Dogs

I was Unca Dan at 17 at the house of college girls on the south side of Bloomington. There was a miniature Schnauzer living there too, but I don't remember it as fondly as I did this thing. I can't recall the dog's name now, but it belonged to one of Marti's roommates. I was Unca because the dog was my nephew. It like rubbing behind the ears and popcorn and pretzels. We never let it drink, but it might have enjoyed that as well. I wouldn't be surprised if it died of lung cancer. We smoked like chimneys then -all the girls and I and my buddy Jim that came over to hang out. We played chess for hours and smoked and drank homemade wine.  

Transitions in animals

So, the little Lassie dog gave birth to a bunch of these, and after a huge infestation of fleas and us putting Flea-bite down for mange I think, the mother was given away with all of her puppies but one, which we christened Bowser. I was reminded that Lassie did indeed survive us at least. Bowser grew into a large dog that could easily jump our fence and often did. Tabby was the only one that could teach Bowser anything. He left the cat alone after a few painful encounters. He would instead bound over the fence and go collect welcome mats from other porches or go wandering off across the neighborhood in search of big adventures- or maybe he was looking for his father. We all tend to do that. My Mom was a stay at home Mom then, so she was the one that had to go after him and bring him back. She knew nothing about training dogs.

In the midst of a very heavy Indiana snowstorm Bowser went forth and my Mom went after him. Bowser, in his excitement let the leash be put on and then bounded off pulling old Mom down in the snow several times. When she finally did get him in the car, she took him to the pound and brought back another dog.

 

We were shocked. We swore we would never ever do this to our children. Josie, above, was actually a very sweet dog and guarded us kids as if we were her own. Bowser hopefully made it to some farm, or at least to someone who knew how to train dogs.  

Animals

Tabby was a cool cat. He ate birds. He'd come back after being gone a night with huge cuts and wounds from fighting with the other cats in the neighborhood. He'd lay on my back as I lay on the floor to watch television. He would eat popcorn. Then one day he didn't come back.

Animals I have known #1

We had an old dog when I was little. His name was Flea-Bite. They must have gotten him for my oldest brother and by the time I was conscious enough to understand the concept of dog, he was already old. He didn't bark that I can remember and he didn't play much. He was just a mellow old dog. We had a big wooden dog house in the back yard, but he seldom used it. He came and went inside and out like the rest of us. He did like the cat. We had a gray and black tabby cat named appropriately "Tabby" that used to stretch out across the dog's back. Later, after Flea-Bite was no longer with us, the cat would stretch out on my back as I lay on the floor to watch TV. We adopted a stray little lassie looking dog that immediately got pregnant from a German Shepherd that came from somewhere to bound over our fence to get to her. I recall the bounding part. She had six German Shepherd puppies and our basement got a major infestation of fleas. And or mange or god knows what. Lassie (we were highly creative with names) and Flea-Bite didn't survive and all the puppies were given away but one.
Its important to have a grandpa dog around. If for no other reason than to rest your head on while you read comic books.    

One of these days soon

Pretty soon, one won't be home any more, except for trips to visit. We knew it would come, but I'm already sad before its happened

Sherlock The Music Historian

On of my band mates brought us a song that he thought was a Civil War ballad, and we all loved the song and he sang it really well, and it was easy to play, so we rehearsed it and did in our mini-gig at Boulevard Music last Sunday night. The second fiddle player who is not on the video posted to this blog was in the audience (she didn't end up playing with us because she hadn't rehearsed with us and was nervous about playing songs she hadn't practiced). She noticed that the song was inaccurate. That Sherman never marched from Memphis to the sea. It was from Atlanta to the sea and he never made it to Tennessee at all. I jokingly said it was probably written by a couple of New York boys who had never been outside the city. There is a little town between Atlanta and Savannah named Nashville. Perhaps the songwriter walked through there and got mixed up about what state he was in. So I decided to investigate: (Isn't the internet a wonderful place?)

