVoIQTVASYK4Z2XSwC03CiEE5iifGBwO04lbSyI5qhZo/s1600/P9013598.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNAoOlNvx31B8gGm6Y8VzkZWHjmU4wjWmbvvXqwv3hmOMeZyGlfMElT6OlexrmUfRHAlnH59bDuIJ_XLAhjGPVxSz36i8heBNmVoIQTVASYK4Z2XSwC03CiEE5iifGBwO04lbSyI5qhZo/s200/P9013598.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512582027329307538" /></a>So Wednesday noon the clock chimed ominously. I had stuffed everything into the Home Depot storage boxes which were piled up to the ceiling in the dining room, seven high and two deep. I had sorted all the clothes that would fit onto the two racks in the eBay room, and the rest of the trash bags I stuffed behind the racks. Hoping they wouldn't look too carefully. <br /><br />I devised a "strategic" lie that the clothes were for photo shoots (technically I'm a photographer/graphic designer/artist) and the boxes of stuff in the dining room were art supplies. I took all the hanging dried flowers down and put them in a box, temporarily. <br />I washed the floors and vaccumed and went over the entire house, stairs and yard with the leaf blower. <br /><br />In the process I created quite a dust storm and have had the worst allergies for the past three days. In addition to all the stress and panic, I feel like my head is going to explode and I have to have a box of kleenex with me at all time because I can't stop blowing my nose. And still I can barely breathe. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUucXc54TIfHA43Jh5EHb1dQZc7ghyphenhyphenY5NtTKH78fz8x01u_Dru1FF2SSm_ol8O6Dn7SDnqKKkAgrp4JH016Vv1WSout9eic7VC2zLSWlbg3Cm0-Hl33zkgLSAxEsBVYp1qPh_c04knf6E/s1600/driveway.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUucXc54TIfHA43Jh5EHb1dQZc7ghyphenhyphenY5NtTKH78fz8x01u_Dru1FF2SSm_ol8O6Dn7SDnqKKkAgrp4JH016Vv1WSout9eic7VC2zLSWlbg3Cm0-Hl33zkgLSAxEsBVYp1qPh_c04knf6E/s200/driveway.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512579678121678434" /></a>The landlord arrived first and he immediately went to check the bathroom, we talked about what the contractor had done and I expressed pleasure, hoping my casual enthusiasm would be contagious. Then the inspector arrived, kind of like a king, almost hovering as he walked up the stairs, with his little electronic clipboard in hand. He went into the living room, and said, I can see you’ve been working. I had strategically cleaned off the piano and sofa, which are the two main things in the room, even though under the piano was jammed with boxes of books and stereo parts. If you didn't look too closely it at least looked relatively clean. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJqPJUI1Z6bZqj0G8UlN2TaOxgIhtD-42yg5BCtzWfWdaO5aByvFVkPPX38TBPzgHnv734V_CDYrx4JpJpxWcnRnW31GdRfJt1E8gmdKtqWsuKGxo1YrPtatlgUjXsRgNx8zDE5rm5qiA/s1600/P9013603.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJqPJUI1Z6bZqj0G8UlN2TaOxgIhtD-42yg5BCtzWfWdaO5aByvFVkPPX38TBPzgHnv734V_CDYrx4JpJpxWcnRnW31GdRfJt1E8gmdKtqWsuKGxo1YrPtatlgUjXsRgNx8zDE5rm5qiA/s200/P9013603.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512575777608117442" /></a>Then they went onto the bathroom, and he said, ‘this looks ok’. I explained that I would be doing the painting. Then he looked into the kitchen, and the path was cleared, and the counter was cleared, and the floor was clean. So fortunately he didn't actually go into the kitchen, otherwise he would have seen the dining room, filled to the brim with boxes. I'm not sure how well that would have gone over. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTmcKSufjqbnfntdGI2DSSzPYRYEbtM3w7bSHiEfOk-8IZxYdYnZDiDt2nASqz5lVteh9KZZTBbYmG6mZP-VVtkGOM_3sSoODl77Gjngn3p50XKR8lyxXLhSa5BUcsnvCR59xwt09-z4Y/s1600/P9013600.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTmcKSufjqbnfntdGI2DSSzPYRYEbtM3w7bSHiEfOk-8IZxYdYnZDiDt2nASqz5lVteh9KZZTBbYmG6mZP-VVtkGOM_3sSoODl77Gjngn3p50XKR8lyxXLhSa5BUcsnvCR59xwt09-z4Y/s200/P9013600.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512575784534223666" /></a>He also looked down the hallway, which I had totally cleared out, and he didn't go down it, otherwise he would have seen into the eBay room and perhaps wondered why I had racks full of women's clothes. <br /><br />But he didn't. (huge sigh of relief). <br /><br />He said, ‘well, as long as if there's a fire you can get out, and the firemen can get in. You can always get out the window, right?’ I nodded, not mentioning that I had screwed all my windows and the back door shut after last summer's break in. He didn't look closely enough to notice. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5246pl-0yzJNh1O46XpP1T2ySps3M0W22sHKImKmCNXVYA-vx-ze16-0_gJAdSkbx5XlrEBMykpum1S6q6RuQJggptSWditydQLBPUqdxw5gOX729pyhzP455JpsGUKJtyR6WxqJOnJU/s1600/P9013606.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5246pl-0yzJNh1O46XpP1T2ySps3M0W22sHKImKmCNXVYA-vx-ze16-0_gJAdSkbx5XlrEBMykpum1S6q6RuQJggptSWditydQLBPUqdxw5gOX729pyhzP455JpsGUKJtyR6WxqJOnJU/s200/P9013606.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512572329974556658" /></a>So he was appeased, and my landlord didn't say anything. We went outside and the inspector said, ‘ok keep it like this just to keep your neighbors happy’. <br /><br />What??<br /><br />I said, ‘so someone reported me to the city? ‘<br /><br />He said, ‘I can't legally tell you who it was, but yes, it was one of your neighbors’, and he looked towards my neighbor on the left. Which is the house that was empty for nearly ten years (I had my wedding party there). Which is the house that I got my friend Philip to move into. My friend Philip who I consider one of my best friends and have known for nearly twenty years. <br /><br />I said, ‘it was Philip!??’ He said, ‘I can't tell you that’. My landlord nodded and said, ‘yes, he told me he called them’. <br /><br />Anyway, the inspector said, ‘OK I'm going to close the case’. and the two of them left. <br /><br /><br />I am stunned. <br /><br />One of my best friends, who I worked with at Tower Records in the early 90’s, have known for decades, I even let him live with me for nearly a year when his girlfriend dumped him and he didn't have a job or a place to live. My friend Philip who I DJ-ed at his wedding and he was the photographer at my wedding. He has a key to my house! He is in my will!<br /><br />And all this time, he never said a word to me about the stuff. In fact, just yesterday, I went over and asked him if he was working. He has been unemployed for over a year because the magazine he worked for closed. I showed him some of the merchandise I have to sell and asked him if he would be interested in helping me sell some of it at a flea market. He just looked down and said, no. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ3-Vne8E2WmrJxQOitd5Bb_H5-CFmPp-bqZpAizy2MWR8tsRGTPww_QdLuxQfqpuLiT4C5yU5nsTif608za5zX-u67DcrkL2troxRFgjfVAaiYScDFBqKYi_Gl284DWPkHli3Fta6A_k/s1600/aDSCN0594p.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ3-Vne8E2WmrJxQOitd5Bb_H5-CFmPp-bqZpAizy2MWR8tsRGTPww_QdLuxQfqpuLiT4C5yU5nsTif608za5zX-u67DcrkL2troxRFgjfVAaiYScDFBqKYi_Gl284DWPkHli3Fta6A_k/s200/aDSCN0594p.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512583206408236002" /></a>My friend Philip who I have driven to the airport countless times. And helped him dig dead trees out of his lawn. And let him borrow anything he wants from me. <br /><br />I can't believe it! <br /><br />I have since talked to a couple close friends about this, they are fairly quick to judge him, offering suggestions as to what to do, but thus far nothing feels right. Nothing feels right. And now I have a cold, partly due to the dust, mainly due to the stress of the past few weeks and especially the last week as the seemingly impossible deadline loomed. <br /><br />Then to find out it was one of my ‘best friends' who caused all of this. Not one word from him, not one "so, what is up with all this stuff. You know, I'm not working if you need help cleaning it up I'd be glad to help you. After all we’ve been through, I'd be glad to help you out." <br /><br />No not a word, even yesterday when I mentioned how worried I was about the inspector coming… not a peep. <br /><br />I’ve been thinking a lot about what Marianne and the Course in Miracles would say about this. In fact, the lecture just last Tuesday was about forgiveness. (well, the entire course in miracles really is about forgiveness). She was saying that you have to forgive everyone. Everyone. You have to look past the things they do to their true nature , the true innocence of each and every person. <br /><br />She also says that you can love someone, as god loves everyone. But that doesn't mean you have to go to lunch with them. And sometimes the loving thing to do is to leave the room. Sometimes the loving thing to say is "no." Sometimes the loving thing to do is to say, “I can’t see you now.”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5EHPnDs537qzP3gT8ND1oVk-Yom3KK8rqJbumzCIaD6HPeA5-ARXEtX0Y8kC_zHNu7T5fE7RWMgsCVbz1kW4RDsd1aJifGkfsFYWq2n52a5u1kSIEAJVLmmsVc3ftxbHOFaLMmJeVbvo/s1600/driveayclean.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5EHPnDs537qzP3gT8ND1oVk-Yom3KK8rqJbumzCIaD6HPeA5-ARXEtX0Y8kC_zHNu7T5fE7RWMgsCVbz1kW4RDsd1aJifGkfsFYWq2n52a5u1kSIEAJVLmmsVc3ftxbHOFaLMmJeVbvo/s200/driveayclean.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519451510736593730" /></a>So I will ponder this for the couple days, and see how it sorts itself out. I guess, if nothing else, a) I have a clean driveway and b) I learned something about one of my closest friends.<br /><br />And I stripped the floor in my dining room. <br /><br />And got the ceiling of my bathroom fixed! after two years! <br /><br />So it hasn't been a total wash. <br /><br /><br /> ©2010 RocketManLA Rod Reynolds Los Angeles, CA USARocketManLAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12085856145517949665noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116843644860584099.post-33814519185037646532010-08-08T23:40:00.000-07:002010-08-09T08:55:25.963-07:00R.I.P. My favorite Rickie Lee Jones poster, and finding cosmic significance...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnJ2cgarsz4MFaHtufCawqvLhoT-X_PpKZgq9adhAiRbGLWBrEI3lW7iClto9rfWLb0XD74xbyB3ceJVdSeLXonYaqaZX0b3qGlkgSLlbGWjhoQFNHC0BhzIvAW-4RlDQTmvHQxyRELqw/s1600/6875729fd7a05c61c490d010.L.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnJ2cgarsz4MFaHtufCawqvLhoT-X_PpKZgq9adhAiRbGLWBrEI3lW7iClto9rfWLb0XD74xbyB3ceJVdSeLXonYaqaZX0b3qGlkgSLlbGWjhoQFNHC0BhzIvAW-4RlDQTmvHQxyRELqw/s200/6875729fd7a05c61c490d010.L.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503299444085676114" /></a><br /><br />The other day my friend was helping me clean out the closet in the back of my house. It's behind my dishwasher and washer and dryer so it's fairly difficult (nearly impossible) to get to. Since I don't have enough wall space to display any of them, I had stored my framed autographed posters there since I moved in. <br /><br />Phideaux was helping me and I pulled this one poster out, matted and framed. I said, “this is my all time favorite poster, I've had it for nearly thirty years”. It's a promo only poster of Rickie Lee Jones for her 1981 album, ‘Pirates’, which is one of my all time favorite albums, by one of my all time favorite singers. I had her sign it for me the first time I met her, before a show at the Troubadour in the early 90's. <br /><br />(click on any small picture to see a larger version) <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju0Z9dmhdZuIYRuifxcER__PzdmRITmJPJvSnZ8cVUI84zg3-_PxULmgOhl0k1IIAUWq4XUiQ0MUtseFNeptvakQIn4tUrBUb-BEvKIDAbRkkEn9g9wCbGudX17fx8FlieLCjYu29W9WQ/s1600/rickiepiratesfull.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 176px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju0Z9dmhdZuIYRuifxcER__PzdmRITmJPJvSnZ8cVUI84zg3-_PxULmgOhl0k1IIAUWq4XUiQ0MUtseFNeptvakQIn4tUrBUb-BEvKIDAbRkkEn9g9wCbGudX17fx8FlieLCjYu29W9WQ/s200/rickiepiratesfull.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503297051023476578" /></a><br /><br />It is an extremely rare poster, and even Rickie herself, when I showed it to her, said, I wish I had a copy of this. I briefly considered giving it to her, but the moment passed. Particularly because by then, she had already dedicated it to me. <br /><br />Then I got it framed. This was before I was a professional photographer, I do my own framing now. At the time it cost over $200 to get the poster matted and framed. It was a lot of money, but it was worth it. I've loved that poster from the moment I got it. Even before it was signed and framed, I've had it up in every home I've lived in for the last thirty years. I think it's the only poster I've had for that long. I haven't had many other things for that long, come to think of it…<br /><br />As I pulled it out of the closet, and was saying, ‘this is my all time favorite poster’... to my horror, I realized that the bottom of the frame was mildewed and moldy. “Oh no!” But much worse, the mold had gone inside the picture and the poster was also molded at the bottom. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOUqcqBQMtPXPv-XRPW4pUvRZggIFq-CCb492m0_KxJss36YL0_BRsc_qJblsBrywullhdaVTpY580wnW_xjRL3FCERdLxKO5QiNDo0g3p5nfnPVdYNxj7CzQaTQ1n8nMXGGL9Ko-w0GA/s1600/ghostyhead.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 183px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOUqcqBQMtPXPv-XRPW4pUvRZggIFq-CCb492m0_KxJss36YL0_BRsc_qJblsBrywullhdaVTpY580wnW_xjRL3FCERdLxKO5QiNDo0g3p5nfnPVdYNxj7CzQaTQ1n8nMXGGL9Ko-w0GA/s200/ghostyhead.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503297071456765410" /></a><br /><br /><br />Oh, how crushing!<br /><br />I then remembered that I also have two other Rickie Lee Jones posters framed, and I pulled them out, and they are also molded at the bottom. So in one fell swoop all three of my favorite posters were found dead. <br /><br />Devastating. <br /><br />Phideaux said, ‘well, maybe it's time to let go of these. they are only things, after all’. <br /><br />Yes, but this is my all time favorite poster! By one of my all time favorite singers! Signed! And irreplacable! <br /><br /><br />I guess the universe can make decisions for you, some of which you might not necessarily agree with or feel particularly exuberant about. <br /><br />Phideaux and I finished sorting the closet (no other posters had been harmed) and we decided to walk down the street to the Coffee Table restaurant, which is one block from my house. At the Coffee Table, you order your food at the front and when it's ready they bring it you out in the restaurant. I go there enough that I don't need to look at a menu. Phideaux was studying the menu when I tapped him on the shoulder. <br /><br />"You're not going to believe this but Rickie Lee Jones is standing right over there." <br /><br />Sure enough, less than 15 feet from us, the one and only Rickie Lee Jones was getting a glass of water. OhMyGod. <br /><br />What does THIS mean? <br /><br /><br />Phideaux and I ordered our food and went to sit on the patio while they kitchen prepared lunch for us. We sat about ten feet from Rickie and her friend, who were deeply involved in conversation. I know Phideaux purposely positioned it so that Rickie was in my eyesight for the entire meal<br /><br />He said, ‘aren't you going to go talk to her?’ <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0rZYTgPJ6cQ7u8NgPRCteA84IeM8uVoC4yIpPFacvpV4nIGO-AngWrJM0mS3WNgnmBEz1DRZUy52vsu5H9E9ILvJ6BT_-HNXyIf94a9LKnQABvx4-d-ebGRzAhT5aAOEod-Ri4ArKmr0/s1600/rickieleejones.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 160px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0rZYTgPJ6cQ7u8NgPRCteA84IeM8uVoC4yIpPFacvpV4nIGO-AngWrJM0mS3WNgnmBEz1DRZUy52vsu5H9E9ILvJ6BT_-HNXyIf94a9LKnQABvx4-d-ebGRzAhT5aAOEod-Ri4ArKmr0/s200/rickieleejones.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503297064409948258" /></a><br /><br />I've been a fan of Rickie Lee Jones since 1979, when her first album was released and I must have listened to it a thousand times, and a thousand more times since. I've seen her in concert at least 25 times, more than anyone else. I've met her several times over the years. But would she remember me? Doubtful. My experience is that celebrities, when you are meeting them or requesting an autograph or photo, their eyes sort of glaze over and there's an invisible and unyeilding wall that comes down between you. Also most of the time when meeting a rock star, it is backstage before or after a concert so the lighting is not so great. And they are either focusing on the upcoming show or trying to unwind from putting on a performance. I don't think most rocks stars really engage with their fans, and I don't blame them. <br /><br />So she, oblivious to the fact that I am probably her biggest fan, sitting less than ten feet from her while she eats her lunch on the patio at the coffee table. Watching every bite, but trying not to.<br /><br />But I didn't say anything, and Phideaux and I ate our lunch and left, Rickie and her friend still talking to each other. No one else talked to either of them during the time I was there. <br /><br />Phideaux and I are always looking for cosmic significance. Small (or large) hints from the universe. We mulled this over while we ate. But I don't think we came to a conclusion. <br /><br />When I told my friend Colleen about this, she said, ‘maybe the lesson is to take better care of the things that mean a lot to you. like, why was this poster in the back of the closet? it should have been hanging on the wall, where it would have been safe and enjoyed.” This is true. And I seriously regret it. It's just that wall space in my house is minimal. And that is because it is mostly taken up by media (cds, records, dvds, and books). <br /><br />Perhaps another lesson here, as Phideaux (and that hoarding expert guy on Oprah) would be the first to assert, is that my "stuff" is crowding me out of my own home, and keeping the few things that really mean something to me relegated to the back of closets where they can become water damaged. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSNJY9y5HiXrD1MM29IgLBWpma-aSYRfdjN0HIvxC9BlhP2KH1UEeUcF25Iq2bs1YhFJzOBuWvzr6dEU-8fnjWM2-JiCfNJ718nYAl5IglQ4S3zl7z9wg_Fuvwl35DjZJ5Nu5Kk1WEysk/s1600/rickiepiratesmold.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSNJY9y5HiXrD1MM29IgLBWpma-aSYRfdjN0HIvxC9BlhP2KH1UEeUcF25Iq2bs1YhFJzOBuWvzr6dEU-8fnjWM2-JiCfNJ718nYAl5IglQ4S3zl7z9wg_Fuvwl35DjZJ5Nu5Kk1WEysk/s200/rickiepiratesmold.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503297040948740898" /></a><br /><br />A few days later I told my therapist the story and he said, ‘I would have gone up to her and told her the story, it's a fascinating story! I'm sure she would have liked to hear it.’ <br /><br />Well, this may be true, or it may not be true. Having worked in the music business for 25 years I have met many many famous people. As a rule I do not ever interrupt someone while they are eating. That, to me is taboo. Had she been sitting there by herself, waiting for her food to arrive, I probably would have approached her. <br /><br />With caution. Because you never know how famous people are going to respond. Some famous people have been incredibly rude to me (no names mentioned Keanu Reeves, Paul Simon, Marianne Faithfull). Although Rickie Lee Jones is probably not very famous, and likely doesn't get recognized very much. <br /><br />And the several times I have met her or talked to her she has always been very cordial. