Have Some Texas

For no reason whatsoever I am proud I am a Native Texan. Not a lot of people go around saying, I'm proud to be a Native New Yorker/Utahite/pick-your-state*.

And why don't they say that, You ask?

Because none of the other 49 are Texas, that's why.

Back in the mists of time, when I was thinking about having a kid (and I did give it serious consideration for like forty minutes at least), the one thing I knew for sure was I would fly back home to deliver so the poor bastard** would start life on the high note of being a Texan.

No one said I was rational.

A tune from the homegrown ZZTop, about a friendly little place in Central Texas. Yes, it was a real clapboard farm house with a vegetable garden.  I passed it every time I drove between Po-Dunk and Austin during my college years:

* Except maybe those back-assed folks from Oklahoma - 

  "Imma Okie!"  Seriously? Who would BRAG about that?  

** Both descriptors would have been accurate, let's be honest.

Dear Santa

"ELLE!",  my fans say to me.  "Elle, you are so fabulous it is almost impossible to shop for you - can you give us some hints for holiday shopping?"

First, it does no good to shout 'Elle' at me, primarily because it is not my real name.

Second, it is true that my fabulosity knows neither time nor space (even when fully clothed!) so it is understandable it may be difficult to find a proper gift for me.

Therefore, a few things I would not mind finding in my stocking, infra (see what I did there with the legal term?  I TOLD ya'll this would be a blawg!).

Bacon Band-Aids

Suitcases that look like Penguins.  Why are some of the coolest things only for kids?

Squid Overlord T-Shirt.  If Oliver Sacks is into it, I am too.

Last but not least, nothing would please me more than to find, under my Christmas tree, the most bangable guy ever*:

All kidding aside, I don't care for Christmas - mainly the forced Happy, the consumerism, the requisite gift-giving because the calendar says so.  I actually love giving gifts but it's out of coming across something you know will please a friend, not obligation. 

So I don't do Christmas gifts - don't wanna give, don't wanna receive.  I have everything I need and more than I could possibly want.  I send cards (I quite like cards) and only give holiday gifts in situations where I am absolutely required to do so (Hi Mom and Dad!).

Hope everyone is having good holidays, make the most of the season!

*Will settle for either Liam Neeson or George Clooney.  I'm flexible.

My Friends Are Funny

Recent text conversation:

Me:  Speaking of bummers, I did the whole Match.com thing about three weeks ago and I haven't gotten a single email.  I knew I shouldn't have posted a picture of my face.

Friend:  Unless you've reached 100% depression saturation, I would avoid online dating.

Me:  Rly?  Just last week you opined that any chick who complains she cannot get laid is not trying pretty much at all.

Friend:  You're diff

Me:  Like, cool diff or pitiful diff?

Friend:  No online for you

Me:  Hear that's where the penises are

Friend:  And if you are very lucky, one will be attached.  To a mute.  Who owns a liquor store.

Autumn

I have issues with Autumn.

Mother Nature choreographs Spring and Summer.  It's the perennially celebrated, and much-anticipated, Broadway production of "Earth Tilting". 

Spring shyly pirouettes.  Summer always has a look in her eye - that is almost naughty - as she sambas across the months.  Spring bursting, Summer exulting.

Then comes September, October, November....and as much as we may want otherwise, Summer must fade.  It's as though Mother Nature has tired, after months of work on this years' production, she decides she is through.  

Or as it's often put - "considering all her other exciting opportunities."

The production closes as it must.  

Mother Nature goes home and pulls on a Snuggie, opens a bag of Cheetos and loads the DVD player with last season's run of "The Closer"....  

She's not to be seen again until March.

All of our lovely world starts to hunker down for the long winters' sleep, the sumacs, the maples, all eventually pulling a blanket of snow over shoulders...and we have to slog through.

I would much rather always be wearing a floppy dress that only touched me at the shoulders, and be on the verge of a sweat.

Seen in Seattle

I love my adopted hometown.  It's beautiful, progressive-minded and offers all stripe of excellent cuisine.

The only two things I don't like is the weather (lame) and the City Council (more lame).

We are big on the local mom n pop shop.  Small businesses are strongly supported, although if you get too big for your britches (Microsoft) or you sell out (Redhook), the typical Uptight Seattlelite is dismayed.

We aren't angry with you, just...disappointed.

Here's a sampling of local places and taglines to give you an idea of the Emerald City:

Hustler Apparel:  Clothes for Stepping Out...of Your Clothes

The LunchBox Laboratory - Home of the "Kick Ass Hour" Cause "Happy Hour" is for Pussies

Men in Kilts Gutter Cleaning

Fremont Veterinary Clinic, Specializing in Animal Chiropractic and Acupuncture Therapy

Blue Moon Burgers: Helping People Feel Good About Bad Choices.  IT'S WHAT WE DO.

Calamity Jane's (a restaurant in the Georgetown neighborhood): Soul Food Without the Pig's Feet!

West5 - Ripping Off Unsuspecting Tourists Since 1929

The 5-Point Lounge:  The Liver Is Evil and Must Be Punished!

Naked City Brewery and Taphouse: We Sell Beer - and It's Cold, Too!

9 Million in Unmarked Bills (a pub in the Fremont neighborhood):  Alcoholics Serving Alcoholics for Over...A Long Time

The Neptune - If You Don't Party Here You Suck

Yep, it's a good town. 

Random 9/11 Thoughts

I'm not going to try to write something profound here, just my small life during the time.

First I remember living in New York during the first terrorist bombing of the WTC in 1993.  It was awful, and frightening, and weirdly surreal now looking back. 