Geld-Udell Music Corporation in 1959, and Geld-Udell Productions in 1962

http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1122364/bio

They did some of the music in Shenandoah the Jimmy Stewart Movie and later did a Tony award Musical on Broadway by the same name, but this song isn't in the musical version. It may be in the movie, but you'll have to rent to movie to see. (If it's in a Jimmy Stewart movie, it has to be authentic.) You can't get a movie version of the soundtrack- just the musical version. They were Hyland's producers so they probably just handed him the song. They really were New York City boys who probably had no idea where Tennessee was,

I'M AFRAID TO GO HOME
(Gary Geld / Peter Udell)
Recorded by: Brian Hyland - 1964
Cliff Richard - 1964
Gene Pitney - 1966
I'm afraid to go home
I'm afraid to go home
Worries on my mind
Afraid of what I'll findWill my fam'ly be gone
I'm afraid to go home
Back to Tennessee
Afraid of what I'll seeAs I walk down this dusty road
Got a heart with a heavy load
Ain't a thing that's the same
So much sorrow and pain
Headin' home in a single file
Ev'ry inch is a quarter mile
Ain't heard nobody sing
Ain't seen one livin' thing
Someone's waitin' for me
Honey sweet as can be
Wanta hold her tight


Lord, make her be alright


Maybe 'round the next bend
All the ashes will end
Valleys will be green
Stead of what I'm seein'


I'm afraid for the scrubby pines
All the sweet honeysuckle vines
I'm afraid for my home
For the fields that I roamed


Kick along down a homeward road
And your heart's gotta take a load
I'm afraid to go home
I'm afraid to go home


Sherman's been in my town
Burned it all to the ground
Now there's not a tree
'Tween Memphis and the sea
Now there's not a tree
'Tween Memphis and the sea


There is a Oconee Forest east of Atlanta. You could throw that up there instead of Tennesse and just change 
Memphis at the end to Atlanta and you're fine.


The stuff the leaks into our childhood brains from the media really does make the context into historical reality. If 
its in a movie it must be real. Like all those westerns that were shot out where there wasn't enough water to have a cattle ranch or a town or any industry to speak of. Or the authentic folk songs of the like of the Kingston Trio who rewrote almost everything they sang and recorded. 


Brian Hyland brought us Itsy Bitsy Yellow Bikini.

Something to Cheer Us All Up

May We All Be So Generous

Rejection is my middle name.

http://www.mutineertheatre.com/

Dan,

Thank you again for submitting "Spoonful of Sugar" to Mutineer Theatre Company. I read your play a few weeks and thought I had responded but just realized I had not. Please forgive me if some of my details are off.

The main things that have stayed with me are

* Your willingness to take the story to unsettling subject matter.
The relationship between the adolescent girl and the pimp was the most interesting aspect to me. The bluster and circus of the murder and supporting characters filled the compex well, but it was this strange connection at the center to which I gravitated.
* The challenge of a two-story set and 15 characters
You noted that this was meant for a smaller theater but the second-story balcony and large cast felt like a bigger space and budget would be required. I was placing it mentally in the last two theatres we've used and couldn't quite get it to work. (Perhaps a good set designer could.)
* Although the world seemed valid, I was never really rooting for anyone.
You have a lot of the socio-economic details right but I realized early on that I didn't really care if the pimp was punished or his crime. I think I was supposed to be cheering for the adolescent girl but her scheming with the gun--instead of ratting him out immediately--seemed to force the "investigation" into extra innings. Maybe the underlying sense that no one was going to escape the complex kept me from truly investing in any of the residents.
*
Perhaps a less famous, less cheery title would serve the script better.
When I was reviewing my reading pile today, I honestly could not remember the story based on the title. That may say more about me than the script, but I thought it was worth mentioning.

Again, let me say that I appreciated the intimacy and tension of the the scenes with the pimp and the adolescent girl, I appreciated the scope and accuracy of the world you built, but I never invested emotionally into one character's plight.

If you'd like to talk more about this or need any clarifiation, please let me know.