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUTqelMsoCphvYHFTvAwBTF4bQNRRBXNmkW8YR93Sd7ljvi-8Sc6kq6erDXrpAE1xLqLkTbt4MvLM4mGqA_04WwQgoJTH_xjRhKEsXHoLTNwO_CcAWg9fkJ-jhcfSNIspbyuRL5iQmcz4/s1600/P3031479a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUTqelMsoCphvYHFTvAwBTF4bQNRRBXNmkW8YR93Sd7ljvi-8Sc6kq6erDXrpAE1xLqLkTbt4MvLM4mGqA_04WwQgoJTH_xjRhKEsXHoLTNwO_CcAWg9fkJ-jhcfSNIspbyuRL5iQmcz4/s200/P3031479a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503302190994033954" /></a><br /><br />A couple ago, Rickie played five Mondays in a row at a local silverlake club, I went to four of the shows and took photos at three of them. I wrote to her through her management, and asked if I could send her the pictures, but never heard back. I also suggested to her that we do a photo shoot several times, but heard nothing. I imagine famous people and/or rock stars are constantly bombarded with such offers and it's hard to know which are legitimate. Also I think as a rule, people like that don't like to work with fans. Although in this case I happen to be an excellent and creative photographer and would love to work with Rickie, and I'm positive we could create some amazing photos of her. She is a very charismatic person and I feel most of her photos do not do her justice. In my experience this means she has not been working with the right photographer. <br /><br />The promo poster from the ‘Pirates’ album is a stunning photograph, and it is the exception. Which is why I love it so much and have carried it with me all over the place. For thirty years. <br /><br />That and, I absolutely love the album, and what it represents. That was a great time in my life (just after high school, and coming out). It means a lot to me. And it is a wonderful album in itself. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2_TQoTtJjATQqFTIkwTVutoqICBy0yOhirMKFC9rlcMrOUZet_OFeBOAdBlSTwUnGzLGkt9IR5N_twIvKtlL9nzwwK_Nn4Jdux_egrBE-VcJdEXRN6GPIzps9wDIZPKa39Ehn4-SDU7w/s1600/rickieposter1.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2_TQoTtJjATQqFTIkwTVutoqICBy0yOhirMKFC9rlcMrOUZet_OFeBOAdBlSTwUnGzLGkt9IR5N_twIvKtlL9nzwwK_Nn4Jdux_egrBE-VcJdEXRN6GPIzps9wDIZPKa39Ehn4-SDU7w/s200/rickieposter1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503297038740104418" /></a><br /><br />I am studying the poster to see if I can somehow crop the damaged part off and have it reframed. Even though every time I looked at it (hanging in a significant and safe place) I would see the missing part like a wounded soldier feels the itch In his phantom missing arm...<br /><br />And, of course, eternally searching for cosmic significance...<br /><br /> <br />©2010 RocketManLA.com, Rod ReynoldsRocketManLAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12085856145517949665noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116843644860584099.post-63917980715298597342010-07-15T22:29:00.001-07:002010-07-16T13:31:47.391-07:00Craig Ferguson is making me fat. 7.15.10<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhybKHXRYk3VTw3Sx8RSlJVCxf-L8Nfb49y7O-_V1e47mAU0NuHzmwkHKhBqewhAuKO-gfXdSCDsH5Tb_4i4Vc8yk3XB3oh8eR6rUaHYY8qc-uXyWQg14flCRWHhPsgQ_oe8t42N14mtZU/s1600/Craig-Ferguson-tells-poor-taste-joke.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhybKHXRYk3VTw3Sx8RSlJVCxf-L8Nfb49y7O-_V1e47mAU0NuHzmwkHKhBqewhAuKO-gfXdSCDsH5Tb_4i4Vc8yk3XB3oh8eR6rUaHYY8qc-uXyWQg14flCRWHhPsgQ_oe8t42N14mtZU/s200/Craig-Ferguson-tells-poor-taste-joke.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494373392432222002" /></a><br /><br />Craig Ferguson is making me fat. <br /><br />For the past two years I've got up every morning, checked my email, fed the cat and headed to the gym for cardio before breakfast. And I've managed to keep my weight down to a nearly acceptable level (my trainer in fact says I should gain weight, only this time as muscle.) And true, it's not about the digital number that greets me every morning on the scale. (I do not weight myself after breakfast or during the day, as from experience that only ends in tears. You always weigh more in the afternoon than you do in the morning.) as your weight fluctuates over the course of a day and certainly over the course of several days. But it doesn’t necessarily mean anything. <br /><br />For the last year I've had no satellite tv service, I just couldn't afford the $75 a month. So my tvs sat untended, and more or less because tables to set books and clothes on. A few months ago I had a client who, long story short, ended up hooking up basic cable for me. So now I have basic tv. But I've found that the tvs still sit idle. I watched Glee and Lost on hulu.com I don't have HBO and have found no place to watch True Blood online (which sucks) (sucks, get it?) <br /><br />(Here is a picture of my favorite naked vampire, Alexander Skarsgard)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTz4VX-MToaxRmc2L5PpCMjaHtmppVgdjQHcBiSurj1nAfjiAFtih5LSiYictw1VWdrXE11aa32Nso86vcE0ajAyZR5FgQ9UyYew15TtZ11LK8sNdFas7ZHwiYIAlMlcX7i_57Dfq0mL0/s1600/alex_scarsgard.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 163px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTz4VX-MToaxRmc2L5PpCMjaHtmppVgdjQHcBiSurj1nAfjiAFtih5LSiYictw1VWdrXE11aa32Nso86vcE0ajAyZR5FgQ9UyYew15TtZ11LK8sNdFas7ZHwiYIAlMlcX7i_57Dfq0mL0/s200/alex_scarsgard.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494373384988252002" /></a><br /><br />but I do like to watch a little tv, usually Jay Leno when I go to bed, I watch his monologue and depending on who the guests are and how tired I am, I might keep watching, tucked in bed with the remote in hand, ready to turn off the moment I get depressed by the endless anti depressant commercials. <br /><br />Have you noticed that one where even if you're on anti depressants they want you to take their even more anti depressant? Like we don't all have more than enough pill bottles in our medicine cabinets. <br /><br />That said, I am taking antidepressants. I tried a few years ago but the one I was taking made my hyper. And I got a lot done during the day but couldn't sleep at night. So I had to take sleeping pills to sleep. This is no way to live, so I gave them all up cold turkey and never looked back. <br /><br />But earlier this year, with the divorce, the closing of the gallery, the loss of a couple close friends, the economy, the financial situation.... I just felt like I was drowning in mud, and I decided to try again. I am taking a different one, and taking half a pill a day, and it's quite wonderful. I have one minor sexual side effect, but it's ok because I'm generally in such a good mood I don't care. <br /><br />Anyway. <br /><br />So one night I was up late and Jay had someone on i can't stand (probably either Tracy Morgan or Chris Rock or maybe one of the Kadashians sisters) and I switched over to letterman. Who I rarely if ever watch, I find him so obnoxious. I'm sure he's quite lovely in person, but for me the whole schtick has never worked for me. <br /><br />Then Craig Ferguson came on and I was captivated. All along I had assumed he was just another late late talk show host and aren't they all the same? but no. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirSxD15Grg74QVhxnUihY9IDP45cBac_S5TyrvkXOBQvsAuCPEkDuFtcrbjhRL5c6qX4rnKAAiO_BrpPwwauhHorf9p-Du5nsCPejyF2V-R3f-Suog33hVbt9TFofcyZmBALt10-4pYX4/s1600/craig_live.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 115px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirSxD15Grg74QVhxnUihY9IDP45cBac_S5TyrvkXOBQvsAuCPEkDuFtcrbjhRL5c6qX4rnKAAiO_BrpPwwauhHorf9p-Du5nsCPejyF2V-R3f-Suog33hVbt9TFofcyZmBALt10-4pYX4/s200/craig_live.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494384199060528018" /></a><br /><br />Craig actually made me laugh out loud. Which (see above) is a very good thing. and unusual. especially for tv. Plus he's cute! And very sexy. So I find myself lingering before going to bed at my usual 11:30 or 12 and waiting until 12:30 to watch Craig. The first few minutes are essential, the part before the opening monologue, just seconds after the Letterman logo fades. He is so funny! And he says so much with just his eyes. it's amazing the subtlety. Especially on television. Especially on my small 17 incher in the bedroom… <br /><br />I usually am too tired to stay up for the whole show. But sometimes he has great guests. most of whom seem to have no idea what is going on. Craig’s interview style might be described, in gentle terms, as haphazard. Craig's style is, hmm... acerbic and laid back. Some of his guests look like animals caught in a trap. A couple of them have seemed downright hostile. I’ve even seen a couple of them get up and walk away!<br /><br />Gentlemen of the court permission to treat the guest as hostile.<br /><br />It’s uncomfortable sometimes but always hilarious. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH1GaZku-a1aqlV-yZYuv4ptnoyL6UnVWNN6SKUkQXCVhwcqFaahLFS8qRfmQK-XsFKGAQ1ta6GUO7FkwCTOuRrr8tOdjfIGchU1tmMflLt3AMlFLCwneNmR780BQ4Ni6AbeKCXkJNpRI/s1600/6353704.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH1GaZku-a1aqlV-yZYuv4ptnoyL6UnVWNN6SKUkQXCVhwcqFaahLFS8qRfmQK-XsFKGAQ1ta6GUO7FkwCTOuRrr8tOdjfIGchU1tmMflLt3AMlFLCwneNmR780BQ4Ni6AbeKCXkJNpRI/s200/6353704.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494377212535866578" /></a><br /><br />the problem is, when I don't get to sleep until 1 or 1:30 I have a real hard time getting up at 7:30 or 8. and if I don't get up by 8am I have a hard time getting everything done in time to make the breakfast special at eat well, which ends abruptly at 10:30. For many years I've had breakfast every day at eat well, so much that I don't even have to order, they automatically bring me what I want. I'm not sure if you would describe that as stuck in a rut and predictable, or merely consistent. I like it because I don't have to think about what I'm going to eat and I don't have to negotiate onions and cream sauce and wheat etc in my food. I get the perfect breakfast at eat well every day for $6 which is awesome. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8le0rGGL1aFMmFvzpVIgx5dTyiNFHXaCa0bPoLZisKFiRR0GPSAvdLBL00oJtdw2X-ssuSzLIPCIVYhZSK3Secx3bAA_8tnzjGArxYFmVoe2xkduIHsNVcAKQ7vNb0z-XKJebt1xOPvY/s1600/2392737817_b81994445b.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8le0rGGL1aFMmFvzpVIgx5dTyiNFHXaCa0bPoLZisKFiRR0GPSAvdLBL00oJtdw2X-ssuSzLIPCIVYhZSK3Secx3bAA_8tnzjGArxYFmVoe2xkduIHsNVcAKQ7vNb0z-XKJebt1xOPvY/s200/2392737817_b81994445b.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494373376240255858" /></a><br /><br />So when I don't get up in time, I am running late and I often have to reduce my time on the cardio machine or sometimes even skip it all together. Which has been causing my weight to slowly inch upwards. which makes me very unhappy. <br /><br />not enough to counteract the antidepressants but still. <br /><br />so my options are: stop watching Craig. the one part of my day that I am guaranteed to laugh. and how lovely to go to sleep having had a good laugh. <br /><br />If I had satellite service I could record him on tivo. but I don't. I could record him on VHS (like, totally!) and I could watch last nights' episode at 11:30 when I need to go to bed. I could also zip through the antidepressant commercials, which even though I am on one, make me feel like I am still not taking enough drugs. <br /><br />But then I'm watching yesterday's show. and honestly I'm not sure it's worth the effort and coordination. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKxRc3d443gJvp85J2Da_qWlD2N0e0M3gDfguQJ3mz4figM0bv2jJs4MJIsp2Ja5Fso37RRvpn7X-sAPrYgEZmNoP07ldqBQN2RxJpbqYodRE_RUrG1MK69JTaBfaPWvxWxRU7i-r5xVE/s1600/eatwell.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKxRc3d443gJvp85J2Da_qWlD2N0e0M3gDfguQJ3mz4figM0bv2jJs4MJIsp2Ja5Fso37RRvpn7X-sAPrYgEZmNoP07ldqBQN2RxJpbqYodRE_RUrG1MK69JTaBfaPWvxWxRU7i-r5xVE/s200/eatwell.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494604354706981570" /></a><br /><br />the second alternative is to not worry about the breakfast special at eat well. it's not like they stop serving breakfast at 10:30, it just goes up by $1. so that's not much money, but I am worried about losing the discipline of my day. If I don't HAVE to be there by 10:30 (or hopefully earlier) it could easily turn into 11:30 or 12 and then it would be lunch time and I would have skipped breakfast, which I don't want to do. Usually I don't even eat lunch. and sometimes I don't even eat dinner. so breakfast is important to me. I also try to eat a big (healthy) breakfast, medium lunch and small dinner. it seems to work. <br /><br />(this is me working out at the gym, my trainer took this with his new G4 iPhone)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKY-E_kORtJCI0AND8L_lWMDX76LTQjjuZF1UQIVepPN4ZM98TZa_5pWnl0VRMzmCSN18wQDd0CwWAGuEKVI7dzzl4YgN5b75VRxlxweE8rgSXvMg2DRf_wJ-M0ccX671qePVywmuJb1U/s1600/rod-gym72.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKY-E_kORtJCI0AND8L_lWMDX76LTQjjuZF1UQIVepPN4ZM98TZa_5pWnl0VRMzmCSN18wQDd0CwWAGuEKVI7dzzl4YgN5b75VRxlxweE8rgSXvMg2DRf_wJ-M0ccX671qePVywmuJb1U/s200/rod-gym72.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494377201773147618" /></a><br /><br />If I could do cardio later in the day that might work, at least I'd still be doing it, But I know my schedule and that’s highly unlikely to happen. I try to make it back to the gym in the afternoon to work out. Sometimes if I've missed cardio in the morning I will do a stint before or after working out, but now that I'm back with my trainer he is pushing me and I usually don't have the energy. <br /><br />so. at the moment it's a dilemma. laughter and late nights, weighing 5 lbs more than I want to, or early sleep and early cardio to be skinny and fabulous...<br /><br />remember, nothing tastes as good as skinny feels… <br /><br /> <br />©2010 RocketManLA.com Rod ReynoldsRocketManLAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12085856145517949665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116843644860584099.post-84298219860814914792010-05-20T15:37:00.000-07:002010-05-20T18:11:29.462-07:00Marianne's cat R.I.P.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhstBekBbJEP5RL7El49M6kFyPUwQnzDO7Ooxrgxrzqx_aTCPon7EIrhjVG-F9fvzVEo5HVhPHp74-8xB3L_f8U0CJ5pf2NMPgvfkBUzAH9ESjQmyw8QFXwZM6uOoAbRzf1oIahROD9cX8/s1600/psychoposterDF729.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 138px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhstBekBbJEP5RL7El49M6kFyPUwQnzDO7Ooxrgxrzqx_aTCPon7EIrhjVG-F9fvzVEo5HVhPHp74-8xB3L_f8U0CJ5pf2NMPgvfkBUzAH9ESjQmyw8QFXwZM6uOoAbRzf1oIahROD9cX8/s200/psychoposterDF729.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473491308304569890" /></a><br /><br />We tend to forget that our pets are animals and not people. My friend Colleen did a documentary movie called <a href="http://www.psychokitties.com/">Psycho Kitties</a>, which is about her cats and their behavioral problems. Most of which stem from the inability to communicate between animals and people. Cats don’t speak English and aren’t about to learn. So we need to learn to understand what they are saying, from their cues, in mannerism, behavior and vocally. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrT485Qg4txGNo_pjyhhr_MnUA1GKEqCzXcNkHbvGRL2EmmuY4nhGuIm6-TPuvklaxlYpR0nLnpR2-FnEcGATbOjxYMOMdmL9OL3fhxZk8Ba4q92bDzAm_ZqekRDVpRZpM-bjktJuvQrU/s1600/P2139659a+copy.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrT485Qg4txGNo_pjyhhr_MnUA1GKEqCzXcNkHbvGRL2EmmuY4nhGuIm6-TPuvklaxlYpR0nLnpR2-FnEcGATbOjxYMOMdmL9OL3fhxZk8Ba4q92bDzAm_ZqekRDVpRZpM-bjktJuvQrU/s200/P2139659a+copy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473487826950754818" /></a><br /><br />I grew up on a cattle farm. Over the course of my childhood we had pigs, chickens, horses, and cattle. Plus several cats and dogs, many of whom led a somewhat precarious existence (farms can be quite dangerous to smaller animals and children). <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBjdY6-oAEvPHSMzNL2_vsJzJ4C5GqlfJhZW76TPpdS0DVnq_fwh83hi0Ma9TrmYZaSU-T-5LdeMLKuc67tf9YCkDANzgkidlmYJF_bn3Fdhp2D8BNDgo1AartZZJzEokGQq98n-WWaXc/s1600/P2260257a+copy.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBjdY6-oAEvPHSMzNL2_vsJzJ4C5GqlfJhZW76TPpdS0DVnq_fwh83hi0Ma9TrmYZaSU-T-5LdeMLKuc67tf9YCkDANzgkidlmYJF_bn3Fdhp2D8BNDgo1AartZZJzEokGQq98n-WWaXc/s200/P2260257a+copy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473487845374829522" /></a><br /><br />Animals are not people. When a kid falls down and hurts his knee he comes crying to mom for sympathy. Animals, when they are hurt, run away and hide. Have you ever had a cat who was sick? They don’t come and cuddle with you. They hide under the bed until you wonder where they are and you eventually track them down and take them to the vet. They don’t want to go to the vet. They want to hide under the bed. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdKC1X34q38kUMjRE3oV3evBWtqD3FzrZz4xwyX_Az9Uq3QGXceFfItS4CFVDfrelwVwRDgOcvEqQEHdPzoFiLwiF0ouLxjJ4zlUqB9MauB4E1gv6OOShOVcKyvIwYipf1VKGy4S3te2o/s1600/marianne-williamson-smiling.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 181px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdKC1X34q38kUMjRE3oV3evBWtqD3FzrZz4xwyX_Az9Uq3QGXceFfItS4CFVDfrelwVwRDgOcvEqQEHdPzoFiLwiF0ouLxjJ4zlUqB9MauB4E1gv6OOShOVcKyvIwYipf1VKGy4S3te2o/s200/marianne-williamson-smiling.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473487857563867010" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://marianne.com/">Marianne</a> said the other night that she was very upset that she had left her house for a couple hours and her cat had died while she was gone. She was feeling remorse that she hadn’t been there with him when he passed. <br /><br />I have two thoughts on this. <br /><br />One. Doesn’t Marianne, the course in miracles, and perhaps every modern spiritual program, teach us that we are always in the right place at the right time? How could Marianne, who is one of the most prominent spiritual leaders of our generation, not have felt, if the universe had wanted her to be with her cat when he died, that god would not have whispered in her ear, “stay home for another hour. Trust me” <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_d1fvf8QUp_xyYM4FTVjrmxSpCpBWqfv1wwT5L8jzT-3vXbtIpSLqD6PEKl6EJkpa7s49ZeBaYTZ2YGDwfOEwXIcKYec5j02kpUJ2MptcS2rwbIA6ASmWNDtYTSy9RZcWPJzHIkUz_gU/s1600/P3096443a+copy.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_d1fvf8QUp_xyYM4FTVjrmxSpCpBWqfv1wwT5L8jzT-3vXbtIpSLqD6PEKl6EJkpa7s49ZeBaYTZ2YGDwfOEwXIcKYec5j02kpUJ2MptcS2rwbIA6ASmWNDtYTSy9RZcWPJzHIkUz_gU/s200/P3096443a+copy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473487844658132946" /></a><br /><br />Secondly. Perhaps Marianne’s cat was waiting, hanging on, lingering, perhaps too sick to crawl and hide in the bottom of the closet or under the bed to pass away. Perhaps he was waiting for a quiet moment alone, to pass to the next plane. <br /><br />I’m just saying, this being my blog and therefore purely my opinion, and with love and respect, that Marianne is being too hard on herself. With public remorse, she compared the last moments of her cat’s life to the last moments of her mother’s life. This is not fair. Perhaps her mother would not have wanted to crawl into the back of the closet to die alone. Although who’s to know? <br /><br />My friend Dallas, who teaches Science of Mind, said the other day that when he dies, he doesn’t want to be listed in the obituaries. He wants it in the announcements, with joy and pride. ‘Dallas is thrilled to have passed into the next dimension, thus beginning his journey in the next plane of action.’<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-KzAbYaXR4lS6r3nu54p0yuxkiUjCO1mGVyJ18rHJHVkg5yxCseopi4admN78m0BrHwspn0Rvrg9oD3vU_n1OvPl4ldYMKHmHPMR-Jk1G_fjDB91jaUp-hBJEtwyf0H2kLBaXJzasFEg/s1600/P3030642a+copy.