My boyfriend at the time was a dickweed privileged old-school ivy-league wealthy lawyer, father a literary agent to such authors I will not name (because that would totes give him away).  He worked mergers and acquisitions at a firm I should not mention because that would be indiscreet (Milbank Tweed) and he was SO ANNOYED about the bombing.  Interfered with a client racquetball date.

I kid you not.

Hi Jonathan, wherever you are!  And Yes I still have beautiful hands.

Then 9/11.  I was living with my parents in Texas because at the time I was wheelchair-bound, and could not manage on my own.  Could not bathe, could not walk.

Being in a wheelchair totally sucks.  If you are not ignored, the attention is either creepy curiosity or outright pity.  No one waits on you in shops, you cannot reach anything, no one looks you in the eye.  

Maybe people think cripple is contagious?

I sat in my chair that morning watching the news, wondering how the hell a pilot could not avoid one of the tallest buildings in New York.  Then a few minutes later, my mom stood at my shoulder as we both saw the second plane hit the second tower.  

A moment passed, and then we Knew.  Knew it was not an innocent, awful mistake.  

Her coffee cup slipped from her hands, bounced on the carpet and the hot coffee splashed onto my ankle.  I didn't feel it but I knew it burned me deeply.  I wanted to stand but I could not; I was sick but I could not move.

I have been beaten, and mugged, and robbed, and almost raped.  But none of those small bullshitty events - and every one of them, I fought back like hell - compared to the morning I could not fight back.  I could not fight back at all.

Watching Time

My front porch faces west, to the Olympic Peninsula.  I can see the Brothers of Hurricane Ridge and every night since I've been home I've been struck with the opal skies of the sunset.  Two nights ago there were horsetail clouds (look it up) and they were pink, gold; arching up like orcas and their little ones under them.

Summer sunsets here last hours - as I write now, at 8:30, the sky is still thick with color.

Being a bit of a fucked-up photog with a medically established lack of frontal-lobe memory ability an art director sort, I've wanted to shoot everything possible to REMEMBER IT.

But you know what?

There is little you can cling to, believing you can make today your own personal  tomorrow.  No matter how many pictures you take, thinking that will enable you to hold your world tight...well you just can't.  And trying can take away what's been right handed to you.

So.

Give, and give more.  Appreciate all the friends that put up with you (and they do - have you been an ass lately?  I know I have been).

Say Thank You for all the love and kindness offered you.

I don't care what the lyrics profess, the sun may not come out tomorrow.

But it may - and be grateful as you watch the sunset.

Seeds

Thinking about the Martin Luther King Memorial finally being dedicated in DC soon.

Makes me also think about how I grew up in racism.

Black folks weren't openly condemned as, you know, bad; just, questionable.

Living many years with my grandparents, I heard from my grandfather every ugly descriptor one can utter about black folks.  

I won't repeat them here. 

I remember once my Grandma described a woman from church - She was 'a Nice Lady, you know, for being Colored.'

At the time I lived with my grandparents, maybe 3rd grade or so.  I had no bedroom so I slept on the couch and I had a radio, a teddy, and a box of 64 Crayolas (the one with the sharpener!).  

All I remember thinking was, Someone COLORED her? 

When I was in junior high in the late 70s I went to several dances sponsored by the CYO (Catholic Youth Organization).  That was fine with my dad until he realized the venue was in 'That side of town.'  Then he laid down the law, saying he'd spent his life getting away from .... 'that and those people'. 

Poverty?  Black people?  His own neglected, chronically hungry, beaten childhood?  I still don't know.  The one and only night he picked me up from a CYO dance, he saw who else attended and I was forbidden to go to another (not that I didn't sneak out and go anyway - that goes without saying).

In high school in the 80s, one of our cheerleaders, Edie, was very much in love with Terence, star receiver.  And he her.  It was an open secret they were involved, and when I could I'd pick them up in my old '70 Monte Carlo.  They in the back seat, me driving from Po-Dunk to the Coast.  We'd go as far as a tank of gas could take us.  We'd smoke, drink, listen to the crash of the waves, and then head back to Po-Dunk.

..........

Before I wrote this I looked up a few blogs (most out of California) to see what the Young People were saying. 

One that stood out was a wonk in their twenties, who opened a post with, "I never thought I'd live to see the day that..."

Really?  I'm sure this is a well-educated young person but s/he's been on the planet roughly two decades.  The first hardly cognizant.  Half of said life was pre-pubescent.  

Note to Young Bloggers:  Don't use a phrase like "I never thought I'd see the day" unless you've actually seen something, like, during your own lifetime.  Because if you are already chagrined at 24, the next fifty years are going to really suck for you.  To put it nicely, using such phrases undermines your credibility.  Assuming you have any beyond your diploma.

Racism is deeply woven, and often only recognized when chosen - and when open enough - to be seen.  

As is misogyny.

I try hard to be better than the person I was raised to be.  Not everyone even recognizes the racism they live with, or live by.

I want to be beyond those fifteen, twenty years of hate and judgment.  And I'm a well-educated, open, loving person, at least I like to think so.

I hope the twenty-something ivy-leagues of this affluent world, who have a policy-wonk voice, can recognize not everyone has been handed what they have been handed.

So Yay you, Privileged, Judgmental Children People.

The rest of us had to do it the hard way.

And get off my lawn! 

Welcome to my Gracious Home.

Jesus H. Christ on a cracker.  What a mess.

 I think this is the kitchen.