James Utt
818-388-0677

I feel the urge to respond to this guy, but I probably won't. It is a two set play- gee, if a second story doesn't work, why don't we move him downstairs. We might even just put him on a crate in a back corner. He also didn't get it that it was a love story. He didn't identify. It was a thoughtful note.


Much better than the one line I got from an event company about me asking how to get the band considered for several of their venues over the summer.


I got one line: "Sorry we're booked."

The first real Rhubarb Meringue Pie videos!

We're actually much more fun in person!

57 Banjo Players and a couple of Speedos

Daydee

                The fields along the flat Illinois highway had already been planted. She knew what a young corn field looked like, but had no clue about the other crop that was taking up equal acreage. She asked the woman across the aisle and was told it was soybeans.  The Greyhound bus’ last stop was Terre Haute; she was twenty minutes from home. A home she hadn’t seen in twenty-three years. How different the leaving was to this. She had been sixteen. She stole three hundred dollars from her mother’s coffee can piggy bank and hitched a ride with the bread delivery guy that she knew from the café where she waitressed.  And then caught a bus out of Terre Haute so no one could trace her. She made it to New Orleans and still had money to rent a room. No one came looking. In a moment of weakness five years ago, she had sent her mother a Christmas card and they had begun to write back and forth a little. The pain and ache she was carrying with her when she left, was now all coming back as the bus neared town. She had been mentally abused by the bitch. She had been criticized and ridiculed by her and then served up as dessert to Frank.  She’s dead, she reminded herself. Had she been in time for the funeral, she would have spit on her grave in front of everyone.  She was only coming to steal the rest of what her mother owed her.

                There was an estate, at least that’s what she was told over the phone. She couldn’t remember  what it might be. There was farm land that her Great-grandmother and Great Uncle owned. And a big empty mansion that her Great Uncle lived in. He only used the dining room and kitchen. She didn’t know what else. She had been named executor in the will. Leave it to the bitch to forget everything and keep the land in the family, no matter what.  Winston was supposed to meet her. He had been the one that called to give her the news. Had she written to her mother and had given her a phone number?  She would have to ask about that. Winston said he had been her mother’s friend and he remembered her from high school. He had been the High School Football Coach and a math teacher, she thought. She recalled what he looked like then, but he had to be in his seventies now. He was a little guy.  She wondered how many of the people she had known were still alive and still around. There had to be a few. All those souls that grow up and stay and grow old without going around the block. What was there to see?  All the guys would have bellies and a cough. She felt a little anxious; she knew she wasn’t a beauty any longer. No one in this little Podunk had to know what she had been doing with her life. She could make up anything. Or shock them into leaving her alone if she told them the truth. She’d see how she felt. She was just here to get what she could and then leave.

                The town looked the same. There were more closed store fronts then she remembered. The same wide empty streets with only a few cars. The Courthouse. God, did she really want to do this? The bus stopped downtown, if you could call it that. There was no longer a bus station. She grabbed her purse and got off awkwardly. The suit she had decided on to arrive in was a little tighter than it used to be and the heels weren’t good for bus stairs, but she was trying for a look of big cityness to intimidate old Winston. She didn’t want some grand pappy deciding that he had to take her under his wing. The bus driver was already opening the baggage bin and handing the other woman her suitcase. She had a husband who appeared suddenly to help her. She had the driver just sit her’s on the sidewalk.  He closed up and climbed back aboard and the bus was smoking down the street- on its way to Chicago, or maybe Springfield? She couldn’t remember. She had forgotten the smell. The town smelled like popcorn. There was a cereal mill. They did cornmeal for the world.  It was now two in the afternoon. This now seemed like the loneliest place in all of God’s forsaken places. No one was out. No cars were passing.  She lit a cigarette. How long was she going to have to wait? There was nowhere to sit down. Nowhere to check her bag.  She didn’t think there was a taxi or even public busses here. She’d give him another fifteen minutes and then she had to figure out something else.