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-KzAbYaXR4lS6r3nu54p0yuxkiUjCO1mGVyJ18rHJHVkg5yxCseopi4admN78m0BrHwspn0Rvrg9oD3vU_n1OvPl4ldYMKHmHPMR-Jk1G_fjDB91jaUp-hBJEtwyf0H2kLBaXJzasFEg/s200/P3030642a+copy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5473486951979047634" /></a><br /><br /><br />Of course Marianne will miss her beloved cat (not pictured), as I will miss mine (pictured) when Sebastian passes on (or disappears, as my last one did), and we can join in her grief over the loss and lend our support. It’s a sad but natural part of life that our pets will die; they have a much shorter lifespan than we do. That doesn’t mean it isn’t emotional, or sorrowful, or that you won’t miss them. But it’s a natural part of life. And I think that if Marianne was supposed to be holding her cat's head when he took his last breath, she would have been. <br /><br />©2010 RocketManLA.com Rod Reynolds Los Angeles CARocketManLAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12085856145517949665noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116843644860584099.post-33413815199983572592010-03-04T16:50:00.001-08:002010-03-10T18:34:50.074-08:00my thoughts on the 2010 Oscar race<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Z8uA2qCf8zisWNEcO6fhHw63BfwFkUIXmtsTizG3saA4bNS2ZPX8MMlXEDYuvN-0o0RDVyj03LUPuS1YzctX0vLoFS5wD0XY1AbtYR1Vuc27r8GmYAXx4fgFdDpFFtnYclLdFTgKe0k/s1600-h/82nd-Annual-Oscars-Poster.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 138px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Z8uA2qCf8zisWNEcO6fhHw63BfwFkUIXmtsTizG3saA4bNS2ZPX8MMlXEDYuvN-0o0RDVyj03LUPuS1YzctX0vLoFS5wD0XY1AbtYR1Vuc27r8GmYAXx4fgFdDpFFtnYclLdFTgKe0k/s200/82nd-Annual-Oscars-Poster.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447199093321238562" /></a><br /><br />I have seen all of the Oscar nominated performances and movies in the major categories. Possibly more than several of the voting academy members. <br /><br />Now, I have been accused of having a slightly “off beat” sense of… well, everything. So take this with a grain of salt. But I also did go to film school, and I DID see all the Oscar nominated performances in all the major categories. So while art is subjective, it’s also possible that I know what I’m talking about, or at the very least, what I like. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC9fbpdEFvc953EVlPRBDEKGr7wAOlJIXE7G5cXGP4F5MYxYlb4VuWS6zNPJboBMdxB7n8W6Q2Tb2LhHbXi_IKafIqg6QXDWiC0lehRA1GeqdhhCaqLyn_-zkdOpVy_Jq3dqgMI1WHUSs/s1600-h/Jeremy-Renner-in-The-Hurt-001.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 120px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC9fbpdEFvc953EVlPRBDEKGr7wAOlJIXE7G5cXGP4F5MYxYlb4VuWS6zNPJboBMdxB7n8W6Q2Tb2LhHbXi_IKafIqg6QXDWiC0lehRA1GeqdhhCaqLyn_-zkdOpVy_Jq3dqgMI1WHUSs/s200/Jeremy-Renner-in-The-Hurt-001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444951524635849762" /></a><br /><br />Let’s start at the top - <span style="font-weight:bold;">Best Picture</span>. <br /><br />The Hurt Locker is the apparent fore runner in this category. Although very few people have actually seen it. I initially avoided it because of the subject matter (war, people blowing up) but ended up seeing it at a screening with a Q&A by the writer, who was very very cute. However, the movie didn’t really turn my crank. It was ok; yes, things blew up, and there were some very tense scenes. But I wouldn’t want to sit through it again and I wouldn’t buy the DVD when it comes out. <br /><br />Avatar. Please see my previous rant in this very blog. Entertaining? Sure. Innovative? Certainly. Did it keep my attention? I’ll give you that, at least the first screening. Best picture? No way. Here’s a well guarded secret. It’s not a very good movie. It should have been nominated in Best Animated Movie, because there's nothing real in that movie. Nothing. (But it's not the best animated movie, see below). <br /><br />Best Picture is a title that belongs to a movie like Gladiator. Or even Driving Miss Daisy, or Shakespeare in Love. Something memorable, epic and/or outstanding and something you can see over and over and in ten years still want to see it. In two years, Avatar will be very old news. <br /><br />District 9. I could barely sit through the first half. I thought I was going to die. I almost left the theatre. The second half had more of a plot. And just as it was taking off, it ended. I vote no. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_mydRbxsJ0JNqzPJwxR8HuAICkMWDGe2BgG4BvYPwUyT7yE9Ox8qdaNIjTo1dnUB_fWFdqVvjLh1c_7NCtuKIWG5daAMNF66hx2cw31ooNDrhzX4QYVeZj8xBGttWb9TwBU5gVFjXCKw/s1600-h/The_Blind_Side_Movie_Poster.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 135px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_mydRbxsJ0JNqzPJwxR8HuAICkMWDGe2BgG4BvYPwUyT7yE9Ox8qdaNIjTo1dnUB_fWFdqVvjLh1c_7NCtuKIWG5daAMNF66hx2cw31ooNDrhzX4QYVeZj8xBGttWb9TwBU5gVFjXCKw/s200/The_Blind_Side_Movie_Poster.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444958863406185090" /></a><br /><br />The Blind Side. I had very little interest in seeing this, but it got such good buzz I tossed the cinematic dice. I thought it was an ok movie, could have been on the Lifetime TV channel, and throughout I thought Sandra Bullock (who I love) was horribly miscast. And I couldn’t stop staring at Tim McGraw’s (who I really love) hairpiece. These ‘based on a true story movies’ never really set too well with me. No, sorry. <br /><br />An Education. Did anyone actually see this movie? OK, then why is everyone raving about it. It was a mess! First of all, the HIGH SCHOOL GIRL who is barely 16 years old is dating Peter Saarsgaard who is easily in his mid-thirties. And an obvious slime ball. She threw her life away on this guy, it was achingly obvious how it would end up, there was no redemption at the end. A morality tale? Yes, if you’re 16 years old don’t date a 35 year old guy. Even if it is the swingin’ sixties. <br /><br />Inglorious Basterds. It took me three separate screenings and the lure of a Q&A with Quentin Tarantino (who I love but wouldn’t want to be stuck in an elevator with under any circumstance) to get through this movie from start to finish. Lots of talking. Lots more talking. Quentin loves to write and it shows. If this were a novel, it would be longer than War and Peace. That said, sure, interesting, a few sporadic but really shocking acts of violence but all in all, an interesting story that doesn’t really come together until you’ve thought about it for a few days, it’s so dense. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzI7EozbPWM8uY8ALbyiPYBol2ebosVnJgryR3Zumc4JDUAt_FNTY-y4y8zw1NkBpXdXONce3QB0XpxUDVfrXgjfNn512X3t0Lp5xvpeg7xUDvJIL9CQwutJhYc2Y2eiExa_s-ySkLhfM/s1600-h/precious_ver2.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 135px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzI7EozbPWM8uY8ALbyiPYBol2ebosVnJgryR3Zumc4JDUAt_FNTY-y4y8zw1NkBpXdXONce3QB0XpxUDVfrXgjfNn512X3t0Lp5xvpeg7xUDvJIL9CQwutJhYc2Y2eiExa_s-ySkLhfM/s200/precious_ver2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444950342934931698" /></a><br /><br />Precious. I went to see this opening weekend when it was only on at the Arclight in Hollywood, and paid an obscene $15.50 to see it. It was so intense I had to go see it again a few days later. One of my friends, who is black, criticized the movie quite harshly, because things like that happen all the time and no one would believe it. Another of my friends, who is white, said he wasn’t interested in seeing it because that sort of thing happens all the time and he didn’t want to know about it. I think I enjoyed it the second time more, because it’s a fairly unconventional film, and I was able to absorb it better the second time. The kind of movie where you see it and your first thought is, this will win Oscars. <br /><br />A Serious Man. Are you serious? This was one of the least interesting movies I have ever seen. You go into a Cohen Brothers movie expecting quirky. But not boring. I didn’t find anything about this movie interesting, particularly the main character. <br /><br />Up in the Air. Even before this came out, they were already talking Oscar buzz. In the trailers it looked like a fairly standard, if slightly clever, romantic comedy. In the theatre it played out exactly like that. You could see the plot twists coming a mile away, although I did like the way it ended, slightly off beat. But best picture? Hardly. <br /><br />That leaves us with Pixar’s Up. I saw this movie six times in the theatre, and was exhilarated each and every time. Pixar is nothing short of downright amazing. I see a lot of animated movies (and I include Avatar in this category) and none of them have the charm, the sophistication, the depth of Pixar movies. Up is a glorious movie from start to finish and has some of the best characters ever brought to life on screen. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt7Dv_4DxxfRp63wJKVFXsZACIMiwOqk2zTgZaR7bOAmZ8_J_iFniIFiMkU98aXHq5dP9c_G5099h-xh17FBCi-dPK8ZhUbeVk8iAP1lBxg6NvL5nHZsBOwUINLA3TcdRwRdVD-7eI9vg/s1600-h/A+Single+Man+poster.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 135px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt7Dv_4DxxfRp63wJKVFXsZACIMiwOqk2zTgZaR7bOAmZ8_J_iFniIFiMkU98aXHq5dP9c_G5099h-xh17FBCi-dPK8ZhUbeVk8iAP1lBxg6NvL5nHZsBOwUINLA3TcdRwRdVD-7eI9vg/s200/A+Single+Man+poster.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444946602731638434" /></a><br /><br />Those are the nominated movies. Now, some of my favorite movies from last year are not mentioned. <br /><br />A Single Man is by far my favorite movie of the year, I have seen it six times, the first with a Q&A with writer/director Tom Ford (who is amazing, and beautiful), the last with a Colin Firth (who is also amazing, and beautiful). To me, this is hands down the best picture of the year. I understand that it has a relatively small audience due to the subject matters, but that is unfortunate, because it’s a stunning movie from start to finish, that will endure for decades. <br /><br />My second favorite movie of the year is 500 Days of Summer. Also not nominated. Also I have seen 5 or 6 times. A stunning movie, on so many levels, and much more than it appears to be. Everyone who I have dragged kicking and screaming to this movie has loved it, and said, wow, that’s so not what I thought it was going to be. Zooey Deschanel is and always will be annoying. This movie is carried by Joseph Gordon Levitt, who I had the chance to talk with briefly after another screening, and I told him I was actively campaigning to have him nominated for best actor. Didn’t happen, and I’m not sure he believed me, but at least I had the chance to say. <br /><br />Star Trek was a movie that had been bandied about for possible Oscar consideration, in the end it didn’t make the cut. I went into this movie with very low expectations, and was very pleasantly surprised. JJ Abrams did a wonderful reboot of the franchise. And a very enjoyable, entertaining and provocative movie in itself. I would have included it in the nominated pictures. Although it doesn’t deserve to win. <br /><br />Also, Nine was stunning. Stunning. <br />I also loved The Proposal. <br />And I loved Fame, which got shot down in flames before anyone had the chance to see it. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqIz-3rC5Pk6Pvvx8jXYRtCItPwbhQwVCSVGjZdr0m-fbcCzaPzTpdWkdJ-GcmkJDpP4_8Raj-8TgvFTJJMGBibiFuitc12l13qwCjdA4Gzh_L3fuzgLPQop-LuApz49EgenZwjlWXZG4/s1600-h/the-proposal.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 142px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqIz-3rC5Pk6Pvvx8jXYRtCItPwbhQwVCSVGjZdr0m-fbcCzaPzTpdWkdJ-GcmkJDpP4_8Raj-8TgvFTJJMGBibiFuitc12l13qwCjdA4Gzh_L3fuzgLPQop-LuApz49EgenZwjlWXZG4/s200/the-proposal.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444951516429572322" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Best Actress</span><br />Sandra Bullock in The Blind Side. I love Sandra, but see above. She seemed horribly miscast and I didn’t believe her for a second. She was awesome in one of my real favorites of the year, the Proposal alongside the wonderful (on many levels) Ryan Reynolds.<br /><br />Helen Mirren in The Last Station. An engaging movie and Helen’s performance was completely flawless. <br /><br />Carey Mulligan in An Education. Well I didn’t like this movie, and she was in every frame. Coincidence? <br /><br />Gabourey Sidibe in Precious. Completely believable and real. I didn’t feel like she was acting at all. Heartbreaking. <br /><br />Meryl Streep. I love Meryl, as do all gay boys. And I enjoyed the movie Julie and Julia, both times I saw it. I had some problems with the filming of the movie - the awkwardness of having Meryl stand on a box throughout the movie to appear as tall as the real life Julia Child was extremely distracting and unnecessary. And I did feel the performance was a touch self conscious. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqI0mMbeU8TtQgFE63VZSKGrIVsW2JEanQhfBm6UH8IQAj_Zt6x5yQP3w_yJlu2gpwPL-kAc7YBI2Ita4KU9_6XSoh2yjFpWNBO1W3Ak6oFDVxz18opvklrLCi5LfPBUVW-u0PUlLdZSg/s1600-h/last_station.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 135px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqI0mMbeU8TtQgFE63VZSKGrIVsW2JEanQhfBm6UH8IQAj_Zt6x5yQP3w_yJlu2gpwPL-kAc7YBI2Ita4KU9_6XSoh2yjFpWNBO1W3Ak6oFDVxz18opvklrLCi5LfPBUVW-u0PUlLdZSg/s200/last_station.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444947488686143074" /></a><br /><br />My choice? One would think Helen Mirren, a great performance in a period piece would be the forerunner. Press has Sandra Bullock getting the award for being adored and successful, or Meryl based on her track record (I also loved Meryl in Fantastic Mr Fox). <br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Best Actor</span> <br />Jeff Bridges was stunning in Crazy Heart. Just stunning. Completely inhabiting the character. It was so real you could smell the booze on his breath. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibUivU8a8sSzItMfaCb1WNTR4LVyoBNzLIlOKieO1ynpTPyfWZXId4cXoQuEa6Hofat3uUaYFyZN1rrME7hVg7hXHfAPAT-VeQWC0LhLbH2VgvdVnbUj-GrTDW2k-RO9MST1RIboeoutI/s1600-h/crazy_heart_movie_poster_jeff_bridges_01.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibUivU8a8sSzItMfaCb1WNTR4LVyoBNzLIlOKieO1ynpTPyfWZXId4cXoQuEa6Hofat3uUaYFyZN1rrME7hVg7hXHfAPAT-VeQWC0LhLbH2VgvdVnbUj-GrTDW2k-RO9MST1RIboeoutI/s200/crazy_heart_movie_poster_jeff_bridges_01.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444950306339162546" /></a><br /><br />George Clooney. I’ve never liked him, since way back when he was annoying on ER, and then had the haircut in the 90s and makes everyone (but me) swoon. I’m sorry, not a fan, for many reasons. Not the least of which is that he chews the scenery through every movie I've ever seen him in. <br /><br />Colin Firth. See above. A Single Man is an outstanding movie that connected with me on so many levels. Colin is in every scene and Colin is the movie. First rate all the way. Hell to the Yeah! <br /><br />Morgan Freeman in Invictus. I thought this movie was boring and really hard to watch. I must admit I didn’t make it to the end, so it’s possible he pulled something out of his hat and left the room in shreds. What I saw of it didn’t affect me though. <br /><br />Jeremy Renner in The Hurt Locker. Gorgeous guy. Well acted. Not a classic performance. He's got better things coming. <br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Best Supporting Actress</span><br />Penelope Cruz. Can’t stand her, ever, even in Nine, which I loved. I can’t believe she was even nominated last year for her screaming in that awful Woody Allen movie, let alone won. Ugh. Please go away. <br /><br />Vera Framiga in Up In The Air.<br />A solid performance but nothing truly ground breaking.<br /><br />Maggie Gyllenhaal in Crazy Heart. An OK performance in an OK movie. I’ve never found her particularly appealing for some reason. Her brother, Jake, on the other hand… <br /><br />Anna Kendrick in Up In The Air. Ok, she was cute and did a good job. She’s got the stunned fish out of water look down pat. Next. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-RuaJEFIvseVzf1EnJMbzPRPaZZ0aA0iDIRMEdUNX5nfsZsD-8RLK_4cWnosw2iPTpLo5akMvX-2gWHyVaeDRts97JBWNxJqZQHs0F_aUanLxLntftDr4F0vBZuSIRKgZPiivQVrHxMQ/s1600-h/push_based_on_the_novel_by_sapphire_movie_image__4_.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-RuaJEFIvseVzf1EnJMbzPRPaZZ0aA0iDIRMEdUNX5nfsZsD-8RLK_4cWnosw2iPTpLo5akMvX-2gWHyVaeDRts97JBWNxJqZQHs0F_aUanLxLntftDr4F0vBZuSIRKgZPiivQVrHxMQ/s200/push_based_on_the_novel_by_sapphire_movie_image__4_.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444950351674309442" /></a><br /><br />Mo’Nique in Precious. I walked away both times from this movie saying she deserves an Oscar. I never thought she would be nominated, because the performance is extremely dark in a very dark movie. Good for her though, she deserves this. Will she get it? If she can get out of her own way, I think so.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Best Supporting Actor</span><br />Christopher Plummer in The Last Station. Supporting actor? Wasn’t he the main character, Leo Tolstoy in the epic finale of Tolstoy’s life? Supporting actor? Regardless, he was brilliant and completely engrossing.<br /><br />Matt Damon in Invictus. Matt Damon is wonderful as Jason Bourse and in nothing else. Please make a note of it. <br /><br />Woody Harrelson in The Messenger. A hard movie to watch. As much as I’m totally infatuated with Ben Foster, this movie was hard to take. Woody was so awful in 2012, whatever good he accomplished here gets cancelled out, sorry. <br /><br />Stanley Tucci in The Lovely Bones<br />I loved this book and the movie was sort of interesting but nothing even approaching the novel. That said, Stanley’s performance is quite perfect. Such a marked contrast from his also great role in Julie and Julia, which makes it all the more obvious. <br /><br />Christophe Waltz. Really, the only common thread in the disparate chapters of Inglorious Basterds. Again, Supporting actor? He deserves Best Actor. Completely creepy and also pathetic, and 100% believable. <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzLgb0OcCVSBz4BBF8piFuRS3GXEKOCfciL2m3byvZFj3dDRTdcOjRelhgbOufZiTxiXJTCgakZwJAutUB6DDbpMgNlfz15S2dKtSEn7IlfyZAHCVMQseaQ1oTKUK2T6AduTX9GwekvXQ/s1600-h/inglorious-basterds-4.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 140px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzLgb0OcCVSBz4BBF8piFuRS3GXEKOCfciL2m3byvZFj3dDRTdcOjRelhgbOufZiTxiXJTCgakZwJAutUB6DDbpMgNlfz15S2dKtSEn7IlfyZAHCVMQseaQ1oTKUK2T6AduTX9GwekvXQ/s200/inglorious-basterds-4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444950316380961234" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Best Director</span><br /><br />Kathryn Bigelow for The Hurt Locker<br />James Cameron for Avatar<br />Quentin Tarantino for Inglorious Basterds<br />Lee Daniels for Precious. <br />Jason Reitman for Up in the Air. <br /><br />My personal feeling is Lee Daniels for Precious. He made some interesting choices. I don’t think he will win. I think it’s between Bigelow and her ex husband James Cameron. But it would be cool if Tarantino wins. <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOoE4KwXlZLNXOXV9VXZhdAhNQ2fDeFW96fzwFpv8boTHv4RVAclSwBFIChBgnQphl3-8rHjWPAbLKgKtEA3X14_-Uv7tndJLpGr4UTnM0YMSMZSanq3t0Ixetj6kcJeL-_GpTp8d6JXM/s1600-h/niner2.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOoE4KwXlZLNXOXV9VXZhdAhNQ2fDeFW96fzwFpv8boTHv4RVAclSwBFIChBgnQphl3-8rHjWPAbLKgKtEA3X14_-Uv7tndJLpGr4UTnM0YMSMZSanq3t0Ixetj6kcJeL-_GpTp8d6JXM/s200/niner2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444950333856367138" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Best Song</span><br />Two tracks from The Princess and the Frog, a Disney animated movie, written by Randy Newman. A great movie, under appreciated. The music plays a huge part in the ambiance. But can you hum a note from either of these songs? <br /><br />'The Weary Kind' from Crazy Heart. T Bone Burnett deserves the nomination, the music is integral to the film. <br /><br />'Take It All' from Nine. A woefully under appreciated movie. This song is one of the three huge stand outs in the movie, and Marion Cotillard's performance is heartbreakingly fierce. <br /><br />(the other song I don’t know as I never saw the movie 'Paris 36') <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM4ljkjFA-2Vh3uLxhJ_SN9bUqySF9tC4HsQHbYeUPIwjARYFvBY6ga6Zgzb9DeemEzJjC_VLrYmg8O-tR3E9vkvI5cg86A_QphJCXUAy0V325MJ5dGeMYjRtQXifYsc3K6xTjsY1nmE0/s1600-h/up-movie-poster.