I'm prepping for painting so it looks extry unkempt. 

Check the ancient electronics.  

My friend Burns suggested, for accuracy, 

I have them carbon-dated.

The cats, Noah and Mister Smith*, have been a big o pain in the arse.  It's not like they haven't lived here before, and they have four times the space they did in DC, yet SOMEONE...is marking their territory.  And they are both neutered!  Gah!

I cannot stand, CANNOT STAND any smells in my house so I'm going round sniffing for cat scents.  I'm so adamant about smelliness I will go outside in snow and rain to smoke.

Not that I smoke, mind you, but if I did - I'd go outside in the snow and rain to do so (Hi Mom and Dad!).

 

That portrait you've read so much about.

But it is so great to be back home.  Yes, I am broke and Comcast sucks and Seattle mass transit is non-existent, but...lord I'm happy to be here, to be loved.  Color me a wimp, but I needs my friends.

Smith sez, it don't suck here.

Please come visit soon. I really want to share my nice little house, my wonderful friends, my beautiful city.

After I find the coffee pot and the toilet paper.

*Real names.  They don't care.

Not the Least Bit Girlie

I can't believe I forgot to write about this.  Actually I can.

My friend Chippy sherpa-ed one of my cats here to Seattle, so me, Chippy and the two cats were picked up by Autumn to stay at her place when we arrived.  That night was a bit of a party with friends, beer and I think someone was smoking ciggies.

Autumn and I had discussed Chippy taking the guest room and Autumn and I sleeping in her room, so as the night winded up (after a very long day, let's be honest) I hit the bed.

I offer this background because it might make me look less ridiculous as I tell this story.

In the morning, I wake up blurry-eyed and No Autumn.  I lurch around and start making the bed.  Autumn swings into the room.

"Hey", I said, "You must've hit the couch...?"

Now, Autumn is full of love and laughter, but I have NEVER seen her bordering on giddy hysteria like I did that morning.

"OH. MY. GOD!" she announces, barely able to contain herself she's so tickled.

Which of course I start getting tickled, just seeing her.

"What is so funny?"

"Elle!"

"WHAT?"

"Don't you REMEMBER?"

All I remember was toddling up to bed and putting on my boyish but sexy jammies (is there anything more appealing than a girl in pajamas, pajamas that...okay well...).

Anyway, as far as I could recall I pulled on my little pjs, crawled into my side of the bed and went very sweetly to sleep.

Which cracked Autumn up to no end.

"You were splayed all over the bed and SNORING LIKE A SAILOR!"

"WHAT?  No way, dude!"

Apparently I was flailing around and there was no room for her; I even flung a leg over her, and she tried to get me to turn over ("Elle, ELLE!  MOVE!") but I'd have none of it.  My snoring was SO LOUD she could only take it for like ten minutes.

So she retreated to the downstairs couch.  Even then she was grateful she CLOSED THE BEDROOM DOOR, that's how obnoxiously I was snoring.

Yeah, I'm a Hottie.

Neighbors, Dungies

My neighbor Joe came round to welcome me home and gave me a Dungie he had caught earlier in the day.

Hello, Dinner.

I grew up catching blue tips in the Texas Gulf Coast, which are fantastic but it takes about a dozen for a meal.  But Dungeness are massive.  Boyfriend and I used to go down Cannon Beach in Oregon and one evening he suggested, as we walked that beautiful beach, Let's get a Dungie for dinner.

I ask, A Dungeness?  As in, One?  Which he totally laughed at.

But I do know how to clean a crab, Dungie or otherwise, courtesy of Grandma.

It involves your foot (preferably enclosed in a shoe), a strong stream of water and, um, an axe.  To split the carapace.

Yep.  This is how it's done.  

Apologies for the soft focus - I get a little nervous when exposed toes are near live crab claws.

Or a shovel.  Less classy but serviceable.

Here's a tip, learn from my fail:  I don't care how dead you think that crab is, those claws work.  Especially if the crab is only mostly dead.

Anyway.

Clean that bad boy out, get that boil going with a potato and some corn on the cob and life is good.

Also, be from Texas so you know how to spice n butter it.

Thanks Joe, thank you for the welcome.  

I'm so happy to be home.

Storing Your Life

Recently I tried to explain to a friend how, when letting go of part of my life, I try to make a little mental box of memories, and put a small tag on it (hopefully something positive).  Then I stash it away and say good bye.

But then sometimes, there are real boxes you bump into.

My home in Seattle is up on a hill, like many are.  The street is about 10 feet or more below the house, so when you look up to the big picture windows you see the living room walls.

Being an anal-retentive art director sort, it took me two years to decide on a color for the living room.  Even then I didn't know what artwork to hang that folks could see from the sidewalk.

My boyfriend at the time solved that for me.

Today that box, which I had not seen in 5 years, was unwrapped.  The moving guys brought in a skinny 4 foot by 6 foot box, with the usual, "Where does this go?"

We cracked it open and I saw the frame, a very traditional gold frame, with the portrait itself covered.

"Ah! Yeah, don't unpack that."

It's a portrait of me, painted by my artist boyfriend who is incredibly talented.  A nude, me draped on a chaise lounge.  It really is quite beautiful - not that I am beautiful, but he is an excellent artist and it was painted with love.  And there is no doubt, it is me.

He gave it to me for Christmas, keeping me out of the house until he could hang it in the living room.  In...The Living Room.

Where anyone on the sidewalk, at the bus stop in front of the house, or passing by on the street can see it quite clearly.

I thanked him profusely, and indeed what a lovely gift....but o dear.

A few weeks later, the cable people had to come to the house.

Me, seizing the opportunity:  Hey Boyfriend, can you let cable people into the house for me?

BF:  Yes, sure!

.....

BF:  Um.  Cable dude came by.

Me:  O good!  Went okay?

BF:  We're moving the portrait.

Molly, Minion of Satan

I love animals, cats in particular.  And they love me, never met a cat that didn't like me.

Until Molly.

Molly is being fostered by my friend Autumn, who is one of the loveliest people I have ever known.  Kind, strong, funny, thoughtful (she writes Thank-you notes, people), Autumn is beautiful inside and out.  Me and my two cats are staying with Autumn during my transition here in Seattle.  We have the extra bedroom, which has a small balcony off the second floor.

Molly was terribly neglected and weighed about four pounds when Autumn took her in.  Half Siamese, half calico, half feral, half insane.  Actually I shouldn't say that - I'm not sure about the calico part.

 Molly:  The Culprit

She has nailed me with both fangs and claws no less than 12 times.  She starts out all loving, batting at you a little, then BAM.  Once she was lying in wait next to the staircase, scheming, planning, for me to come down the stairs.  When I turned the corner she attacked my knee and tried to move up my leg.  I think she was going for the femoral artery.  I now look like I was bitten by a very short vampire.

Autumn was out of town last week so it was just me at the krazy kat house.  My cats do not interact with Molly, they stay in the bedroom and the litter box is out on the balcony. 

One day I decide to shift my cats into Autumn's room, just so they could have new things to sniff.  Once closed into that bedroom, I then went downstairs to wash out their bowls.

I heard some mao-raowing from outside.  I went out, and the maoing seemed to be coming from above.

Apparently Molly decided to explore the open bedroom where my cats had been.  Then the balcony.  Then the balcony railing.  Then up to the window eave.  Then the ROOF OF THE APARTMENT BUILDING.

HOLY SHIT.

My heart seized up, my adrenals went into overdrive, and my life flashed before me (including the part where Autumn beats me to death with a blunt object).  

I'm pretty sure I peed myself a little.

The escape route.  That's one of my cats, Mister Smith. 

Smith is almost too fat to get on the futon, forget the roof.

Molly moved over to the neighbor's part of the roof and thank goodness she was home.

She let me in and I raced up to her balcony.  There is Molly on the eave.

Neighbor (who is also named Molly, oddly enough) calls from outside downstairs:

Just grab her by the scruff!

Oh sure, you down on terra firma where there are no claws and fangs.

I couldn't reach her so I stood on one of those low plastic beach chairs - which are great for lounging but not so great to stand on and lean over a balcony to grab an unpredictable cat.

I had a towel on my shoulder and in the sweetest voice I have, I said, "Hey Molly!  Hey pretty kitty!  Let's go home, you evil possessed cat!  And guess who is giving Elle a heart attack?  Who?  Who?"

I picked her up by the scruff and supported her chest, trying not to think of my exposed jugular.  I got her back home, she completely indifferent to the whole adventure, me hyperventilating.

She had a small snack.  I changed my underwear.

Insincere Flattery

Ah, bartenders.

Last night I wandered down to the bar in the hotel where I am staying until the flight home on Friday morning.  It has a good happy hour but by 6:30 or so the place is empty, so it was me and the bartender.

A big, friendly, chatty guy.

"So", he asks, "Moving away?"

"Yes, back to Seattle."

"What does your husband think?"

Subtle.

"I'm not married."

"Oh.  Ever have been?"

"No."

"Boyfriend?"

"Nope."

"Oh.  Well any ex-boyfriends?"

Again, subtle.

"Sure.  Countless."

"What?", he asked, surprised.  "What do you mean?"

"As in, I've never counted.  They were people and lovers, not trophies."

He backs up a bit. "Oh, I guess you really get around."

"Well, I haven't been a child in a while.  I'm 46 years old."

"What?"

"I'm 46."

"I don't believe you."

"Who lies about being 46?"

"But you don't look a day over 30, 32 at the most!"

Yeah Right.  Nice try!

Gotta love bartenders.

Have Some Music

Did you know George Gershwin was a bit of a jackass?  Especially to his less-accomplished brother.  

After returning to the States from Australia, I spent a few days in Austin with my friend Chris.  Chris and I had explored Bangkok together, a fascinating and exotic city, one of the most amazing cities I have ever seen.  Then - here we were at home in Texas, as at home as one could be.

We went to his family's country home in the Hill Country outside Austin to spend a quiet summer weekend.  It’s a beautiful old farmhouse with deep porches, plantation-shuttered windows and sweeping views of the peach orchards below.

It was just us, his family still in Bangkok. Everything was covered in sheets, quiet and somehow timeless.  We opened up the windows and the sheets danced a little in the breeze.

We swung slowly on a porch swing, watching the approaching Texas thunderstorm darkening the horizon.  Lightning in the distance, the thunder rolling; doing the count between seeing the lightning and hearing the thunder to know how far away the storm was.

Not a cicada, no tree frog, no bird calls, when a storm like that is coming.

Gershwin poured out the windows.

Smelling the aroma of the storm, the heat, the ripe peaches.

It was a beautiful moment in time.

Accents

Last night was another great night with my excellent friend Laura and others at an Irish pub in Alexandria called O'Connells.

The bartender is a young man named James.  James is not necessarily my type.  Although a very pleasant-looking young man, I tend to like big Alpha men with somewhat mussy curls and - bonus! - beards.

But James is IRISH.