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 135px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM4ljkjFA-2Vh3uLxhJ_SN9bUqySF9tC4HsQHbYeUPIwjARYFvBY6ga6Zgzb9DeemEzJjC_VLrYmg8O-tR3E9vkvI5cg86A_QphJCXUAy0V325MJ5dGeMYjRtQXifYsc3K6xTjsY1nmE0/s200/up-movie-poster.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444946595347151042" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Best Animated movie</span><br />Coraline – stunning stop motion animation, clever, but kind of a thin story. <br /><br />Fantastic Mr Fox. I ended up seeing this three times, though not entirely of my own volition. An uneven movie - the first 20 minutes are so good, the rest can never catch up, and there are some embarrassingly awkward moments towards the end, as well as some classic Wallace and grommet style animation farce. <br /><br />The Princess and the Frog. A wonderful movie from Disney in conventional 2D animation, a lost art and simply gorgeous. Slightly unmemorable, though.<br /><br />The Secret of Keli (I have not seen this) <br /><br />Up – see above. I can’t tell you how much I love this movie. On so many levels simply Up Standing<br /><br /><br /><br />©2010 Rod Reynolds RocketManLA.comRocketManLAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12085856145517949665noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116843644860584099.post-75993158026181334442010-03-01T23:36:00.000-08:002010-03-03T09:25:01.623-08:00on judgement, and saying too muchSunday morning. I’d slept in a bit, I had been up late Saturday night, a bit of an almost date maybe, a massage client/ fuck buddy took me out for dinner after the massage portion but, somewhat oddly, before the fuck portion (because usually they happen synchronously). I don’t like to eat late because it keeps me up past my usual sleep time, which is around midnight at the latest. <br /><br />So I was in the shower this morning when he called, and I put a load of laundry in and was getting ready to spend a half hour on the treadmill at the gym, then breakfast at eat well, as usual, then meditation at the labyrinth to prepare for my day. <br /><br />But there was a message, at 9:07 am, which is unusual, particularly for a Sunday. And it wasn’t from my credit card company, which was a nice change of pace. So I listened, “Hi, this is Brian, I’ve seen your ad a few times and was wondering if you are available this morning.” <br /><br />Hmm. Well, I have several ads running, because I do several things. No indication in the message as to what he was looking for. So I called. “Hi, this is Brian.” <br /><br />"Hi, this is Rod, you just called me a few minutes ago.”<br /><br />"Oh yeah, Hi., I saw your ad on craigs list." <br /><br />Still, no clue. Is he calling about my handyman ad? My massage ad? Body grooming? Does he want a photo shoot? de-cluttering? Or does he want to buy that dresser I have posted in the for sale section. Or that framed 1968 Beatles poster I have been trying to sell for more than a year. <br /><br />Ah, the perils of being a jack of all trades (the second part of that phrase is master of none, but I prefer to leave that part off. )<br /><br />‘Great. What are you looking for?” I said, casually, and, perhaps, somewhat tenuously. <br /><br />He seemed confused, perhaps a bit annoyed, like am I that stupid that I don’t know what I am hawking on craigs list. “You do massage, right? <br /><br />Yes. Are you looking for today?<br />Preferably.<br />Right now?<br />Preferably.<br />Do you want to come here or do you want me to come there?<br />Can you come here?<br />OK.<br />How soon can you be here?<br />I can leave right now. <br /><br />He gave me his address. The deal was in the bag. Fortunately I had already showered for the gym and was ready to leave. Since it was Sunday, I had decided to wear my good sweat pants, the thinner ones that aren’t as warm as the thick ones, but they make me look thinner and/or more shapely, and they have pockets so they almost look like pants. If I wear underwear I can get away with wearing them out in public. This is America after all,. So I don’t have to take my pants and change in the truck in the parking lot at the gym, like I do pretty much every morning. <br /><br />So I was all ready to go. I hopped in the truck and headed over to Melrose and La Brea, a neighborhood in which I had lived for several years, so knew it well. It’s about a 40 minute drive, with little to no traffic. But that’s ok, it’s Sunday morning, there won’t be much traffic. <br /><br />Although invariably I get stuck on Franklin behind someone Sunday driving 20 MPH and no passing lanes all the way up to Western. Ugh. <br /><br />So it took me a little longer than I would have liked, but I was only ten minutes late from my projected 10 am arrival time, <br /><br />And I found a place to park, which is almost unheard of in that neighborhood. <br /><br />I walked up to the sprawling, well maintained house, a Silver BMW in the driveway, immaculate front yard with a high wood fence. I couldn’t find the entrance. So I called, “Hi, I am out front, but I can’t find the entrance.”<br /><br />He said, do you see the silver BMW? <br />Yes<br />Go right into the garden and I will come and get you. <br /><br />A minute later, what I thought was just a fence actually opened up in one section and it was a gate. No latch, no handle on the outside. Clever!<br /><br />Brian was tall, average body, short curly gray hair, attractive but unremarkable. His left hand ever so lightly grazed the tip of his crotch as he motioned me inside. He was wearing sleeper sweat pants and no socks. It was a bit chilly for no socks, I thought. <br /><br />We stepped into his living room, and I said, How’s it going. He said, good. <br /><br />I followed him in to the bedroom and took off my jacket. I was wearing a white tank top (wife beater) and have worked out every day for the last four days in a row. So everything was sticking out where it should and not sticking out where it shouldn’t. <br /><br />Without slowing, without missing a beat, or pausing for reflection, he walked over to his dresser, and reached into his wallet. <br /><br />He turned back to me, “Here’s $40, how about we call it a day.”<br /><br /><br />Wow, I wasn’t expecting that. <br /><br />He put the money in my hand as I pulled my jacket back on. I left without saying another word, and neither did he. I imagine he was expecting me to say something, but at that point, what can you say. <br /><br />Aside from being mortified, “God Bless You” was my thought. <br /><br />But I didn’t say that. I thought of Marianne Willamson; she often says, when you have a problem, you go, I need to go talk to god about this, let me get back to you. <br /><br />But not out loud. <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0CnTj_xKE6nqlgG0P0d9LAJV9jtct3in95fXweWOFYIrWx9JcdojJ8ieBSySkGqZyiO5N2Kk5gXfkT3-KNV5vzNvVL6sJPVmryvJwMVtHcFas3pPZut2qcBpkCnWk6ElKCMI_f7_LgIc/s1600-h/6a00d8341c630a53ef0115701150bb970b-250wi.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0CnTj_xKE6nqlgG0P0d9LAJV9jtct3in95fXweWOFYIrWx9JcdojJ8ieBSySkGqZyiO5N2Kk5gXfkT3-KNV5vzNvVL6sJPVmryvJwMVtHcFas3pPZut2qcBpkCnWk6ElKCMI_f7_LgIc/s200/6a00d8341c630a53ef0115701150bb970b-250wi.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444457447080593858" /></a><br /><br />I thought about last night, when having an uncomfortably late dinner, at 10pm, at a diner in Los Feliz, with my favorite fuck buddy and/or massage client whom I’ve have had a serious crush on for months. We’ve gotten together quite a few times, usually late at night. Usually when he’s been out drinking.<br /><br />His name is Luis. He is a great guy, Latino, very black hair, attractive (I’d have absolutely no problem being seen in public with him, or taking him to an event where I would be meeting some friends), but not so much that I am intimidated. Just slightly bigger than me; enough to totally turn me on, but not enough to make me feel small. Perfect smooth light brown skin and a great attitude, even though he is an actor (ugh) he is also a writer (yay). Plus he’s buff as hell, and always smells great (which is more crucial than one might casually think). <br /><br />Somebody told me once, any relationship can only move as fast as the slowest person in it, which is true, but frustrating. I’m a Gemini, I want things to move fast. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRbsTby0D11zQX2vutGbnzYpQ1Wlj7_WCwAP4NlNCzb61qDeXc2SeC42schBdF6uBlrw6tDVmUdlUXqcFkDqOMAE5a3rhI8V3WBPA2eB_DFfUxAr7CcquCMC8QPn70IFnB43iSkqX2LY8/s1600-h/1gemini.0.gif"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 159px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRbsTby0D11zQX2vutGbnzYpQ1Wlj7_WCwAP4NlNCzb61qDeXc2SeC42schBdF6uBlrw6tDVmUdlUXqcFkDqOMAE5a3rhI8V3WBPA2eB_DFfUxAr7CcquCMC8QPn70IFnB43iSkqX2LY8/s200/1gemini.0.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444448989589103106" /></a><br /><br />But, we’ve been slowly inching along, we even got to the point where he told me his real name, and I told him mine. <br /><br />Wow, this is what intimacy means in 2010. <br /><br />Real names? You must be kidding!<br /><br />So we had progressed to having a casual (meaning he was in sweat pants, and the event was spontaneous, we just both happened to be hungry, late dinner in a trendy (lots of asymmetrical haircuts and black clothes) los feliz café on a Saturday night. This was almost a true “shave above the knee” event. <br /><br />While I am not really open to people about writing my series/book, for proprietary reasons, I do sometimes talk about it, and Luis and I had spoken quite a bit about my writing project, without going into too much specifics. <br /><br />So at the same time, while we were eating, we were talking about it in more detail and he seemed fairly taken aback about what I do. <br /><br />“You actually clean people’s houses in a jock strap? Or naked? I just can’t imagine doing that! “<br /><br />He seemed kind of bemused, maybe a little turned on, maybe a whole lot horrified at the same time. <br /><br />I was telling him what I have learned, through course in miracles and science of mind, to not judge people, to live in the moment, to surrender, to forgive everyone all the time for everything. <br /><br />He said, you must get some real mean people. You must get some very strange people calling you. <br /><br />Of course, I said but by now I can usually tell by their emails or phone calls and some people I don’t follow up with, or I say I’m too busy (which, truthfully, I am), <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1tvV8mNyth_R72BnYJehdXDJA8rniaWq9bqvU9oyTb6GgKTrO4rWs3m8ciP_Boof75iBDTEUyVYEovJAEm4k28uinvbyxvCzEGiz5glWV2rGjoHb93uZauBVlZYejs9M6D1lWJxm4e6w/s1600-h/jesus-thumps-up1.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1tvV8mNyth_R72BnYJehdXDJA8rniaWq9bqvU9oyTb6GgKTrO4rWs3m8ciP_Boof75iBDTEUyVYEovJAEm4k28uinvbyxvCzEGiz5glWV2rGjoHb93uZauBVlZYejs9M6D1lWJxm4e6w/s200/jesus-thumps-up1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444458245106284786" /></a><br /><br />I have also learned a new perspective from Marianne Williamson – what would Jesus say? “I like him.” And to go with that.. which is to say, without judgment. <br /><br />You know, it actually works. <br /><br />Also I meditate and pray before I go into anyone’s house, I ask to be safe, to know what they really want, to allow me to help them. And for lots of money, <br /><br />He laughed at the last part, which I had quickly added, while true, but also because I could see his eyes start to glaze over when I started talking about taking god with me to my jobs, about seeing the innocent child of god in everyone, and about praying before (also during and after) each and every client. <br /><br />I thought about Marianne, saying, you say all this, but “to your self”<br /><br /><br />I thought about this last night as I was going to bed alone, because when we got back to my place, Luis gave me a hug instead of coming up for “the usual”, and said, “we should get together this week.” <br /><br />A mixed message. <br /><br />I wondered if I’d over stepped the comfort zone with the god and prayer issues. <br /><br />It also might have been the naked jock strap cleaning house thing<br />Or the body shaving and grooming of total strangers. <br /><br />He said he could never do that. Whereas I see this ability (willingness, and lack of judgment) as an asset. <br /><br />Or maybe he was just tired, as he had claimed. <br /><br />But I felt like maybe I had laid out just a little too much of myself for him.<br /><br /><br />So back to not saying “God Bless You” to Brian.<br />I didn’t say it, but I thought it. As I was walking back down his sidewalk to my truck. Way too early on a Sunday morning. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjHA6bE6sUAm8LJQHWspK6oIXY7EGQNov_GNZEkxDb8u5h-zJ33tJiBXBPojjYVS8HZnUwcN7aRI6WiHRIqGr_mll-DEWINsQEkFKEJwc0Ohz1G6mww2YPzJrPB4piwfOkkNaPr5tg1P8/s1600-h/ist2_2946150_judgement.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjHA6bE6sUAm8LJQHWspK6oIXY7EGQNov_GNZEkxDb8u5h-zJ33tJiBXBPojjYVS8HZnUwcN7aRI6WiHRIqGr_mll-DEWINsQEkFKEJwc0Ohz1G6mww2YPzJrPB4piwfOkkNaPr5tg1P8/s200/ist2_2946150_judgement.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444447157250267602" /></a><br /><br />And I thought, he must do this a lot, because he didn’t seem at all awkward about telling me to leave. And he was also thoughtful to give me $40 for my time. It all seemed fairly , while not exactly smooth, or rehearsed, but comfortable for him to turn someone down who is standing on front of him and tell him, you’re just not good enough, please go away. <br /><br />He judged me big time. <br /><br />And I really felt judged. In the truck on my way to breakfast I thought, it’s so funny because just yesterday I had a client who was rapturously excited with me, telling me how amazing I am, how much he loved my hair, and my body, and my touch. (and my dick, duh). <br /><br />And here mere hours later, I am pushed away. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZKh5vk16si4SK7h5koLpC7FhreZG1riYahFgfxhAuwQ0isZd2dK6S_81c9Aor2XMYW8s0-biuhTz6eGOW55eb5LgRzg_s8TonuOrOtygXDUbQHVcSImXe7m4QVkJ547oPL8jGFbjjE8A/s1600-h/The-Smiths-How-Soon-Is-Now-454267.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZKh5vk16si4SK7h5koLpC7FhreZG1riYahFgfxhAuwQ0isZd2dK6S_81c9Aor2XMYW8s0-biuhTz6eGOW55eb5LgRzg_s8TonuOrOtygXDUbQHVcSImXe7m4QVkJ547oPL8jGFbjjE8A/s200/The-Smiths-How-Soon-Is-Now-454267.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444447649085483202" /></a><br /><br />I went home, and looked at myself in the mirror. Am I that hideous? It reminded me of back in college, I would spend hours getting dressed and made up and looked like I just stepped out of Duran Duran, to go out to clubs, and I’d go there and stand there alone (or dance alone), and I’d go home and I’d cry and I’d want to die (apologies to Morrissey for that line, but it sums it up perfectly.) <br /><br />So what do I learn here? I just show up. I am the same person for both guys. All three guys. All guys. All people. <br /><br />Yeah some days I have more time to work out than others, but essentially I was the same person standing naked (physically and/or emotionally) in front of both guys, and getting completely opposite reactions. Therefore it can’t be that I’m doing something wrong. I can accept that, and I don’t need to judge either of them. <br /><br />I did feel like he lost out in this situation, because a) I’m very good at what I do and b) he clearly needs to relax. I am curious as to his thought process when he opened that gate and I was standing there, and in that brief fraction of a second, barely having said three words to each other, he decided it wasn’t going to work out. That brutal snap of instantaneous judgment. It can’t have felt good,. <br /><br />What a shame. <br /><br />I feel like we both lost out. <br /><br />And I do feel judged.. <br /><br />And I think I need to keep my thoughts about god to myself. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEdudmLYMIodw1SynQSn54xSBtXVLYWaL2Esl0umnYrXC5VRRWbhU9UZzkPlyt3cdEYlfblCKnEesNvc5p7d39djUErdlQXxFlmdIGyscaPN9EbCFcTKfwquqLJq1UYVauVvdu_j-3iKI/s1600-h/P2180090a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEdudmLYMIodw1SynQSn54xSBtXVLYWaL2Esl0umnYrXC5VRRWbhU9UZzkPlyt3cdEYlfblCKnEesNvc5p7d39djUErdlQXxFlmdIGyscaPN9EbCFcTKfwquqLJq1UYVauVvdu_j-3iKI/s200/P2180090a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444448221739116290" /></a><br /><br />I am off to the labyrinth to meditate on this. <br /><br />©2010 Rod Reynolds RocketManLA.comRocketManLAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12085856145517949665noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116843644860584099.post-59065982099981125852010-02-25T22:33:00.001-08:002010-02-26T14:47:36.990-08:00Facebook Unfriending and PsychicsYeah, I’ve unfriended a couple facebook "friends". <br /><br />One was this porn star, who I never met and have no idea who he was, and was very young and very cute, but he posted several times an hour to vote for him in some porn contest. I got tired of seeing the endless propaganda, even though he was cute. I eventually wrote to him and said, perhaps you truly are the best bottom of the year, but I would never vote for someone who was obviously so desperate for votes. Then I quietly unfriended him. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeeIrf72_FEQHh-EuHDTeEyNc47Yac8FmbTY5LK2Zzg3FPlAyYvBBWriRotF88YU5PM7e4bkOD5CvPiBhoZ9Muk9PatboAX-Cwf6FQgSEg9HzZRRI54veXWmMP92WRQcojC84I6cMN_p4/s1600-h/Facebook-logo2.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeeIrf72_FEQHh-EuHDTeEyNc47Yac8FmbTY5LK2Zzg3FPlAyYvBBWriRotF88YU5PM7e4bkOD5CvPiBhoZ9Muk9PatboAX-Cwf6FQgSEg9HzZRRI54veXWmMP92WRQcojC84I6cMN_p4/s200/Facebook-logo2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442439941048805538" /></a><br /><br />It’s quite possible he deserved the, uhh, position (I have no idea if he won or not), perhaps it is my polite Canadian upbringing but I believe in the power of attraction rather than pummeling someone over the head with narcissitic self promotion. <br /><br />Which helps to explain why I have been in LA for twenty years and why I am still not famous and my blog readership numbers in the low hundreds as opposed to the virtual thousands (or millions out there, if you happen to be Ashton Kutcher). <br /><br /><br />I’ve been unfriended a couple times. Probably more than a few times, but I don’t keep track, and as far as I know, there’s no way to keep track of how many friends you had yesterday as opposed to how many you have today, and who is missing. I have about 500 friends, and of those, I’ve never met about 480 of them. So they can come and go and I probably would never notice. <br /><br />I noticed when my wife (now ex-wife) unfriended me. It didn’t come as a surprise, really. <br /><br />I have another friend, more of a professional friend as opposed to a 'lets go to the movies' friend, who I’ve known for a few years. She is a psychic and I have visited her several times. I’ve always thought we got along really well and her advice, for the most part, was shockingly and consistently spot on. I even referred several friends (including my Mom) and they all raved about how wonderful and accurate she is. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibCvfLNgCmN7-JNsFOsEeVbOKwL3TTUHrtR1SW-lbazN37RKZt7tW0C-jt46KfSMRHEl24urfvAscef7N2gTnG15zlas769jHhyZbO0v15Ekqxd5F2KKBbZsnfSdDpYZHg9-4aFLfyxRw/s1600-h/psychic_readings_250x251.