James:  "Ah! hey luv, good t' see ya 'gin.  An' whut can Jehms give you t'nie, m'Lassie?"

Oh James.  Many, many things come to mind.

Let's pretend this very same James is from, oh I don't know, the Bronx.

James:  "Hey how yoo doin.  Lawnggtime No see.  Whadda ya want?"

I want you to bring me a vodka tonic and go away until I need another vodka tonic.

The Brilliance that is Mel Brooks

I'm watching Blazing Saddles, bumped into an airing of it this afternoon.  I had forgotten how excellent that movie is.

The cinematography is nothing to write home about - even with my limited experience there are scenes that in my opinion could have used some art direction.

But the movie (and No, I rarely use the word 'film') is the script.  There are some obvious lines that live today ("We don't need no stinkin' badges!") but the script is peppered with some real gems.

The scene where Gene Wilder (The Waco Kid) and Cleavon Little (Bart, the Sheriff) distract and lure two KKK members to take their robes:

Wilder:  "Hey boys, lookie what I got over here!", as he pulls Little out from behind a rock.

Little:  "Hey - where the white women at?"

.....

Reverend Johnson: "Now I don't have to tell you good folks what's been happening in our beloved little town. Sheriff murdered, crops burned, stores looted, people stampeded, and cattle raped."

....

Little and Wilder go out to the railroad site for information, Little is enthusiastically greeted by his former friend.

To Little:  "Bart!  They said you was hung!"

Little, smugly:  "And they were right."

....

Of course my favorite character is Lili Von Shtupp, played by Madeline Kahn.  She is charged with seducing Bart and of course gets more than, um, she expected.

I saw an interview with Brooks in LA where he discussed censorship and studio creative control. He talked about that scene.  It ends going to black, the sfx of a zipper going down, and Kahn VOs "It's true, it's true!" (or rather, "It's twoo, it's twoo!").  You are probably familiar with the scene.

But apparently there was a line after that one, that Brooks just could not get past the Board.  

Little replies to Kahn, "Honey, you're sucking my elbow."

Mel Brooks, People.  Genius.

Seasonal Buddhism

One thing I will miss about DC is its four seasons.  Who knew there could be four?  After living in LA, Texas and Seattle, I find this novel.

Yes Manhattan has four seasons, but you don't want to live through them.  Ah, the aroma of hot urine that heralds the New York summer!

Last week the cicadas starting singing in the season.  Although there are no more spent robins' eggs to be found, the birds are bickering over whether a second clutch of chicks is worth the effort.

The garden next to my building is flourishing, the tomatoes growing rosy, the little cherry tomatoes already ripe.  I spied a chipmunk on his back legs, inspecting a particularly fruitful cherry tomato plant.  

Deciding on his vegetable prey, he leapt up and grabbed it.  Hanging and kicking, he twisted around crazily until the vine gave up.  He then scampered to a nearby picnic table, jumped up on the bench and had his lunch.

Watching the change of seasons brings home many Buddhist teachings, one being the folly of attachment.

On one level this is a fairly straightforward concept - attachment to inanimate objects that have no real value.  Your car, the Crackberry, even the treasures you've brought home from adventures abroad.

On another, attachment can be folly when it is centered on time or place.  Although cliche, it is true that there is no constant but change.

Relationships come and go, Love waxes and wanes.  The tides come in, the tides go out.  But recognizing, internalizing, that life is fluid can be very liberating.  You may be having the best years of your life but I promise you, you will have dark years.  Just as, when your world is clouded with doubt and loss, there will be joy.

I've done some selfish things lately, and the move home will be difficult, so my heart is more troubled than I'd like.  I hope I will be forgiven for my selfishness, and the difficulties will sort out.

This summer has brought me winter days in many ways, but I know spring will come.

Should I Stay or Should I Go?

Mister Smith contemplates the trip back to Seattle:

I've moved about 15 times - big moves, transcon, internationally, etc.  If you include the usual shifts between apartments and houses and such, maybe 35?

I have it down to an art, which is not to say it is not a pain in the ass.

I wish DC had worked out better - of course I am so hard on myself anything less than Brilliant Success falls under I Suck.

But I did have two good jobs and more importantly, I made friends.  The Greek of Falls Church and Laura Walker: Girl Detective.  I also became much closer to my friend Chippy, the sister I never had.

And Now for Something Completely Different, 
a Tune from The Clash:




To Berens, Heather and Summer:  Can I sing this at the next Throwin' Goat?  I really want to belt out the line,

You're happy when I'm on my knees!

Does that require any explanation?  No, no it does not.

Family, the Official Ones, and a Bit of Baseball

My Mom gave me a gift certificate for Ancestry.com.  I've been looking up friends' ancestry left and right, and ordering all kinds a cool copies of records for folks.

Kendall is from Ireland (did the red hair and name give it away?); Chippy is Old-School Brit; Marie is Czechoslavakian.... and Me?  

I am - wait for it - Bohemian.  Bohemian!  Does this shock anyone?  No, no it does not.  I am so thrilled I can dismiss any responsibility for my actions to: Dude, I am a BOHEMIAN.  I have no modern-day morality.  Now if I can work in paganism I AM GOLDEN.

That said, my father's family is a different story.  My Dad never speaks of his father, and as well he wouldn't.  My grandfather was a cruel, abusive drunk who beat his wife and eventually his kids.

I met him once when I was little.  He gave me a fifty-cent piece. 

When off from working the railroad, he played minor league baseball, a catcher.  He never made it to The Show.  Not because of lack of talent but because he couldn't stay sober.  And that's saying something for back in The Day, when no one cared if you were a sot.  Often he was so drunk during games he could barely get out of the crouch - but in the heat of the game, no one got past him at home plate, no pop up was missed.  He was hands down one of the best minor league players in Texas.  

I wonder who he would have been, had he been able to put down the bottle.

If anyone, maybe a man who did not beat his son, my father.

Things You Need to Do and/or Not Do

As I've been a bit peevish and moody lately (I KNOW - since when?  So out of character!  Maybe I should take my 400 dollar-a-month antidepressant meds!) here now, for your reading pleasure, a list to keep handy on what one should and should not do to avoid having your shins kicked by the rest of Polite Society.

1.  At the terminus of the escalator, please move your lost ass out of the line of fire.  The rest of us cannot NOT disembark the escalator and you are in the effing way.

2.  Unless you are getting off at the next stop, or the Metro car resembles a sardine can, move away from the door.  If you are one of the seven people hovering at the car door for no reason, I promise you, this position will not get you to your destination sooner.

3.  Do NOT exit or enter a cab on the street side.  You are asking to get picked off by passing traffic, especially if you are in midtown Manhattan.  There is a reason why this is an internationally-recognized rule of thumb.  Perhaps street-side entry/exit is advantageous in the Darwinian sense (for the rest of us), but otherwise not a good idea.

4.  Tip the wait staff.  I do not care how poor you think you are, you are eating out.  This suggests you have disposable income.  If you cannot leave a 20 percent tip to the poor schmo that just put up with you over the past hour (Can I have a straw?  Can I get this without ice?  Do you have any sliced lemon?) stay home.

5.  Say "Please", and for god sakes learn when to say "Thank you" (When do you say Thank you? = ALWAYS).  If you do not know when to say "Thank you", check your butt for a brand - you were raised in a barn.  Please correct this shortcoming.  You are an adult now.  Choose to be polite.

6.  Approximately two percent of the American population is functionally deaf.  This includes my mother.  Deaf folks are not being rude, or purposefully ignoring you, or trying to offend.  My mother lives in great isolation - conversations are difficult; crowds scare her... and there is little music in her world.  So the annoying person in line ahead of you at the store may be without one of the five senses you give little thought to.  Be patient.

7.  If you choose to paint your face in the colors of the professional sports team which you back, don't get all worked up when people stare and/or snicker.  Lack of pride is fascinating to the rest of us.

8.  While boarding a plane, get the Eff out of the aisle once you get to your row.  Why I even have to list this breaks my heart and brings to the forefront the undeniable truth that people are inherently idiots.

9.  Famous people do not want your attention, nor do they want to hear you natter on about your points of view.  They do not care because YOU ARE A STRANGER TO THEM.  Stop speaking. 

10.  Finally, and perhaps most importantly:  Ignorance is not the same as stupidity. 

Some Law, Some Advertising

In the short history of this ground-breaking blog, I've avoided my professional interests in environmental and civil rights law issues. That should probably be a different blog, where I use my real name and actually take responsibility for my words.

Not like here.

That said, recent developments in California's fight regarding Proposition 8 (initiative barring gay marriage) bring to light one thing on which I'd like to comment.

I'm not going to go into the facetiousness of the argument itself (claim that the judge who overturned California's ban on same-sex marriage had an obligation to recuse due to his alleged conflict of interest - said judge is gay).

But you do have to wonder how many BILLABLE HOURS went into that action - formulating the argument, researching, writing, filing, obligating the opponent to respond and do the same; sucking up valuable court time. Did no one over at Righteous Nuts Against Civil Liberties the Protect Marriage Coalition stop and say, Gee guys, is this action really a good idea?

Bringing us to the Groupon Super Bowl ad.

Even if you are a civilian (i.e., not in the advertising industry) you have an idea of the expense, exposure, pressure and stakes of running an ad on the Super Bowl. It can establish a brand where there was hardly one before, while fully and fundamentally changing the landscape of broadcast advertising.

So no mistakes, Please. Edgy yes - Idiocy, No.

Digression: I tend to only pay attention to the more novel brands that advertise on the Super Bowl. Although women are over 50% of the population and make 80% of the buying decisions, according to the majority of advertisers we don't have much sense when it comes to purchasing automobiles, beer, liquor, snack foods, electronics or dinners at mainstream chain restaurants. Apparently my breasts (magnificent though they are) interfere with my disposable income decision-making processes.

End of digression.

The Groupon ad's pay off was along the lines of, Hey, sucks to be an oppressed society - but those Tibetans still make one mean bowl o' Pho! Or something like that.

My first flummoxed response was, Did I miss a crucial verb, or phrase, that totally redeemed that Steaming Pile of Steaminess?

Then I thought - Wow, how the hell did that get produced. From the fool creative team that took it to the ACD (who approved it), to the CD (Id.), through internal review (Id.), then to the client.

No one at the client noticed how awful the creative concept was. Nor the directors who sold their souls to pitch it, the one who 'won' it (I landed a Super Bowl ad!). I guess because of the Malibu mortgage and three alimony obligations?

Weeks of pre-production, casting, courting Famous Actor (Famous Actor, who read the script as well as his agent, manager, assistant, wife, mistress, other mistress, and two cats. All approved - "Let's DO THIS!"). Further weeks of principal photography, post-production, and daily painful approvals throughout.

And within minutes of its airing - on the sporting event that delivers the largest broadcast audience each year, every year - customers walked away, the general public was somewhere in the spectrum between dismayed and outraged....