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 199px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibCvfLNgCmN7-JNsFOsEeVbOKwL3TTUHrtR1SW-lbazN37RKZt7tW0C-jt46KfSMRHEl24urfvAscef7N2gTnG15zlas769jHhyZbO0v15Ekqxd5F2KKBbZsnfSdDpYZHg9-4aFLfyxRw/s200/psychic_readings_250x251.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442439664277151714" /></a><br /><br />Now, I suppose, like any professional, she likes what she does and she’s good at what she does. And part of being in a nurturing profession is to make people feel like they are being nurtured. I have several clients who, at least I hope, no, I know they feel loved and supported. Usually because, well, I am a nice guy first of all. But before I meet anyone, especially before I go into their house, I do a prayer and meditation, to be present, to be safe, to be nurturing, to see this person as the beautiful innocent child of god that they were created as, and thus remain, Despite any apparent evidence that seems to contradict this. <br /><br />I’ve had clients who have become overly familiar, or reliant on me, or wanting more. More than I am willing to give. Sometimes I wish I were a better actor, sometimes I think I am too good of an actor. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjkIECkNDFmvJmj4ZRb0m1ZnBYkTfw5Rl5k5AjtEFYUB-kPOIgcRUh7DlRL_ibYBoDBCgtre3pRO-0fE8_KgOcrIsnfrEVmAaVAR0g2RVgaAygWd5_VXeJ9JSsDzkTQI4wpmY_tJVkeDc/s1600-h/l9813857943_4250.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjkIECkNDFmvJmj4ZRb0m1ZnBYkTfw5Rl5k5AjtEFYUB-kPOIgcRUh7DlRL_ibYBoDBCgtre3pRO-0fE8_KgOcrIsnfrEVmAaVAR0g2RVgaAygWd5_VXeJ9JSsDzkTQI4wpmY_tJVkeDc/s200/l9813857943_4250.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442442114532459810" /></a><br /><br />As Marianne Williamson said last night, every person in front of you is a lesson for you (and for them). Although sometimes the lesson is to know that you need to leave. <br /><br />So this psychic I’ve seen several times. Our sessions are always lengthy and emotionally intimate. Not that I necessarily wanted to go out dancing with her, (although I’m sure she would be fun), but with all the information we shared I suppose it made me feel closer to her than I truly am. <br /><br />I suppose when I am massaging and touching someone over their entire body, that’s pretty intimate. I suppose it’s only natural to feel something. <br /><br />Although, truthfully, I have had clients that I felt something for, and I have had clients that turned out to be more than clients. I mean, I’m not a therapist, there isn’t a really clear legal line that can’t be crossed here. <br /><br /><br />Now, I’m always a little anxious with psychics. I am always trying to develop my own spiritual abilities, and am anxious of people that are well ahead of me on the curve. I wish I understood people better. <br /><br />So I’m always wondering, when in the presence of a true psychic, how much they are getting from me. How much do they really know? Are they getting information that they can use? Are they getting information that they don’t want to tell me? <br /><br /> Are they getting information that tells them under no circumstances befriend this person on facebook. <br /><br /><br />Now, when I joined facebook a few years ago I inadvertently asked everyone in my address book to be my friend. It’s far too easy and they make it seem so innocuous, you hit one button and suddenly you’re out there in the world. Several people wrote to me and said they weren’t on facebook (many of them have since come around).<br /><br />My therapist was in my address book and he wrote to me and said he didn’t want to facebook any of his clients, which is perfectly reasonable. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic7eJAAhH9WHlSyQa-gskeZOVKMPIW33kYgr86wb5p7VZb2D97eLQuOXo_tmRAOQa5WsukMtzGYR252EyeCCKY2k8eMqRFbRsEYlPfF8c6gKNiOfi1us1CIv3IwZP2NlP1Flic0URMooI/s1600-h/benmcculloch_narrowweb__300x338,0.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 178px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic7eJAAhH9WHlSyQa-gskeZOVKMPIW33kYgr86wb5p7VZb2D97eLQuOXo_tmRAOQa5WsukMtzGYR252EyeCCKY2k8eMqRFbRsEYlPfF8c6gKNiOfi1us1CIv3IwZP2NlP1Flic0URMooI/s200/benmcculloch_narrowweb__300x338,0.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442444756247826306" /></a><br /><br /><br />My trainer told me that he had hundreds of friend requests pending but he hadn’t accepted anyone, and to not take it personally. (I’m not quite sure I understand that modus operandi, honestly)<br /><br />But my psychic signed on as my friend. Every now and then I would see a post from her about her vacation, her relatives, her love life. <br /><br />Sometimes I post several times a day, sometimes a week will go by without any facebook news from my homestead in the hills of Silver Lake. I do want to be out there (further than, say my trainer) but I don’t want to be obnoxious (like, say that porn star guy). <br /><br />I do have a somewhat offbeat sense of life sometimes, perhaps my facebook posts are sometimes a little quirky. Perhaps of my 500 virtual facebook pals, 480 of them have clicked on “don’t show me posts from this guy any more” button. And no one is actually reading them. (I know some people do read them because occasionally they respond). <br /><br />So if my psychic friend was offended by my endless posts about Channing Tatum (which, knowing her, if I do know her that is, she most certainly wouldn’t be) or she grew tired of my quirky observations on society and culture, or she took one of my Course in Miracles quotes the wrong way. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOionc9bEKtEN9XuxOE8H2bMWS4rvPPx1AoasA9yfTSMMU45Nc7tLcPFw2CfdhrKiZJ_Gracmn-6uRn9U8WeTXbDiTvyErlJYU0n1uZh3rt4jhKOEVDG2YUFkYjTs32gSWLYidio1mBuw/s1600-h/P2180117c.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOionc9bEKtEN9XuxOE8H2bMWS4rvPPx1AoasA9yfTSMMU45Nc7tLcPFw2CfdhrKiZJ_Gracmn-6uRn9U8WeTXbDiTvyErlJYU0n1uZh3rt4jhKOEVDG2YUFkYjTs32gSWLYidio1mBuw/s200/P2180117c.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442443299180655714" /></a><br /><br />Or she got tired of seeing pictures of my cat, Sebastian. <br /><br />Or MAYBE she knows something about me that I don’t know. Or that I do know but it was too much for her to talk about. Maybe she knows that the ship is about to sink and doesn’t want to get sucked down by the undertow. <br /><br />Maybe she was getting bad karmic energy from being my virtual friend. <br /><br />Maybe she was simply weeding down her list of friends and I didn’t make the cut. Maybe I was in the bubble, on the cusp, and maybe she had a real struggle cutting me loose, but ultimately just bit her lip and hit the delete key. <br /><br />Maybe she decided to be friends with my ex-wife instead of me. Although, considering the conversations we have shared over the years, I seriously doubt that. <br /><br />Honestly, I don’t know what to think. <br /><br />I know, I think too much... <br /><br />Rod Reynolds<br />©2010 RocketManLA.comRocketManLAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12085856145517949665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116843644860584099.post-16884937098784980032010-02-09T00:33:00.000-08:002010-02-09T09:05:13.802-08:00Dear Channing, I mean Dear JohnFriday night, rainy, cold. Very rainy. I had no clients. Lots of work to do, as always, but no clients and didn’t think I’d get any. When it rains in LA the city shuts down. It’s like a snow day in the Midwest. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiHEHcVe7zL5XI36Wer87KTmEKx9dgLCugkqU7eA5Oo1CkE8SVR85iJ6kxpCP_3TigHZ1QMj-OSmpgkCXAAzPqJLv1khsTVuorm-Ei2misMojwbQUP-xNBPR7bsh3qs6ifAmYcfVorSTo/s1600-h/Dear+John+Amanda+Seyfried+Channing+Tatum-572732.jpeg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiHEHcVe7zL5XI36Wer87KTmEKx9dgLCugkqU7eA5Oo1CkE8SVR85iJ6kxpCP_3TigHZ1QMj-OSmpgkCXAAzPqJLv1khsTVuorm-Ei2misMojwbQUP-xNBPR7bsh3qs6ifAmYcfVorSTo/s200/Dear+John+Amanda+Seyfried+Channing+Tatum-572732.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436160719851388850" /></a>I had a pass to see 'Dear John'. I like Amanda Seyfried from the ABBA movie, 'Mamma Mia' and I like her upcoming movie 'Letters to Juliet', which I saw a test screening a few months ago. And it is directed by Lasse Hallström, the director of ABBA the Movie (and several dozen ABBA videos). So I’m interested. <br /><br /><br />But no, Dear John is all about the boy. Channing Tatum. I’d read one review that said the movie was terrible, but that the director knew what he had, and showed Tatum either shirtless or in a t-shirt throughout the movie. <br /><br />I'm in. <br /><br />Oh, I am so cheap. <br /><br />But knowing it is half the battle. Besides, I can quit any time. <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkUEXjAs8F85nBYf-pS_At5nJxTCBAKhOQoSHvmL5wobchB9kkj0IVf7m8HDjqJ6yDUhpxtH8lukVF-hgAGpcI9gaWmTELuafADRvmYcHBqgKlkN4R8bRhly9CnF4B8lE_GGav4gi5B3c/s1600-h/chaningtatum.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkUEXjAs8F85nBYf-pS_At5nJxTCBAKhOQoSHvmL5wobchB9kkj0IVf7m8HDjqJ6yDUhpxtH8lukVF-hgAGpcI9gaWmTELuafADRvmYcHBqgKlkN4R8bRhly9CnF4B8lE_GGav4gi5B3c/s200/chaningtatum.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436159739957502226" /></a><br /><br />So, it’s raining, it’s cold, it’s late Friday night, I get to the theatre in Glendale, and the ticket girl says, Oh, I’m sorry, that showing is sold out. I can get you into the 10:30 show. <br /><br />Sold out? BBb-bbut it’s raining ? !<br /><br />AND it’s a B movie chick flick!<br /><br /><br />I said, there isn’t one seat available? <br /><br />She looked at her screen, and pondered, “yeah, you can likely find one seat, but it will probably be the worst seat in the theatre. <br /><br />I looked at the marquee listing the 16 movies currently playing, I had seen all of the ones I was even remotely interested in, some of them several times over. So I said, ‘OK, give me the ticket and if I can’t find a seat I will come back and get a ticket to the later show.‘<br /><br />So I went in, down the hall and rounded the corner into the theatre. <br /><br />It was PACKED. <br /><br />Packed with girls. <br /><br />And when I say girls, I mean like maybe 16 years old. I don’t know. They all look so young. It’s hard to tell these days because young women dress a lot ‘older’ than they did when I was 16. <br /><br />I found a seat, quite a decent seat, actually, (with a good view because everyone else in the theatre was under 5’ 2”) and settled in, prepared to see a horrible movie with some hopefully great man candy. <br /><br />Which is pretty much exactly what it was. Based on a Nicholas Sparks novel. So that says all you need to know. The two main characters are introduced in the first scene, they are attached to others, but those relationships are faltering. The attraction is instant. They get together against logic. Then they get separated (in this case Tatum is in the army or something and gets shipped off to Afghanistan or somewhere.) So they write letters back and forth until they can get back together. <br /><br />My suspension of disbelief was strained when the screen showed Tatum writing in perfect script, these really intense and longing letters. But I decided to play along. <br /><br />It doesn’t all go smoothly of course. There is lots of drama, lots of tears, lots of kissing, even a couple fist fights. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_PB8WBGDEU-HKa1c5aa-TDklMkjKVQRT5LI724i6YyJvtk2BR7l39cmciQ2IwrzPOapDnXzGXiHrZ-wkK-RMNrny3YVwf8PJc6Os6hEtD1S34ax2ZJjaZkJFL-4nNTVnkUHNwYyuLJUg/s1600-h/dearjohn4.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_PB8WBGDEU-HKa1c5aa-TDklMkjKVQRT5LI724i6YyJvtk2BR7l39cmciQ2IwrzPOapDnXzGXiHrZ-wkK-RMNrny3YVwf8PJc6Os6hEtD1S34ax2ZJjaZkJFL-4nNTVnkUHNwYyuLJUg/s200/dearjohn4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436160713209004434" /></a><br /><br /><br />OK, more importantly, Tatum is indeed shirtless several times in the film. The first time we see him, at the beach (always a good idea), surf board in hand. The girls in the audience screamed. Literally. <br /><br />Seyfried accidentally drops her purse off the dock, and Tatum dives into the ocean, down to the bottom, and rescues her handbag. He comes back up the beach, his perfect body (trim but not overly worked out so still accessible - take a lesson, Taylor Lautner) dripping wet, his shorts sliding down, barely hanging on his perfect hips. <br /><br />OK, to me, already worth the price of admission. <br /><br />And by that I mean the hassle, not the actual dollar amount. <br /><br /><br />Then when Tatum and Seyfried first kiss, the girls in the theatre swooned. Literally. Later, when the camera dollies in in anticipation of their first kiss, the girl beside me had her hands on her face and was squirming in her seat and moaning. I’m not kidding. I was looking at her out of the corner of her eye, not wanting to disturb the subject, as she was often more animated than the actual movie. <br /><br />Not to mention, to me, a sociological profundity. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJlAjn9ijiBZTtemVY0rPsSBCcyqdHA7f9lJf6JtLcX2fvsowDmC5HdDvHG45ohwJ6cKQnAvfOR3G-txNkr78ce3abya7FfEWW8NoZclRKs-IfpTMQ-4D0fqLQd__kneky-y1kWOuN2dg/s1600-h/crbs0571483.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJlAjn9ijiBZTtemVY0rPsSBCcyqdHA7f9lJf6JtLcX2fvsowDmC5HdDvHG45ohwJ6cKQnAvfOR3G-txNkr78ce3abya7FfEWW8NoZclRKs-IfpTMQ-4D0fqLQd__kneky-y1kWOuN2dg/s200/crbs0571483.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436159745201866018" /></a><br /><br />At one point, something bad happens and the lovers are separated. I looked over and she was crying. Later on they break up. She was sobbing, and muttering under her breath. <br /><br />I was watching her, and wondering if she’d seriously ever seen a movie before. Aside from the Twilight series, obviously. <br /><br />I mean, every movie cliché in the book was unfolding on the screen exactly as you would anticipate. But this girl, and seemingly every other girl in the theatre, was on an emotional roller coaster. I’m sure if she were of legal drinking age, there would be cosmopolitans around the table later with her three best friends. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZDVMf_aqYTWuvQfpCISvD12xBB9ao7zEX6iVp39rk-1g8F3T5lVKkhIUFMvpfKnj5MWw4G-2qbR8ony4TCwV1G_j9Eic7hzX6wr0qaOZNwzC5sx4OPzB-sCVpkrNZqboGEdFT_8xBwf4/s1600-h/Picture-149.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 122px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZDVMf_aqYTWuvQfpCISvD12xBB9ao7zEX6iVp39rk-1g8F3T5lVKkhIUFMvpfKnj5MWw4G-2qbR8ony4TCwV1G_j9Eic7hzX6wr0qaOZNwzC5sx4OPzB-sCVpkrNZqboGEdFT_8xBwf4/s200/Picture-149.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436161765304922370" /></a><br /><br />I must admit the movie looked fabulous, and was directed in accordance with romantic drama protocol, and the story unfolded exactly as any Film 101 student could predict from watching the trailer. I admired the director’s restraint with the ending, and not drawing it out. I mean, right from the opening five minutes you can tell how it’s going to pan out. Even from the movie poster itself you can tell how the movie is going to end. So when it finally gets to that point, Hallström wisely felt it needed no explanation, and the ending is one brief, almost teaser scene with no dialogue. Stunning lighting, but not a word. To me, it said all you need to know. <br /><br />But, as the credits started to roll, the girl beside me sat up and said, quite loudly, That’s IT? That’s the end? <br /><br />She actually seemed quite upset. <br /><br />But possibly, in retrospect, not at how the movie ended but that it had to end at all. And unlike the Twilight series, there is no blatantly obvious sequel in the pipeline. Although now that it beat Avatar last weekend at the box office, there may well be a sequel. <br /><br />Because that girl sitting beside me in the theatre on a cold, rainy Friday night in Glendale, and from my viewpoint, most of the similarly aged and similarly gendered viewers quite enjoyed the movie. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVuE1EKZrtoq-zF95CVbKnEHgTh2kL8uicd1dINIy2TQ9zaz04J46tIdcT6w51iJ_8LzAMSz3oMbIhZg2vJhqPHHt0LJfaZFURcK-eP1qS5M_7yqpCv36EicaLyjpPcNdb2LJdj3uBk5w/s1600-h/0452_channing_tatum_0001_thumb.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 95px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVuE1EKZrtoq-zF95CVbKnEHgTh2kL8uicd1dINIy2TQ9zaz04J46tIdcT6w51iJ_8LzAMSz3oMbIhZg2vJhqPHHt0LJfaZFURcK-eP1qS5M_7yqpCv36EicaLyjpPcNdb2LJdj3uBk5w/s200/0452_channing_tatum_0001_thumb.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436159385091877314" /></a><br /><br />As did I, but for entirely different reasons. <br /><br />Rod<br />Los Angeles <br />©2010 RocketManLA.comRocketManLAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12085856145517949665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116843644860584099.post-73765255932853660122010-02-02T12:02:00.000-08:002010-02-02T12:36:37.935-08:00Mel Gibson - older, yes. faded, no.In yesterday’s LA Times (Feb 1, 2010) Ben Fritz <span style="font-style:italic;">ben.fritz@latimes.com</span> writes: <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWAYSq9boXHCVCFByhe2JebWVSOyvo6yB4Szl7tsmFpS6QQUfiQVz5FesEYtAfCBSJ5L4ojbSnruUBCEIQux6_IHS-HXv_fFIWKyV8_62IGywXKztaiAQ80AAHvJgGCtV5RujCw9vXS1A/s1600-h/road_warrior_gibson_shotgun.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 192px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWAYSq9boXHCVCFByhe2JebWVSOyvo6yB4Szl7tsmFpS6QQUfiQVz5FesEYtAfCBSJ5L4ojbSnruUBCEIQux6_IHS-HXv_fFIWKyV8_62IGywXKztaiAQ80AAHvJgGCtV5RujCw9vXS1A/s200/road_warrior_gibson_shotgun.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433740858559193122" /></a><br /><br />"Mel Gibson still has his fans, but after a long and controversial absence from the big screen, his overall appeal seems to have faded. The thriller, 'Edge of Darkness', which marked Mel Gibson’s first lead role since 2002’s 'Signs', opened to a fine but not fantastic $17.1 million." <br /><br />(read his full blog <a href="http://www.latimes.com/business/la-fi-ct-boxoffice1-2010feb01,0,7599908.story" target="_blank">here</a>)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOtPg4PnIUE-rLQMmXtPbuRSrEuCryW7DeiYIrDDZxgLaJu9w3TTixfMiXrc48Nrp_4dJxzSTcAfMrW58TDZ4hWn9E8m1-xK6o8UqRb5RfJiZKRXqvL7qhMZZAiajNV4br3AZ5e6puYag/s1600-h/signs.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOtPg4PnIUE-rLQMmXtPbuRSrEuCryW7DeiYIrDDZxgLaJu9w3TTixfMiXrc48Nrp_4dJxzSTcAfMrW58TDZ4hWn9E8m1-xK6o8UqRb5RfJiZKRXqvL7qhMZZAiajNV4br3AZ5e6puYag/s200/signs.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433741553602878146" /></a><br /><br /><br />I have been a Mel Gibson fan since I first saw ‘Road Warrior’ while attending film school in 1982. I have seen all his movies since; bought them all on VHS, then again on laserdisc, then again on DVD. Some I love: 'Signs' is one of my all-time favorite movies, a film that is so flavored and nuanced I never tire of watching it. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHxXpYXkdkuT7YfyPD4T7kWPm21YSYarBWUaflNCGxjhO-Omojw1Cy7ZDRjrlm-9bamB2wgZkbblS6F1MUHgEWcqiw02FUoN_ALGWb9qx_Nhg7PJIWomrcs1ZK9ZawctuYUdL2NWTK-ME/s1600-h/503333Conspiracy-Theory-Posters.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 136px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHxXpYXkdkuT7YfyPD4T7kWPm21YSYarBWUaflNCGxjhO-Omojw1Cy7ZDRjrlm-9bamB2wgZkbblS6F1MUHgEWcqiw02FUoN_ALGWb9qx_Nhg7PJIWomrcs1ZK9ZawctuYUdL2NWTK-ME/s200/503333Conspiracy-Theory-Posters.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433739723539512322" /></a><br /><br />'Conspiracy Theory' (with Julia Roberts) is consistently cited (by me) as one of the most under-rated performances of his career; he is simply outstanding. ‘What Women Want’ (with Helen Hunt) is a clever romantic comedy that I have watched several times over. Gibson is remarkably funny and consistently charming. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio15SRDK2PakQBweU1Ip70XIU_1UGT4T-gHmszTizA_nE0UTzsHssWsrvO_7toKhScYSENQXfDR1CmaHYblqzmaPc8lG5ATwtHK4CEdvpLltLHpzOz8N_6Ij-sEVYVVH-z-ZyD_LUfZdo/s1600-h/braveheart.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 138px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio15SRDK2PakQBweU1Ip70XIU_1UGT4T-gHmszTizA_nE0UTzsHssWsrvO_7toKhScYSENQXfDR1CmaHYblqzmaPc8lG5ATwtHK4CEdvpLltLHpzOz8N_6Ij-sEVYVVH-z-ZyD_LUfZdo/s200/braveheart.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433740169340259858" /></a><br /><br />Others I don’t care for (I have never been able to make it all the way through 'Braveheart') but I have seen them all, including the ones that he directed but did not appear in. While I did not particularly enjoy the violence in the 'Passion of Christ', I could not help but admire the film on several artistic levels. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRJnnya1gP1vgxlgsn5jp2x3pbc7O2uaAXsb7T75gfdfD6gJ_R_XxYiY9lTt3nITF91RqMMKiZmA-slEXYSMI31VJhAdPq5SnKc3cWwO6ZvnHfGaD5GGjn4DaskQBP_wTCj4ssTGLAGKs/s1600-h/2_4_85_300x400.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRJnnya1gP1vgxlgsn5jp2x3pbc7O2uaAXsb7T75gfdfD6gJ_R_XxYiY9lTt3nITF91RqMMKiZmA-slEXYSMI31VJhAdPq5SnKc3cWwO6ZvnHfGaD5GGjn4DaskQBP_wTCj4ssTGLAGKs/s200/2_4_85_300x400.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433739907244708290" /></a><br /><br />Through the recent public events surrounding his personal life, it seems unlikely that we would be friends (I am in more than one of those groups that he has voiced objections to), but who knows. We've never been in the same room and had a conversation. Although that is a little disappointing, ultimately it doesn’t affect my enjoyment of his movies. <br /><br />In 1985 I had the cover for People Magazine’s 'Sexiest Man Alive' (he was the original) framed and hanging on my wall through several moves and several cities over nearly twenty years (it eventually suffered a fatal accident and had to be thrown out, otherwise I would still have it.)<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPAFmUdnBTMmWxGjjn_FrXfOCd5zqxZSkWmvzw9-f9Nsidh0dGcycRgyZk-PnG3EjElkhTvtVJeK_lSpLfdzXWtOYxYYQLUDDyDkTEOUUOXeJ5d3-Vzclpp8wfgO3iLYSdKL3hN__gPII/s1600-h/chicken_run_ver2.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 140px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPAFmUdnBTMmWxGjjn_FrXfOCd5zqxZSkWmvzw9-f9Nsidh0dGcycRgyZk-PnG3EjElkhTvtVJeK_lSpLfdzXWtOYxYYQLUDDyDkTEOUUOXeJ5d3-Vzclpp8wfgO3iLYSdKL3hN__gPII/s200/chicken_run_ver2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433740181709871602" /></a><br /><br />To me, Mel Gibson has not lost his appeal and I would go see any movie with him in it. And buy the DVD when it comes out. Even when he is merely voicing an animated character (ie ''Chicken Run', which would be a hilarious movie with or without voice over Gibson's contributions). <br /><br />Having seen the trailers for 'Edge of Darkness', I was not the least bit interested in the scenario. I had suffered through 'Taken' starring Liam Neesan (I know it was a big hit, but to me it was unbearably mean) and 'Law Abiding Citizen' starring Gerard Butler (the less said about that the better, in my opinion, except for the cool plot twist and one memorable scene near the end) and was in no mood for a knock off violent revenge movie. But I paid my $12 (plus $14 for snacks at the concession) and hit the theatre on opening night. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmFYPecYOJI3yiFBmRv1wwOLrj5sq6Ql8oDqlRdsd6fsa8P1ZgfQXTM2WGQ8y96MIgG56k0rfzTbFnZc5wamUqA4PISqsDeOgNGCyTDk6MVyqDWmcYdeMqrR2TDW_fzM2c8Tb-Iw-JB8w/s1600-h/edge-of-darkness-mel-gibson-poster.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 135px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmFYPecYOJI3yiFBmRv1wwOLrj5sq6Ql8oDqlRdsd6fsa8P1ZgfQXTM2WGQ8y96MIgG56k0rfzTbFnZc5wamUqA4PISqsDeOgNGCyTDk6MVyqDWmcYdeMqrR2TDW_fzM2c8Tb-Iw-JB8w/s200/edge-of-darkness-mel-gibson-poster.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433740182314619298" /></a><br /><br />Truthfully, I did not enjoy the movie and could not wait for it to be over. To be fair, it was not as emotionally painful as I had imagined, but I must say the movie did nothing to enrich the fabric of my life. A point worth mentioning is that I went by myself; none of my friends would go see this movie with me. Neither because nor despite the presence of Mel Gibson, per se, but because of the violent and vengeful nature of the film itself. <br /><br />I realize predicting movies box office takes is a cultural event in Los Angeles, but even I didn’t think it would overtake Avatar last weekend at the box office. But I disagree that Mel Gibson’s acting career is over. Clint Eastwood is still going, and he’s in his 70’s. <br /><br />Rod<br />Los Angeles<br />©2010 RocketManLA.comRocketManLAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12085856145517949665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116843644860584099.post-73085128524548280282010-01-31T22:59:00.000-08:002010-02-01T08:24:58.379-08:00The great bee incident. In my bathroom.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWO3FBtcrurNjbTIOxz76wXeuAjsAQPc9ov0M-cNI94_KklQbQtxtAldQCxiCZrIqZSvQtY8LYG5p1qnESZ-vbv94BN3OHVqsJrZ38qQHUDPChPUv96dOmgbsalsitsIrQNzfd1NZxUog/s1600-h/P1308558a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWO3FBtcrurNjbTIOxz76wXeuAjsAQPc9ov0M-cNI94_KklQbQtxtAldQCxiCZrIqZSvQtY8LYG5p1qnESZ-vbv94BN3OHVqsJrZ38qQHUDPChPUv96dOmgbsalsitsIrQNzfd1NZxUog/s200/P1308558a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433166591848173378" /></a><br /><br /><br />I’ve had bees in my bathroom ceiling for many years. There’s a vent on the outside at the peak of the roof; they ventured in and made a nest in the crawl space over my bathtub. Every now and then you'd see a bee, but at one point, a few years ago, at any one point there could be five or more bees in my bathroom. There is a vent over my bathtub and they would come in there. <br /><br />The bees don’t really bother me, every now and then I’d step on one or pick up a towel that had a bee in it, and I’d get stung. But for the most part we got along. My friend Stephen was not quite as enamored with the little 'circle of life' we had in the bathroom, and when he was visiting one time, he covered the vent with gaffer tape; after that I’d only see an occasional bee, sometimes two, usually buzzing around a warm, bright light bulb. <br /><br />At the same time, my bathroom ceiling has been leaking for several years. In the recent couple weeks' torrential rainstorms, the polite but incessant dripping that would occur during a casual rainstorm, became a small stream running through my bathroom. After years of my begging, my landlord finally acquiesced to repair the roof. <br /><br />On Friday, a contractor came and punched a hole in my bathroom ceiling to assess the situation. He cut a hole just big enough for a person to fit into, and stuck his head up into the crawl space with a flashlight. The first thing he said was, “uh, there’s some kind of nest here.” <br /><br />Well, yes, I know there are critters in my attic. I can hear them scratching and chewing and running around in the middle of the night, my cat Sebastian sits on the bed and stares up at the corner of the bedroom ceiling. But she can’t see anything move. I do see the squirrels climbing up the palm trees and hopping over onto my house, and I know there are rats. <br /><br />But he said, “I think I got all the nest out.<br /><br />“But you have bees.” <br /><br />A LOT of bees. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn1yzdsB4sLGlrpHnb70IOo0Dj3W0ZqPWd4UCxOsr2XF3yaTqPPNll9EyFeziZsnah2MdVKHZ1ScUgieUguN4ok6aDet342BiEf4qOezihjsbKnWmbJYoM5CADvI2YQ-ZWIKY-_b80ido/s1600-h/bees21010.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn1yzdsB4sLGlrpHnb70IOo0Dj3W0ZqPWd4UCxOsr2XF3yaTqPPNll9EyFeziZsnah2MdVKHZ1ScUgieUguN4ok6aDet342BiEf4qOezihjsbKnWmbJYoM5CADvI2YQ-ZWIKY-_b80ido/s200/bees21010.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433167346704403090" /></a><br /><br />So I stuck my head up there and sure ebough, on the roof just above the bathtub, was a huge bees nest. I measured it, and it’s about 24” wide, 18” deep and 16” high, four layers of honeycomb, and innumberable bees crawling and buzzing around. <br /><br />We quickly realized that the roof repair could not take place in the presence of all these bees, just a few feet from the leak repair site. In fact, if the contractor had punched the hole just a couple feet to the left, he would have come up right in the middle of this gigantic bee hive. <br /><br /><br />A few years ago I had called some exterminators about the bees, and they wanted several hundred dollars to take care of the situation, so, aside from not wanting to spend the money, I decided I could live with the bees. But now they had to go. <br /><br />My first call was to my friend with the silverlake chamber of commerce, who referred me to a local bee keeper. He said he could relocate the bees but he would charge around $300. Hmm. I called the city, who said that if the bees were on public property they would remove them, but on private property I'm on my own. Hmm. <br /><br />So I emailed all of my friends, and made posts on facebook and craigslist, in attempts to find a bee oriented person who could adopt the hive and take care of the bees. I got about three dozen responses, and several referrals, all of whom had differing opinions, procedures and rates. In the process, I learned quite a bit about bees. Not the least of which they are an endangered species and it is illegal to kill them. Several people told me it was bad luck to kill them. Killing them was never my intention, but I got lots of encouragement to protect and relocate the hive.<br /><br />I spent the next 24 hours online and on the phone and trying to find the right person for the job. I talked to a couple dozen people, some of whom were helpful, although none could commit to actually showing up to remedy the situation. Finally, as it is, the last person I called, at Brian's Bee Removal, said, with no hesitation, "sure, I can take care of it, I will be there at 8am Saturday morning." <br /><br />So in the morning a young man named Jose showed up, assessed the situation, and, after discussing parameters and fees, the bee relocation process began. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYpTsK5S2Dvpw997xkyr8fOLZAIQMwKFH291nuy0BBmjglBstFb3EFDMkYg3jhmHane6AQaBK9yEs1sRuiiDQe6N6k4mxLshbuodMhaejn_pWgEpQbIMh760tVb3GHfjZFx7ypQISnc4Y/s1600-h/P1308528a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYpTsK5S2Dvpw997xkyr8fOLZAIQMwKFH291nuy0BBmjglBstFb3EFDMkYg3jhmHane6AQaBK9yEs1sRuiiDQe6N6k4mxLshbuodMhaejn_pWgEpQbIMh760tVb3GHfjZFx7ypQISnc4Y/s200/P1308528a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433167974741590386" /></a><br /><br />He put on his white suit and netted hat, and set up his special bee vacuum cleaner. He said normal vacuum cleaners will kill bees. (which is what one of the bee people had told me to do, as a last resort, simply vacuum them up.) His vacuum has two compartments, one I guess to suck the bees in and the second compartment to hold them safely. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMkLXl28sCkwYNuYfMsPf3pLo9Vt4BbWq3pTO__jI_O4-4LZxIl1v8RiPjQ_Nhq9R2EB9e_hHGCZq0_Ub0AQCxoD83wX66_U09N46aM8euqoDGrXwtse78FYkYxeMeKMcx1Y9eh0sCWdY/s1600-h/P1308540a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMkLXl28sCkwYNuYfMsPf3pLo9Vt4BbWq3pTO__jI_O4-4LZxIl1v8RiPjQ_Nhq9R2EB9e_hHGCZq0_Ub0AQCxoD83wX66_U09N46aM8euqoDGrXwtse78FYkYxeMeKMcx1Y9eh0sCWdY/s200/P1308540a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433167793163898642" /></a><br /><br />He cut a larger hole in my bathroom ceiling, closer to the nest. It was a good thing he had his suit on because from the first cut into the cieling there was instantly a huge swarm of bees all around him. (I was also quite glad I hadn’t decided to “simply vacuum up the bees".) <br /><br />You can't see the bees in the small picture, but if you click on the picture it will get bigger and you can see all the bees swarming on him and in the air. <br /><br />I was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, watching and taking pictures, about 6 feet away. Only a couple bees even came over to me. Out of the hundreds of bees that were flying around in my bathroom, only a couple ventured more than a few feet away. A couple landed on me and one stung me as I brushed her off. Otherwise, the swarm mentality was quite remarkable. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo45tw2FoxIKxxsxL6FkppWkHDHujPCihpm87AMtztRTt96hcDfRYVTakN4jjv0EwDzWYiX1Zwiqj80FdaOjG6FC_4jZWa5KCxoLrYq9F-WNZQuvhRzL8dW46GLKqtN_r2HACsge2e1Zc/s1600-h/P1308539a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo45tw2FoxIKxxsxL6FkppWkHDHujPCihpm87AMtztRTt96hcDfRYVTakN4jjv0EwDzWYiX1Zwiqj80FdaOjG6FC_4jZWa5KCxoLrYq9F-WNZQuvhRzL8dW46GLKqtN_r2HACsge2e1Zc/s200/P1308539a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433173454004914098" /></a><br /><br />So Jose methodically cut sections of my ceiling apart and started vacuuming the bees. <br /><br />Every now and then he would remove a huge chunk of honeycomb from the attic, vacuum the bees off, and drop it onto the counter. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkk6TMdbT4ISyAS6eKs6GtQ5x-6VOjlDNpvVH2gRq0vVls2hN-llD4qc2Ybe9VR8pOzJIbQ8I6dXjxRW4yUNY4MQomJH94Nr4FJoeS22IkX9EulJHNCaJcE7KcdhI33h940oOi0w88844/s1600-h/P1308550a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkk6TMdbT4ISyAS6eKs6GtQ5x-6VOjlDNpvVH2gRq0vVls2hN-llD4qc2Ybe9VR8pOzJIbQ8I6dXjxRW4yUNY4MQomJH94Nr4FJoeS22IkX9EulJHNCaJcE7KcdhI33h940oOi0w88844/s200/P1308550a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433168752598243426" /></a><p><br /><br />Meanwhile, there were bees crawling all over him and around the light and the entire bathroom was a flurry of buzzing wings. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF1BrNhRzNH0Mg2bCSdxmZUf1G-vnHzkr6FPMC2pvnWAZWjTJ1TvLI18QY-ibQWhcEqoEY4cvPmkKZ5CJLHrmpgJQGA6piy80bTKqzgQXi36K_Ow7EBBAbwQ1Y1GnVxB29hPWa_SH5tF0/s1600-h/P1308541a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF1BrNhRzNH0Mg2bCSdxmZUf1G-vnHzkr6FPMC2pvnWAZWjTJ1TvLI18QY-ibQWhcEqoEY4cvPmkKZ5CJLHrmpgJQGA6piy80bTKqzgQXi36K_Ow7EBBAbwQ1Y1GnVxB29hPWa_SH5tF0/s200/P1308541a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433168942053784354" /></a><br /><br />After about an hour of cutting and vacuuming, the bees were, miraculously, for the most part contained. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy__ZEdZz1MUushO6riAbXgZrZdGQsVbNhFAT1D0o9Kf9LIEDpVsTUrrtbRFk225vRgxmvx3L2xW8T9x3k4F2-2z6iAd-D5-nEwYFEK3Bpgte1Ly0LVhouehcoCtbnmuY_41ciH6lS_eQ/s1600-h/P1308553a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy__ZEdZz1MUushO6riAbXgZrZdGQsVbNhFAT1D0o9Kf9LIEDpVsTUrrtbRFk225vRgxmvx3L2xW8T9x3k4F2-2z6iAd-D5-nEwYFEK3Bpgte1Ly0LVhouehcoCtbnmuY_41ciH6lS_eQ/s200/P1308553a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433169481216148098" /></a><br /><br /><br />The honeycomb went into a big clear trash bag. There were only a few stray bees buzzing around, most of which got vacuumed up. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCS668511oudsudbpWSJmZYTElliAkOHVFS6aGujgVF8KCtLRx5z8R0c7sv3x6g3BrVK412_9NA8ZEKxpYeyHp9Jy0D2G4EpJ0U0txapH2K2gF5DLIt5-FIjG67Dz6HIasmq-VlrmoIM0/s1600-h/P1308552a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCS668511oudsudbpWSJmZYTElliAkOHVFS6aGujgVF8KCtLRx5z8R0c7sv3x6g3BrVK412_9NA8ZEKxpYeyHp9Jy0D2G4EpJ0U0txapH2K2gF5DLIt5-FIjG67Dz6HIasmq-VlrmoIM0/s200/P1308552a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433169189803254914" /></a><br /><br />The bag of honeycomb weighed twenty pounds (yes, I weighed it). Everything was sticky, I guess with honey or nectar. I wondered if the squirrels would be attracted to the sweetness; Jason said “squirrels, no, dogs and cats, no, because they realize that the smell is associated with the bees. Rats, however will love the honey. He also noted that he had seen a rat in the attic. <br /><br />*sigh*<br /><br />Well, next time we’ll take care of the rats. The contractor is going to seal up the vents, so the bees, rats and squirrels will hopefully stay out. <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhctSuDqCDne_tmT_quuYrGDq1xci7M2nBu0ihLIEKZxt1RwlS9Yj8qYmE8ZgNGAC-lgOq5doAyPNNJIqD3jCQZM-SQXyLh4M1pvqfqTuwM8iqep2RHvxvCrnJC_i9MVumJ8B8LVxRRi_M/s1600-h/P1308570a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhctSuDqCDne_tmT_quuYrGDq1xci7M2nBu0ihLIEKZxt1RwlS9Yj8qYmE8ZgNGAC-lgOq5doAyPNNJIqD3jCQZM-SQXyLh4M1pvqfqTuwM8iqep2RHvxvCrnJC_i9MVumJ8B8LVxRRi_M/s200/P1308570a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433169739446702946" /></a><br /><br />Jose said the bees wouldn’t come back. The worker bees that are right now out in the field gathering honey will come home and be very confused, many of them will die, some of them will find a new home. They would not rebuild the hive without a queen. He said because he (hopefully) captured the queen, the hive will stay together and be relocated. He said that since it’s the middle of winter, the bee count is fairly low right now, he estimated 2-300 bees. He said in the summer there would be several thousand., and a hive that size, could have as many as ten thousand bees. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglWlHm2VXGH5T75C0autDpBoAm7ZngO1-xM-IxVDhzW4aAxE6h7e3NT_GBmeusK6TrCgXiGWjwiHZnCnHztF3xyeL4OIthz8CQWZUW8MemEk0JXF_YYzGZxBSDGztDkLCOv1P6iFebdwc/s1600-h/P1308568a.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglWlHm2VXGH5T75C0autDpBoAm7ZngO1-xM-IxVDhzW4aAxE6h7e3NT_GBmeusK6TrCgXiGWjwiHZnCnHztF3xyeL4OIthz8CQWZUW8MemEk0JXF_YYzGZxBSDGztDkLCOv1P6iFebdwc/s200/P1308568a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433169858321529858" /></a><br /><br />But for me, the story of the bees is ended. The bees are on their way "to an orchard", according to Jose. (I hope that isn't a euphemism). <br /><br />Next week they will hopefully repair the leak in my bathroom ceiling, and screen over the vents in my attic, and all will be quiet, at least on the upper level. <br /><br />I still have raccoons and possums that sneak in the downstairs back door to eat the cat food in the kitchen. And rats and squirrels in the attic. But what can you do. It's a "circle of life" thing. <br /><br />Rod <br />Los Angeles<br />©2010 RocketManLA.ComRocketManLAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12085856145517949665noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116843644860584099.post-9430656986940248232010-01-26T13:17:00.000-08:002010-01-26T13:34:22.048-08:00my thoughts on Avatar, best picture? no way.Avatar is imminently poised to surpass Titanic as the highest grossing movie of all time. Yet not the most seen (due to inflation and premium ticket prices for 3D movies).<br /><br />Even though the trailers were not captivating, to me at least, I went to see it opening weekend. The hype machine was in overdrive. But more than that, the curiosity factor engaged me. Perhaps (only perhaps?) I am a sucker for the “latest thing.” I am a Gemini after all. We love the shiny and the new and the just released. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvqkq8rd-_G_Zf3xVu41ewU3dZdRI12eoj7ss23u829m2UkCzfV2Q58LldABSjQuamur5WFlDhNMYWOVMlsxoYPrz9owhcRELjvv-iJPmJaHuxtSq_aQxBa2G63n5d6k07XJBzBb7y6SM/s1600-h/avatar-movie-poster.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvqkq8rd-_G_Zf3xVu41ewU3dZdRI12eoj7ss23u829m2UkCzfV2Q58LldABSjQuamur5WFlDhNMYWOVMlsxoYPrz9owhcRELjvv-iJPmJaHuxtSq_aQxBa2G63n5d6k07XJBzBb7y6SM/s200/avatar-movie-poster.