And of course client and agency are both, Wait, What? Folks are offended? Why goodness gracious, that possibility never crossed our minds! And even if folks were offended, it was a joke! And if it was a joke, we do actually support the causes of those we belittle in order to further our brand! And, uh, yeah.

So many emperors, so few clothes.

Regarding Father's Day

A tribute to dads, in an odd way, so bear with me. Also I have no patience whatsoever so this post is early.

My friend Kendall: Who I have written briefly about before. Kendall has been a dear, supportive friend for about eight years now. A loving and intuitive man with wonderful children, grandchildren Kendall's father never had the chance to know.

My friend Burns: A man who is cynically funny, can play the guitar BY EAR, and is a friend of the first order. He also lost his father too soon. He has two beautiful kids and has been through his share of challenges this past year.

My friend Ridley Scott*: A truly Upright Guy, insane talented director and maybe the funniest person I've ever met. I was crazy-nuts about him when I lived in CA. He was not so much The Crazy about me, but always kind and respectful. That truly showed when he came through for me when I was in one of the darkest times of my life. I met his folks once or twice and his dad was so great, so proud of him.

My friend John: An incredible illustrator whose work touches many. I kept emailing him insightful and funny missives (well, I think they were) until I finally wore him down and now we are friends. An amazing man - sweet, open, and full of kindness. He also has so much integrity I think it leaks out his ears, a potential problem for his pillowcases I would imagine. I've had the pleasure of meeting his father twice, so I now know where he gets his charm, generosity of heart, and awesome fashion sense.

My friend Christopher: An intelligent, passionate young man who had a very challenging childhood. Another man with great integrity. He just recently lost his father and my heart aches to know that his father will not be here to see how successful and influential Christopher will be. Witty, smart and informed to the point of being irritating, I am so lucky to know him.

My friend Daniel: Daniel is husband to Marie, dear friends I have written about before. Daniel is more the parent-at-home than Marie, as she is out successfully conquering the international world of advertising. Their kids are terrific and will grow up to be loving and giving adults.

What is my point? Bring it back around, Elle....

These 6 guys have been great to me in their own ways. Some in very narrow windows of time; some give what they can give; others have supported me throughout my adult life.

Although their fathers surely had faults and fallacies (like you know, people), those fathers ultimately gave me the gift of loving friends.

So Thanks from Me, to my friend's dads. Happy Father's Day.


Postscript: I really wanted to work in the phrase, "Besties With Testes", but maybe next time. Sorry Burns.



* Not the real one. Come on People - Really? I would've bragged about that a long time ago.

Have a Funny.

So most of you are aware I am enamored with the Michael Cera.

I KNOW. I don't get it either.

The man-child is still damp with afterbirth, that's how young he is. I also tend to go for big strapping Alpha males, preferably with beards. Dudes: if you can grow a beard, do. It will serve you well.

So I don't know why I like Michael Cera.

Although if I did have a chance with him I'd probably accidentally crush his bony self and completely dehydrate the poor boy. Let's be honest.

Anyway, here he is as Alexander Hamilton in the first of the Drunk History series, brought to you by the talented folks at Funny or Die.

Note the shoes he is wearing in the wide shot after he is gunned down by Aaron Burr. For some reason that cracks me up to no end:

Drunk History Vol. 1 - Featuring Michael Cera from Michael Cera

I also like, "There's a bucket under the fridge."

Can anyone give me an idea as to how to edit out of the html, the ads and pop ups and bullshit? That'd be awesome.

My Grandmother

My Mom's mom. From a German family, poor as dirt. My great-grandparents settled in Anahuac Texas (yep, real place, look it up). Population 300.

When my grandma married my grandpa and moved to Po-Dunk (pop. 80,000), she was shunned by the folks in Anahuac - she'd 'gone all Town.'

She pretty much raised me, and all the good things of my heart came from her.

Some Grandma gems:

"Your Great-Grandpa deserted from the Kaiser's Calvary. Well it was either World War One or your Great-Grandma. Otherwise you wouldn't be here, so don't judge."

........

Discussing burial plots.
Me: You've been going to The Methodist Church of Po-Dunk, maybe you want a plot there?
Grandma: Oh No, I don't want to be buried there - I want to be down Anahuac.
Me: Why? What's wrong with the Po-Dunk cemetery?
Grandma: Well I don't know all those dead people!

...........

How to cook Cajun food.
Me: Grandma, can you tell me how to make gumbo?
Grandma: Oh it's easy! You make your roux, then put in your onions and all, and cook it for six hours. Then you add your shrimp and it's done.
Me: What? What do you mean 'make your roux'?
Grandma: You cook down your lard and flour and make your roux. It only takes an hour or two.
Me: WHAT?
Grandma: If you don't know how to make your own roux, I don't know who you are related to.

..........

On moving to Austin to attend university.
"Now you listen to me!", as she grabs my hand.
A statement that always made me sit up when coming from my Grandma.
"Now I want you to have a good time, but you use those condoms!"
WHAT?
"Well you just make sure those boys keep it bagged!"

...........

On my moving to Australia in 1991.
Note the year.
"Now you listen to me!"
What - wear clean underwear? "Okay Granny, lay it on me."
"Don't you go getting the AIDS!"
Er, okay Grandma, I'm on it. Good advice.

.............

Living in Manhattan around 93, Grandma comes to visit.
We are walking through Times Square - and this is back in the day before Disney took it over - a dicey area.

Grandma, linking my arm and pulling me close: "You think folks will think we're the lesbians?"
THE lesbians? Sounds like a lot of pressure.
"Grandma, if people think we're lesbians I'm sure they're gonna think you are one lucky old broad."
"You don't know, I have a good bosom."

............

Living in Southern California around 97, Grandma comes to visit.
We go to Shutters, a hotel in Santa Monica, for its fantastic brunch which includes free and generous Mimosas.

As we leave, Grandma slips on the highly-polished marble floor and completely wipes out. A bloody nose, swollen eyes and a twisted ankle. Of course the whole hotel staff is hovering in fear of law suit.

Us: Jesus Grandma, are you okay?
Staff: Mrs. Muller, what can we do for you?
Grandma: Oh I'm fine - bring me another Mimosa! That'll help!
Me: Grans, that won't help.
Grandma: Oh well give it a minute and maybe I'll look beat up enough for ALL of us to get Mimosas!

...........

And my favorite story, one ya'll have heard before but I really must include:

After graduating from UT-Austin I moved to Dallas and one weekend she and I went antique shopping. There's a long stretch down I-35 between Dallas and Austin with lots of old warehouses selling antiques. The flat prairie of Texas' I-35 offers a whole lot of nothing to look at.

We passed several billboards advertising a retirement community in
Austin which if you are from Austin, you know it. Don't recall completely, but the boards read something like "Be Your True Self at Happy Living".

By the fourth billboard, Grandma asks, "What's this 'Happy Living'
place?"
Me, wincing a bit: "Well, it's a retirement community, I think folks over 60, who, um...are nudists. It's a nudist colony for old folks."
....
"Well that's just disgusting."
"Well I don't know, Grandma, some people think being nude is natural, and, uh..."
"Oh no," she says, "I don't mind naked people, it's naked OLD people. Who wants to look at naked old people all day?"

...........

I have so many great stories about my grandmother, all in my own head, because Alzheimer's took them from her.

So lucky to have had her in my life.

The Washington State Bar Exam, Chapter Three

Now a bit about Bex, the third Barsketeer.

And Yes we called ourselves the Barsketeers because we were too brain dead to come up with anything more clever.

Bex is a sunny young woman with beautiful red hair and a smile that lights the room. If she had another freckle she'd have to carry it in her pocketbook. Quick to laugh, always positive and probably the most truly spiritual person I've ever known. She introduced me to the Buddhist Temple I attended in The Pacific Northwest's Most Beautiful City. Thanks Bex, I will always be grateful that - among all the other things you've given.

My last semester of law school was complicated by several health issues, and it was so bad at one point I seriously considered withdrawing from school. With each problem, each diagnosis, I kept thinking, "One more thing, and I'm going to lose it!"

And then there'd be One More Thing.

So into summer Bar Review, Bex was gracious enough to help me. She managed doctor appointments, traipsed with me to the hospital, took notes, encouraged me, even helped me stay up all night one night for a sleep-deprivation test.

Bex is no stranger to the fear one can have of illness; of deep personal challenge or profound loss.

I will not go into her story here. It is not mine to tell. Suffice it to say the next time you are crying in your cups over your lot in life, think of Bex and her fiance, and recognize your life has been nothing but unicorns shitting rainbows.

One of the newspaper articles about her fiance here.

Although now I am pleased to report that today Bex is happily married to a lovely man, has a sweet step-son, and a fulfilling career.

Go Bex! Lord knows you deserve it.

So that was our little band, Me Mike and Bex.

More on the Review, the Bar itself, in further posts.

The Washington State Bar Exam, Chapter Two

As mentioned previously, I studied with Mike and Bex. Today is about Mike.

This dude is, hands down, A Fine Man.

My Alma Mater was keen on bringing in diverse students, especially ones embarking on second careers like me - and like Mike.

I used to be in advertising, which has its Cool Factor and all, but Mike.

Before law school Mike was - wait for it - a fighter pilot.

I KNOW. A FIGHTER PILOT.

Now before I get into that, I have to admit bias because, well, my friend Kendall who is quite dear to me lost not only his biological father but later his stepfather to airflight. His biological father a military test pilot and well, not really my place to tell that story.

Anyway not only is Mike a previous fighter pilot making him Insane Cool, he is also as good as gold, not the Big Head at all. A tall strapping man with a shock of gray hair and dancing eyes. He reminds me of my brother, all those personality traits I wish I had. Friendly, engaging, charismatic... As said in Texas, He's never met a stranger.

He and Bex were good friends, and in the same law section (I was in Section C, I think they were in B). I got to know him a little when we had Con Law together.

I remember he and his wife invited Bex and I over for a party during Review. We all needed the break and it was a good summer get-together.

I was totally entranced with his pilots helmet, it had taken beatings. Like a professional football player's helmet, but with meaning, dedication to country, and cool stickers.

"Jeez Mike, you were a fighter pilot - you must have loved it, must have been so thrilled to be at the very top of the game, and the military must have backed you completely to train you to fly such incredible aircraft...why did you leave?"

"Because I was just the driver, disposable. Pilots can be trained for (x$), but Fighter planes cost (1,000,000x$). Which do you think they consider more valuable?"

Oh. Well I guess I can see that, as much as I'd prefer not.

So that's a bit of Mike.

And a bit of my friend Kendall. I know I'd not be the person I am today without my friend Kendall, and in turn Kendall would not be Kendall without his father.

This weekend, please think of Mike's work, all those who have given, and the sacrifice of Kendall's father.

The family Kendall's father left behind, the children he did not get to see grow up, the incredible grandchildren he never knew.

He gave his life for this country.