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431161486639287362" /></a>Because I had no idea what to expect, I went in with low expectations and an open mind; subsequently, I wasn’t really disappointed. But I certainly wasn’t blown away. Sure, the visuals are state of the art. But what you’re watching is basically an animated movie. The characters are animated. The scenery is animated. Everything you are seeing on the screen has been either digitally created or digitally enhanced, or both.<br /><br />Now, I’m a huge fan of animated movies. Pixar is incredible, I have seen all their movies and have them all on DVD. I have watched ‘A Bug’s Life’ over and over and it still makes me laugh out loud. ‘Up’ is solidly entrenched in my Top Five favorite movies of 2009, I’ve seen it several times (in 3D and 2D). ‘Monsters Inc’ is hilarious and touching. ‘The Incredibles’ is, well, incredible. <br /><br />‘Avatar’ doesn’t have the complexity of story that any of these Pixar movie has. The subtleties that the ants in ‘A Bug’s Life’ have, both in character and in animation, is not represented in ‘Avatar’ by the blue Na-Vi creatures. The bugs are more human than the Na-Vi, characters based on humans! <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Um00gDbPFVH_CwAEPKoHs320UP_JgchY3rScTxD4-4qVBigBWuvzj3ulK9Hzd-gGHoNQ1w5NWNANLyxL7d5CUNVFZtuJpSshz1lxZ9j4X10ZFRN3RThzRj4nn2ZGpNHc7VDbWL5SRdk/s1600-h/BugsLifePoster.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 135px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Um00gDbPFVH_CwAEPKoHs320UP_JgchY3rScTxD4-4qVBigBWuvzj3ulK9Hzd-gGHoNQ1w5NWNANLyxL7d5CUNVFZtuJpSshz1lxZ9j4X10ZFRN3RThzRj4nn2ZGpNHc7VDbWL5SRdk/s200/BugsLifePoster.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431162382135861170" /></a><br /><br />The technology that created the characters and the backgrounds of Avatar is unquestionably innovative, groundbreaking, and even remarkable; it certainly surpasses the ‘vacant eye’ look of motion capture films like ‘Polar Express’ (which I loved despite this) or ‘Beowolf’ (which I didn’t). <br /><br />The story is a standard ecology fable (corporate greed vs clearly more evolved nature), the dialogue is stilted and clumsy, the acting is certainly less than subtle. (My computer auto filled “bored” back there and for a moment I pondered leaving it in. ) <br /><br />I went to see Avatar a second time because I wanted to understand it a little better, and I wanted to see what I missed the first time (there is a lot happening on the screen). I am a film student and I do like to deconstruct what is happening on the screen. The second time was almost unbearably boring. The second viewing lent nothing beyond the original screening, which is highly unusual for me. <br /><br />I had to contend with watching the eye catching visuals (the ‘light up’ vegetation, the floating mountains, etc.) The lizards and dinosaurs and seemed real enough, but at the same time they were clearly totally fake. I totally believed the dinosaurs in ‘Jurassic Park’, I didn’t believe the ‘horses’ the Na-Vi rode were real for one second. <br /><br />Now it appears that ‘Avatar’ is throwing the Oscar race. (read today’s LA Times column by Patrick Goldstein <a href="http://tinyurl.com/ycaho2v" target="_blank">here</a>) and will likely win the coveted Best Picture award. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpnLiaCiiVTCpGKtaRN-HlTYk4VjFCsBBuurNDWJ0TiJ2QymhOCSMLdr9Gfp1yuwstDW3nfoclOTOc6jLgspLrxbeXhoOsQZK4jiGcVdpWLR4qkyuJl82Tn-C6qsCBXEwMDvW1zSHLVt8/s1600-h/up_pixar-poster.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 137px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpnLiaCiiVTCpGKtaRN-HlTYk4VjFCsBBuurNDWJ0TiJ2QymhOCSMLdr9Gfp1yuwstDW3nfoclOTOc6jLgspLrxbeXhoOsQZK4jiGcVdpWLR4qkyuJl82Tn-C6qsCBXEwMDvW1zSHLVt8/s200/up_pixar-poster.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431161580661491618" /></a><br /><br />Is ‘Avatar’ a better movie than ‘Up’? Not by a long shot. ‘Up’ is a breathtaking movie that works on several emotional as well as creative levels, and its astoundingly sophisticated level of animation alone is worth the price of admission (for me, in this case, five times in the theatre alone). <br /><br />‘Avatar’ is, yes, I will dare to say it (am I the first to admit it?)… boring. It’s shallow, it’s simplistic storyline couldn’t keep my attention even on a second viewing, whereas I have sat through ‘500 Days of Summer’ and ‘A Single Man’ several times each this year and been amused, intrigued, saddened and touched each time. <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjamBaGRoN4sWlKVFHYt7hmjszDBuwt3QSodjFES5omT_fBqweY6nOUI1NBmhMbHKbHAcZI20BdXFZMdOoX97PqPSD0Zta9RmgIgTxdU976TDvKBPEO-o0b7oiwxlPeZU3DabBDclq-mXc/s1600-h/500DaysPoster.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 130px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjamBaGRoN4sWlKVFHYt7hmjszDBuwt3QSodjFES5omT_fBqweY6nOUI1NBmhMbHKbHAcZI20BdXFZMdOoX97PqPSD0Zta9RmgIgTxdU976TDvKBPEO-o0b7oiwxlPeZU3DabBDclq-mXc/s200/500DaysPoster.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431161376167119586" /></a><br />But ‘Avatar’ has become a cultural phenomenon, and will surely sweep the Oscars race, just as ‘Titanic’ did more than a decade ago, for better or worse. But while ‘Titanic’ is still inherently watchable today, in twelve years time, will ‘Avatar’ play as well in 2020? It will surely seem incredibly dated and sophomoric. And, probably, and especially because the technology will have advanced still further, thus eliminating the ‘dazzle’ factor, still boring.<br /><br />Should you see it? By all means. (and most definitely pay the extra couple dollars to see it in 3D). <br /><br />But best picture of the year? Not by my vote.RocketManLAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12085856145517949665noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116843644860584099.post-74536504965772784422010-01-14T22:47:00.000-08:002010-01-16T23:10:23.315-08:00My coming out song (July, 1980)My closest door crashed open one July night in 1980, when my manager from work took me to a gay bar where his boyfriend was the DJ. I eventually started DJ-ing there myself. And I'm still a DJ all these years later.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHuBp_FGAGv072jJyh1qKmDpHED-aCQGIzPFvJTAxx3GJjeBEqoHfjharCrNjeokEzZhwacCbyoQw4sFXSGE2tCUMHopf2bsBEuH7lx9auuUcQcDgafCD4WFF0iMpMbkwwJ-9vaYB6-64/s1600-h/23w8jn5.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 196px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHuBp_FGAGv072jJyh1qKmDpHED-aCQGIzPFvJTAxx3GJjeBEqoHfjharCrNjeokEzZhwacCbyoQw4sFXSGE2tCUMHopf2bsBEuH7lx9auuUcQcDgafCD4WFF0iMpMbkwwJ-9vaYB6-64/s200/23w8jn5.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426857186836828050" /></a>I grew up on a farm in northern Alberta, Canada; talk about lonely and hostile territory for a sensitive artistic blonde gay boy in training. My solace was the Columbia House Record Club, where every month I could order new records that would come in the mail, and I would listen to Fleetwood Mac, the Carpenters, Heart and Supertramp on the headphones for hours and hours, holding the sleeves in my hand, reading the credits, looking at the pictures. <br /><br />When I turned 16 I could drive, my Dad bought me a 1966 powder blue Ford Fairlaine; it was embarrasing because it was kind of dorky and almost as old as me, but I installed a cassette sound system that was surely worth more than the car itself, and I started going to an academic high school in the big city of Edmonton, and I got a part time job at my favorite record store. It was called Mister Sound at that time, now it is (or was?) called HMV. Eventually, due to my complete lack of interest in school, school became part time and the record store job that I loved became full time.<br /><br />One night after work, I had just graduated from high school, and just turned 18, and it was the long weekend around the first of July. My manager from the record store took me downtown to this gay bar called The Roost. I had never seen such a thing. Being a small town, everyone was there. I mean drag queens, leather men, jocks, farmers. All in the same room. All dancing to the same music. With each other. It was like stepping into a new, spectacular and colorful world.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxuRJP-n050AoT2bamc3Ol5aUSUp_2qFVnXWQfQRlZJtCMDwhle6EEwn2YgG4kqAEAHdOPF1YEw-wduxmZ0AyVgkj721XJjsY010EQfujBmSp9RZab4HRpebAa-5jtxNc-XUb3CGm34BU/s1600-h/patrick_hernandez.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 190px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxuRJP-n050AoT2bamc3Ol5aUSUp_2qFVnXWQfQRlZJtCMDwhle6EEwn2YgG4kqAEAHdOPF1YEw-wduxmZ0AyVgkj721XJjsY010EQfujBmSp9RZab4HRpebAa-5jtxNc-XUb3CGm34BU/s200/patrick_hernandez.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426856536159208450" /></a><br />And the sound! I had grown up in the disco era, I had all the records by Donna Summer, Chic, Patrick Hernandez, Santa Esmeralda, Boney M, KC & the Sunshine Band, Sister Sledge, the Bee Gees, ABBA of course. But I had never heard music this amazing, and this LOUD, on what was reputedly a $10,000 sound system. All sorts of new music, like Tantra, Boystown Gang, Sharon Redd, Grace Jones, Sylvester. I adored electro disco like Patrick Cowley, Bobby O, Cerrone, the Flirts.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio5WqCJVhRrXOK7qNMlmdqRfb-IeFzZ9ytmUoAUv3muhqe8olovcc0GLWdw8Irgth_onopcKn0EnaMNzVE59YLdfNIOXlHalFhaeQMMkBwpN0OeA85x9fy1mEhRDP-NmJCjoQbifHPWu4/s1600-h/Duran1st.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio5WqCJVhRrXOK7qNMlmdqRfb-IeFzZ9ytmUoAUv3muhqe8olovcc0GLWdw8Irgth_onopcKn0EnaMNzVE59YLdfNIOXlHalFhaeQMMkBwpN0OeA85x9fy1mEhRDP-NmJCjoQbifHPWu4/s200/Duran1st.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426855083368827042" /></a><br />This was also the place I first heard Duran Duran, the song was "Planet Earth", they had a 12" single import from the UK. Duran Duran would come to be one of my all time favorite bands. To this day whenever I hear the 12" Night Version of 'Planet Earth' I am back in that night club. <div><br /></div><div><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj460PZwDsBdUAAoFKzqrDkiGZJ35l4AhllRlkQT5Kx8J_Nl_XvqWkyFaOO6k5cJUL_k4KR0X94SgovxJhga6AeKs8OdnY8WUNMwd3QB9p1_VIWPBRjKrUXz3jabUscV0AQu9GavVGehuw/s1600-h/1-web.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 198px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj460PZwDsBdUAAoFKzqrDkiGZJ35l4AhllRlkQT5Kx8J_Nl_XvqWkyFaOO6k5cJUL_k4KR0X94SgovxJhga6AeKs8OdnY8WUNMwd3QB9p1_VIWPBRjKrUXz3jabUscV0AQu9GavVGehuw/s200/1-web.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426854802984615074" /></a><br />But the song that I identify most with from that very specific time and place, is "Feels Like I'm In Love" by Kelly Marie. She sings, "My head is in a spin, my feet don't touch the ground," which describes exactly how I felt. God, I loved that song. And still do, now nearly thirty years later!</div><div><br /><br />When I was still in school there was a very rogue band from Toronto called Rough Trade. The lead singer was a woman named Carole Pope, their music was so out there, so sexual, so provocative. Rumour around school was that Carole was a transexual. It later turned out that she was simply a lesbian (and was Dusty Springfield's girlfriend at the time), but either way, for us high school kids in 1980 it was a VERY big deal.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOD8fq-o_sOUpWpzJhqs2e8K37-Ex7ggZ51N3f35SzHXCNvIvmq7Gr6RhiHjaTjOyvwRCUyc-crcA8IE7i0uY7syg6jqyHWbYB5jZLgmMu7cTjEQDjpsb2YA86FEh0WVK4LEpaVAdp4YY/s1600-h/51DL-wExn7L._AA240_.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOD8fq-o_sOUpWpzJhqs2e8K37-Ex7ggZ51N3f35SzHXCNvIvmq7Gr6RhiHjaTjOyvwRCUyc-crcA8IE7i0uY7syg6jqyHWbYB5jZLgmMu7cTjEQDjpsb2YA86FEh0WVK4LEpaVAdp4YY/s200/51DL-wExn7L._AA240_.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426855755125026866" /></a><br />Their hit single at the time was "High School Confidential" and it was very vivid, and very sexual. Carole sang about a high school vamp, teasing all the boys, and there is a line in the song where she says, "she makes me cream my jeans when she comes my way." That was VERY titillating for us, and the radio version bleeped out the word "creamed" LOL.<br /><br />The first drag show I saw, there was this guy who did that song and it blew my mind. He (she) was so amazing, so perfect, so sexual, so ambiguous! This was a couple years before Annie Lennox hit big. When I finally saw Rough Trade perform the song a couple years later it was actually disappointing! The drag queen was better than the real thing! But I bought all Rough Trade's albums and Carole Pope's solo albums and still love them. I wish there were more of them. <br /><br />I still remember the first guy I went home with, that fateful evening, but how could I not! His name was Robbie, he had beautiful eyes, dark hair and stubble, and a hairy chest (and a huge dick) and he was the most gorgeous thing I had ever seen. The next day all my friends from school were calling me on the phone to get the scoop. Yep, I'm gay! (no cover of Time magazine for me, though).<br /><br />Rod<br />Los Angeles<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>RocketManLAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12085856145517949665noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116843644860584099.post-86129279077865021212009-12-09T23:21:00.000-08:002009-12-10T12:39:16.569-08:00Crazy Heart screening with Jeff Bridges<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQm5Xd_1b2LHGj3a47hxtBLmmtNOn03wxgUxhXiJgQt11iKzJcSgrD-fyLy-CfYiS8cx17klFwbedonnI_yiACkBll4zHxG3whJE-CxKFLT5q1lTEDiXz2xlfuHGgkF0cCcbfi5Vjqfps/s1600-h/crazy_heart_movie_poster_jeff_bridges_01.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQm5Xd_1b2LHGj3a47hxtBLmmtNOn03wxgUxhXiJgQt11iKzJcSgrD-fyLy-CfYiS8cx17klFwbedonnI_yiACkBll4zHxG3whJE-CxKFLT5q1lTEDiXz2xlfuHGgkF0cCcbfi5Vjqfps/s200/crazy_heart_movie_poster_jeff_bridges_01.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413507484522513074" /></a><br /><br />I went to a screening of 'Crazy Heart' tonight in Hollywood, followed by a Q&A with Jeff Bridges; it was GREAT. Jeff Bridges was amazing in the movie. VERY similar to the Wrestler, in story and performance and type of movie. Except this one is about an alcoholic faded country singer, modeled after Merle Haggard (according to the director) but looking astonishingly like Kris Kristofferson and/or Waylon Jennings. Jeff Bridges does his own singing. He should definitely be nominated, his performance is utterly devastating. Maggie Gyllenhaal was also at the Q&A, as well as the director and writer. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh3GoOX_yqHS6xMEc08pb3EdT4zZbjnfvMoyL_cqi0rdvtXDxjRBKEEOHFJrrvO_Wtr3p69qIusqE_z1Cwqca5aulQ1-kGUu_BUxi3Y-RQDmNhxbWqBMsaI65U45TKkn6cz7b7sntOP0Y/s1600-h/aulfisherking72.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 197px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh3GoOX_yqHS6xMEc08pb3EdT4zZbjnfvMoyL_cqi0rdvtXDxjRBKEEOHFJrrvO_Wtr3p69qIusqE_z1Cwqca5aulQ1-kGUu_BUxi3Y-RQDmNhxbWqBMsaI65U45TKkn6cz7b7sntOP0Y/s200/aulfisherking72.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413507327720380818" /></a><br />Jeff signed my Fisher King laserdisc (previously signed by Robin Williams and Terry Gilliam). Click on the small picture to see a larger version, note: Terry signed on Jeff's face. Robin signed in the middle. Jeff looked at it and, after consideration, signed on Robin. <br /><br />The movie has a 92% rating on Rotten Tomatoes. <br /><br /><br />A bit of a cluster this weekend at the box office for me<br /><br />The Princess and the Frog, a must see<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCa3wwILkNimNccT0Msz941xewDDYr608tMO-cyWLqkJqjtEKMMJemyGMag3RIEiLwUfTlxTPHYrbZeQTcdc9oq78sAM-rlDhYtYTEPdYlelKLRfDS8EUcZkIvBJ_YNM92FTdu2y1MYoY/s1600-h/a-single-man-still-colin-firth-julianne-moore.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 123px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCa3wwILkNimNccT0Msz941xewDDYr608tMO-cyWLqkJqjtEKMMJemyGMag3RIEiLwUfTlxTPHYrbZeQTcdc9oq78sAM-rlDhYtYTEPdYlelKLRfDS8EUcZkIvBJ_YNM92FTdu2y1MYoY/s200/a-single-man-still-colin-firth-julianne-moore.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413508936068481410" /></a><br />A Single Man, I attended a screening a couple weeks ago, Q&A with director Tom Ford, I can't wait to see it again. The oscar race for me is between Colin Firth, Jeff Bridges and Joseph Gordon-Levitt (from 500 Days of Summer). <br /><br />The Lovely Bones, which I'm only 2/3 of the way through the book so must finish before I see the movie. The movie can't possibly be as engaging as the book (are they ever?) <br /><br /><br />They are screening the new movie 'Uncertainty' on Friday and Saturday at 7:30 at the Fairfax theatre. Joseph Gordon-Levitt is doing a Q&A after. I want to try and get his autograph on my 500 Days of Summer poster (my favorite movie of the year) but I'm also interested in the new movie. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrTTcdxrX_BZ3LKibA49aw8j31iWSK2O-AcgOtF5K6079xzD5KH0AzzUCpxbR9B8QOgdEgGgMwUHVxFWOEhcgl34XNbTKEqDJ2Uf-RPKuOdn_0g6VIQ7BPjye5wmPgp417ikXRT2kjjRo/s1600-h/uncertainty.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 136px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrTTcdxrX_BZ3LKibA49aw8j31iWSK2O-AcgOtF5K6079xzD5KH0AzzUCpxbR9B8QOgdEgGgMwUHVxFWOEhcgl34XNbTKEqDJ2Uf-RPKuOdn_0g6VIQ7BPjye5wmPgp417ikXRT2kjjRo/s200/uncertainty.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413709798567417986" /></a><br /><br /><br />Anything else? <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Rod Reynolds<br />Los Angeles CA USA<br /><br />http://rocketmanla.com<br />http://www.myspace.com/rocketmanla<br />http://www.facebook.com/rocketmanla<br />http://rocketmanla.blogspot.com/RocketManLAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12085856145517949665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116843644860584099.post-44942376112180509392009-12-03T00:50:00.000-08:002009-12-03T12:26:26.281-08:00These are a few of my favorite Christmas records...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5kJuigtVvqsWoZF8pniRp1n8mHejZBO1DW9gUVDp8eSi8r72Fz9b9piGFF6GVb9Rw4JztGa3HDI94NjV75e1xgtkJieComx3a2MGw3lyk_Cka36Y1sT87dQp2u8Toy0auzLW0HKOmlzE/s1600-h/wintersong.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5kJuigtVvqsWoZF8pniRp1n8mHejZBO1DW9gUVDp8eSi8r72Fz9b9piGFF6GVb9Rw4JztGa3HDI94NjV75e1xgtkJieComx3a2MGw3lyk_Cka36Y1sT87dQp2u8Toy0auzLW0HKOmlzE/s200/wintersong.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410930789309381714" /></a><br />My favorite Christmas music. Guilty pleasures? They are all sort of guilty pleasures. But it's Christmas. Time to enjoy life!<br /><br />Sarah McLachlan - Wintersong. There are 5 tracks on here that I can play on repeat literally all day. Her version of Joni Mitchell's "River" is the best one I've heard, and there are lots of covers out there. Her version of "Greensleeves" is stunning. Her cover of "Christmastime is Here" from a Charlie Brown Christmas, with Diana Krall on piano makes me melt. I also love her version of Gordon Lightfoot's "Song for a Winter Night." And the Original track, "Wintersong" can make me cry every time. It's just so beautiful, so lonely, so sad. Some of the album she sings in her head voice (as opposed to her throat voice) and I don’t' like that as much. But still. I can listen to this cd all day, and have. <br /><br />My favorite Christmas album is "Baby It's Cold Outside" by Holly Cole. Every song is stunning. Just stunning. But the highlight is "Zat You Santa Claus;" every time I hear it there's a grand musical production happening in my head. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVgl9nuTbBLySuoTJEvGL8wzHlK1FunxzRds6KhxlwjxwU2Ge5fFfnY__HSxb4rJ3oPi7ENu-7nvoMzb_fHP27O8KgIHme354J5u24ZND-lmjjV8YTlhotEEagrdd26oT-1rjP_K3GiKM/s1600-h/holly-cole.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 199px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVgl9nuTbBLySuoTJEvGL8wzHlK1FunxzRds6KhxlwjxwU2Ge5fFfnY__HSxb4rJ3oPi7ENu-7nvoMzb_fHP27O8KgIHme354J5u24ZND-lmjjV8YTlhotEEagrdd26oT-1rjP_K3GiKM/s200/holly-cole.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410930906285177938" /></a><br />Same thing with Lena Horne's "Let It Snow," there's a musical happening every time, with leagues of dancers and a big brass band, and fake snow falling as the camera swirls around her in Times Square. It's from the album "Merry With lena." Great title!<br /><br /><br />My favorite Christmas song is "Little Drummer Boy" by Jars of Clay. F'ing amazing. They took an average song that we've heard a zillion times and turned it into something astounding. There are three versions, the original single version, the Grinch remix, and the new version from their Christmas Songs album from last year. The single version is the best, you can get it on the original 3 track EP. <br /><br />I think my second favorite Christmas song is "Winter Wonderland" by Eurythmics. A great song all around. It's from the original Special Olympics Chirstmas cd. <br /><br />One would think, being such a huge Carpenters fan, that I would salivate over their two Christmas albums, but for the most part they leave me cold. Too much tinsel, not enough Karen, too many instrumentals (especially on the second one which was completed from unfinished bits from the first sessions after Karen died. So she's not on it very much. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl07GzQQoh0D8PFbvQt8KuUuAOzLmQgcLWx2cn6FPad3eidAMrpJA0O5dTNfmGyaZmnyqHPKViiacoChQuY6hyphenhyphenKMRCr_LzU5Y9WFrvBedc9mndB8c-yCjv_uHHbDHfBwM9Lt6-KqMB3w8/s1600-h/Carpenters+-+Christmas+Portrait+-+200.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl07GzQQoh0D8PFbvQt8KuUuAOzLmQgcLWx2cn6FPad3eidAMrpJA0O5dTNfmGyaZmnyqHPKViiacoChQuY6hyphenhyphenKMRCr_LzU5Y9WFrvBedc9mndB8c-yCjv_uHHbDHfBwM9Lt6-KqMB3w8/s200/Carpenters+-+Christmas+Portrait+-+200.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410932001439591250" /></a><br />One great song from these albums is "Merry Christmas Darling". There are two versions, the album version and the re-recorded single version. My favorite, I must admit, is the Amy Grant cover, which is kind of hard to find, but it's out there. It's a hidden bonus track on her Time to Remember cd, but only the version from Target, and it's unmarked. It's also on a cheap compilation called "My Best Christmas" that came out a couple years ago, only available I think at hallmarks, but you can get a copy on amazon. Amy's Christmas album from last year, "The Christmas Collection" is great, but it's a compilation of her previous three Christmas albums with a couple new tracks. Awesome, though. I love her version of "A Grown Up Christmas Wish," and the song "Breath of Heaven," well, takes my breath away. So dramatic. <br /><br /><br />One that truly classifies as a guilty pleasure is the Boney M Christmas Album. The original LP was a huge huge hit in Canada when I was a kid, every Christmas we would sell hundreds of copies in the record stores that I worked in. There are several different permutations of this on cd, nothing that I have seen is definitive, but all of them have the essentials, including "Mary's Boy Child." <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTVHSdXSH3ZgK2dcEqJ6Mjo7byQAC3G4uBBag5aWM0rxMl1CES1EzA64WT46-GHyOsQd2LpWdWdet1r0NfIKD78GQKXNsbSJR7-2ZNWgqD1WufeuhjlQ8T9IxgKptzvDP8nq9pSyl1OIM/s1600-h/DenverMuppets.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTVHSdXSH3ZgK2dcEqJ6Mjo7byQAC3G4uBBag5aWM0rxMl1CES1EzA64WT46-GHyOsQd2LpWdWdet1r0NfIKD78GQKXNsbSJR7-2ZNWgqD1WufeuhjlQ8T9IxgKptzvDP8nq9pSyl1OIM/s200/DenverMuppets.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411105979598975090" /></a>Another guilty pleasure is A Christmas Together by John Denver and the Muppets. Never fails to make me laugh, then cry, then laugh again. How can you not chuckle at Miss Piggy singing "Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat." <br /><br />And the Kenny Rogers Dolly Parton album "Once Upon a Christmas". I love "With Bells On" - how can you not be happy when listening to Dolly Parton. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGk8Qs9bmdxnvewobYk79dAvG2ikZ2_1M6-LrsqcqAnAuJLCD-YpLmALpIpFq9qla-zsPkBtWjeKUsJgDOnyrIgAQQ-_uNqs6QbODioKCOMlSzeEA_ee3eX8v1wPAzniGrfAD58wmSMDw/s1600-h/dolly_large.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 195px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGk8Qs9bmdxnvewobYk79dAvG2ikZ2_1M6-LrsqcqAnAuJLCD-YpLmALpIpFq9qla-zsPkBtWjeKUsJgDOnyrIgAQQ-_uNqs6QbODioKCOMlSzeEA_ee3eX8v1wPAzniGrfAD58wmSMDw/s200/dolly_large.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411104506946120130" /></a><br />I also love the Kristin Chenoweth Christmas album from last year, "A Lovely Way to Spend Christmas," which has a new version of the Carpenters hit, "Sing" but with a Christmas slant. <br /><br />I also love the Judds Christmas album, cleverly entitled, "Christmas with the Judds." The Judds were hugely successful in their time, but now I feel vastly under-rated. <br /><br />Another song that I love is "It Doesn't Often Snow At Christmas" by the Pet Shop Boys. Kind of hard to find, it's on the Starbucks release "Elton John's Christmas," but they have a new Christmas EP coming out in the UK in a week or so. <br /><br />"Do They Know It's Christmas" always makes me a little sad. And a little warm and fuzzy. Simon LeBon howls his lines, makes me cringe every year for the last 25 years. God love him. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIMVqh2d6zpxYgTS_tv03J_hJ1UR6Q1HI0UeOMnDogITsX8Q3dr4Lrkol6UClI8whTKV_E0aiutJpgJ9seuHrXuNCo6HuHX8KeAaBAtiTkJlxRomHm7UUcW4loGsYwSPNc4NNZbExT_Cw/s1600-h/bandaid.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 195px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIMVqh2d6zpxYgTS_tv03J_hJ1UR6Q1HI0UeOMnDogITsX8Q3dr4Lrkol6UClI8whTKV_E0aiutJpgJ9seuHrXuNCo6HuHX8KeAaBAtiTkJlxRomHm7UUcW4loGsYwSPNc4NNZbExT_Cw/s200/bandaid.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411104330595237282" /></a><br />Canadian country singer Paul Brandt does a great version of "What Child is This" on his album "Shall I Play for You."<br /><br />Donny Osmond "Christmas at Home" has some remarkably amazing songs on it, especially "Angels We Have Heard on High." He actually is a good singer. <br /><br />I like Michael Buble's EP "Let It Snow" which also has a 'Grown Up Christmas Wish'. <br /><br />Alan Jackson is my favorite male singer, he has two Christmas albums, one is very traditional, I don't like it much. The other one is a little more interesting, "Let it Be Christmas" but both are very sentimental. <br /><br />As far as classics, Eartha Kitt doing "Santa Baby" pretty much sums it up. <br /><br />I always play "You're a Mean One Mr Grinch" by Thurl Ravenscroft at Christmas parties, it makes people go nuts!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitmWCPAuA_MefiY5vhb48Ax4vb5nLYFOoQJWNOql0KoVZmqdPEP4OAMX6moApIvVoZGkISxbathNLzzhYN1kvZlv-pOQsaGZhYR9F2v0qKpv2lg9oBocvR0sX7DVZYZf6lcAOhyBSSGXE/s1600-h/Charlie+Brown+Christmas.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitmWCPAuA_MefiY5vhb48Ax4vb5nLYFOoQJWNOql0KoVZmqdPEP4OAMX6moApIvVoZGkISxbathNLzzhYN1kvZlv-pOQsaGZhYR9F2v0qKpv2lg9oBocvR0sX7DVZYZf6lcAOhyBSSGXE/s200/Charlie+Brown+Christmas.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410932307690408018" /></a><br />And the soundtrack to my all time favorite Christmas TV show, a Charlie Brown Christmas, music by Vince Guaraldi. I love playing this on the piano, especially "Christmastime is here" Amazing chord progressions. Can't quite play all the notes that he plays, but I can get the gist of it. <br /><br />I have several Christmas music sheet music books, broke them out last weekend when I put up the lights. <br /><br /><br />Rod<br />Los AngelesRocketManLAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12085856145517949665noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2116843644860584099.post-25428948121847256092009-10-30T23:55:00.000-07:002009-11-01T01:36:08.729-07:00Twenty Years Ago Today. Halloween 1989 featuring Stevie Nicks and Kate Bush<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5jNEh5inwxI045ZAax7miarn7rrGdPtWlzA2Q_FUN9qveK9hgZUnGoEQkVfhWxJtsfjVqPvdjmJtDxhggBub8ipeOSQ4gbrTGud1n84HC9E4LpsQnSm88M8OJBy01fzCyG21vnSkQZ6g/s1600-h/jpg_sensual_world.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5jNEh5inwxI045ZAax7miarn7rrGdPtWlzA2Q_FUN9qveK9hgZUnGoEQkVfhWxJtsfjVqPvdjmJtDxhggBub8ipeOSQ4gbrTGud1n84HC9E4LpsQnSm88M8OJBy01fzCyG21vnSkQZ6g/s200/jpg_sensual_world.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398657679824366162" /></a><br /><br /><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima"></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima"></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima">Twenty years ago today. Halloween, 1989. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima">That summer I had given up my life (and home, and job) in Vancouver for a fantasy relationship with someone I thought I loved, someone who said he loved me, someone who happened to live in Los Angeles. I had moved here a few months into the year, to be with Jeff; the Cyndi Lauper song, "I Drove All Night" was current, and I had literally 'drove all night' to get to LA, in my white Honda CRX hatchback. I arrived, and the man I had crossed the border and several states to be with, stood on the sidewalk while I was unloading my car, and said, "I'm not going to change my life at all for you, I think that's sensible." And then he went out to dinner with his friends. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima">I was devastated. Not exactly the reaction I had been hoping for. Not the way the Cyndi Lauper song turns out either. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima">But what could I do. I'd packed up everything and moved to Los Angeles, knowing only one person, who, literally within minutes of my arrival had basically dismissed me. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima">So I stayed, living in his tiny light brown shaded bedroom, sleeping next to him on a twin bed, feeling neither wanted nor desired, or even particularly welcome, let alone appreciated, but having no other place to go. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima">This was before internet. I scoured the LA Times Classified section for any work that I was qualified for, or at least willing to do. It seemed everything was filled before I even got the morning paper. This was before cel phones and blackberries and, of course I didn't have a personal computer, let a lone a laptop. Not like today, when our world grinds to a halt if even one of these pieces goes out. I photo-copied my resume on expensive paper at the local copy shop, and mailed them out to P.O. boxes in 9x12 envelopes. I had to be prudent, because each resume I sent out cost me literally $1. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima">The budget was tight. I was here illegally and living off my unemployment insurance from Canada (which eventually turned into a somewhat uncomfortable situation with the Canadian authorities). So on the job application forms, where it asks, "Are you entitled to legally work in the USA" I diligently and honestly checked "no". Imagine how far up the ladder my resume climbed. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima">My relationship with Jeff grew more uncomfortable as time went by. I had no money to do anything; Jeff was living comfortably with an established job at a major bank. Having lived here his whole life, he had seemingly hundreds of friends; I had none. I watched soap operas in the afternoons while fruitlessly looking for jobs in the newspapers. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima">I got a couple freelance art jobs, through pure happenstance, from people who either felt sorry for me, or wanted to take advantage of me, or, possibly both, that I worked on in Jeff's apartment while he was at work, and had to have everything spotless and back in place before he got home every night at 5:30. Which was a challenge, and thankless. Every now and then I would accidentally get paint on something, which would turn into a calamity. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima">So in the evenings, I usually went out on my bike, which was my freedom. My favorite time of day, too, when the sky is still light but the sun is going down, setting over the ocean in Santa Monica. I walked a lot too, something that anyone who has been in LA for any length of time simply does not do (see Missing Persons "Walking in L.A."). But you learn your way around, and you stumble onto things you would never notice passing by in a car. Every now and then I would find money on the ground. One time I found a ticket to the MTV music awards, literally lying on the sidewalk. That was amazing; I got to see The Cure, Madonna, Paula Abdul, Bon Jovi, Def Leppard and more. </p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima">I went to every free event I could find. I spent my evenings at bars and book stores and men's groups. I didn't have sex with anyone, I didn't go anywhere that I had to pay to get in, I didn't know anyone and didn't have any place to go. I just stayed out until the shops closed and I knew Jeff would be asleep. One afternoon my bike was stolen; I had locked it to a parking pole, the thieves literally ripped the pole out of the ground and slid my bike off the end. It was devastating. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima">Eventually I realized that I couldn't do this any more, it was too hard. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima">It was nearing Halloween, 1989. I had an old college friend, Scott, who was going to school in Dallas, Texas, and I used my Mom's credit card (ONLY for emergencies) and bought a plane ticket. They have this huge event for Halloween called "Razzle Dazzle Dallas" where they close the streets off and all the clubs are decorated in Halloween themes; it's a huge gay street fair. I rented a wonderful knave costume from a shop on Hollywood Blvd (again, with Mom's credit card); Halloween that year was in the middle of the week so the big celebration was actually held a few days before, on the weekend previous. I had a great adventure in Dallas. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima">I came back to LA because I had bought a ticket to see Stevie Nicks at the Greek Theatre, which was just a few days before Halloween (Oct 26th). I can't imagine where I got the money for the ticket (hah). But I had to go, I had been a huge Fleetwood Mac fan since 1976, and had never seen a solo Stevie Nicks concert. </p> <p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf_XIfYa1Cw7LqpsZ5zm68NFtiGrNUM4bYT8z7tMzxRiUlnY4rlAo4ou2XHBzsUndlTGispFwqTHAzLPKcAo7JunaipgWEg_-j95ISsFg9cG68JLSblV-9rluYqEmiXCcsez6M4mzwuR8/s1600-h/nicks.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 173px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf_XIfYa1Cw7LqpsZ5zm68NFtiGrNUM4bYT8z7tMzxRiUlnY4rlAo4ou2XHBzsUndlTGispFwqTHAzLPKcAo7JunaipgWEg_-j95ISsFg9cG68JLSblV-9rluYqEmiXCcsez6M4mzwuR8/s200/nicks.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398663582377743234" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Optima, serif;font-size:130%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:180%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></span></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima">It was outdoors, at the Greek Theatre, it was dark, I went alone, and it was COLD. It was the end of October. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima">But it was a thrill to see the show, Stevie in all her drugged out glory, performing all the hits and fan favorites, while being pelted with flowers and teddy bears, and the seventeen minute version of "Edge of Seventeen". Added to the melancholy of knowing I was about to leave this amazing city and head back to dreary old Canada. it was called, "The Other Side of the Mirror Tour", which was glaringly prophetic. </p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima">The morning after the concert, I went to Aron's Records on Melrose, and bought the new Kate Bush album ('The Sensual World') which had just been released. I bought it on CD of course, and I also bought it on cassette. At that time we didn't have cd players in our cars, not even a portable cd player and adapter. It was either buy the (plebian) cassette to listen to on the way home, or buy the cd to LOOK AT all the way home. So I bought both. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima">I packed my car, and my bike rack (sans bike, but getting a replacement bike was high on the list of priorities), and my new Kate Bush album(s), and hit the 5 freeway, 22 hours north to arrive back in Vancouver. So I listened to the cassette several dozen times, a gorgeous and lush album filled with sadness and beauty. Driving north, watching the seasons change from seemingly eternal summer in Los Angeles, to colorful brisk fall in the Pacific NorthWest, to cold and damp early winter in Vancouver. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima">Where I had one friend, Stephen, who against all odds had been my friend for several years. I had met Stephen in the summer of 1987, I had just graduated film school and was interning at a tv station in Burnaby, BC doing graphics for the local news. Stephen had just finished college in Philadelphia and had moved to Vancouver to hang out his music therapy shingle. We met in my favorite nightclub called the Gandy Dancer, and sort of dated for a bit but ended up solid friends instead. I've known him now for 22 years and he's like the slightly older brother one sees in tv shows like Brothers and Sisters. I think he will always be there. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima">At the time, he was living in a studio apartment in the Kitsilano side of Vancouver. He said I could stay with him for two weeks, and he wisely kept to that. Within two weeks of arriving in Vancouver I had a marketing/graphics job with the Burnaby Arts Council, a part time job as a clerk at Sam the Record Man downtown, and was sharing a house with a straight guy a few blocks from the ocean. I had also met a new guy I was infatuated with, whose name also happened to be Jeff. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima">I had spent Halloween in Dallas, Texas, a few days later saw Stevie Nicks in concert at the world famous Greek Theatre in Los Angeles, and somehow still made it home to Vancouver in time for Halloween proper. One amazing week!</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima">Living in Vancouver didn't last too long this time, soon I was working full time doing all the advertising and display material for Sam the Record Man, and they promoted me to head office in Toronto. Miserable in Toronto, I only lasted a few months and drove across America, back to Los Angeles, where I have been ever since...</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima">Rod Reynolds</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima">Los Angeles CA USA</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima"><a href="http://rocketmanla.com/">http://rocketmanla.com</a></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima"><a href="http://www.myspace.com/rocketmanla">http://www.myspace.com/rocketmanla</a></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/rocketmanla">http://www.facebook.com/rocketmanla</a></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Optima; min-height: 17.0px"><br /></p><p></p><p></p>RocketManLAhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12085856145517949665noreply@blogger.com0