                There was a hardware store a half block down the street.  She could get directions and maybe sweet talk the clerk to hold her bag for her. Everyone that was working during daylight hours in this little town was honest. She’d be damned if she was going to lug this suitcase across town on foot. She stamped out her cigarette and pulled the bag down to the entrance. The double doors were propped wide open. She didn’t see a soul. It was an old store, the shelves and racks were all well worn painted wood. A middle-aged man came out of the back. If any man was destined to be a hardware clerk, this guy was.

                “Can I help you?”

                “Hey good-looking!” (He smiled, taken off guard.) “ I was looking for this address. Someone was supposed to meet me, but I guess they didn’t make it.” She showed him the note with the name of the apartment building and the address.

                “It’s not too far. Down this way three blocks and you turn left and it’s only another block and a half. “

                “You mind if I leave my bag with you and come back for it. It’s a little heavy to tote. It’s got everything I own in it.”

                “Who was meeting you? I could give them a call.”

                “You’re real sweet, but I don’t have a phone number. All I have is the number to my mother’s place and she died recently. I don’t think anyone is there.”

                “Sorry to hear that.” He scratched his head. “I could run you over, but I promised to be here for a customer coming for cut glass panes. If you wouldn’t mind waiting a little.”

                “That’s all right, honey. You keeping the suitcase is plenty.”

                “Sorry about your Mama. Who did you say she was?”

                “Mary McIntire.”

                “Really?”

                “Yes.”

                “That means you’re Deidra.”

                “I’ve not be called that in a long time.”

                “Everyone around here thought you were probably dead.”

                “Yeah?”

                “I was a couple of years behind you in school. Everybody was all up in arms when you disappeared. Your Mama told everybody you ran away. But everybody wondered.”

                “It didn’t even occur to me that anyone but my mother would notice that I was gone.”

                “Are you kidding?”

                She had to get out of here. She patted him on the cheek.

                “You’re so sweet. I’ll come back before you close to get it.”

                She lit another cigarette out on the curb and started out, clacking in her heels on the concrete. She honestly had never thought she was missed, let alone noticed at all. How many more people are going to have reactions like that one? She had thought she could just sneak in here, get some money and get out without any trouble.  Wow, famous in the hardware store! She smiled and shook her head.

                A couple of blocks later, her feet were achy and she was working up a glow. Taking off her jacket, could be a little cooler, but she was already getting the attention of everyone going by in a car and the clerks and customers of the shops she passed.  This wasn’t the city. She hadn’t felt this ‘on view’ in years.  A car slowed beside her and then pulled ahead and stopped. A little old man got out on the driver’s side. This had to be Winston.

                “Deidra?”

                “Winston?”

                He came over to shake her hand.

                “Sorry I’m late. I lost track of the time. Boy, have you turned into a looker.”

                His little square face and bald head flushed red.

                “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

                “Don’t worry, hon. I love compliments.”

                That just made him redder still. He backed away and opened the passenger door for her. She climbed in and let him close it for her.  He ran around and climbed behind the wheel even more flushed and out of breath.  She touched his arm. She didn’t want him having a stroke on her.

                “Take a deep breath, hon.”

                He obliged her.

                “That’s better, isn’t it?”

                “Sure. Let’s get over to the apartment. You didn’t have luggage?

                “I left it at a hardware store a couple of blocks back. The guy was real nice. He remembered me from school.”

                Winston circled the block and went back for her bag. He wouldn’t let her get out of the car. He brought it out and popped it in the trunk and then drove her the short way to her mother’s apartment building. He ran the red light in the middle of town. She touched his arm again.

                “No killing your guest, hon.”

                “Sorry.”

                They reached the apartment building. This had belonged to her mother. At least that’s what Winston had said over the phone. It looked like it had about ten apartments. All with doors opening to the outside. All done up in a cheesy colonial look with white shutters and white columns out front. It looked all right by New Orleans standards.  She wanted to ask questions, but she bit her tongue. She didn’t want Winston to know what she didn’t know. She let him come around and open the door for her and then retrieve her bag from his trunk. He led the way to the door that had a little “Manager” sign on it.  It was her mother’s all right. The whiff of Chanel #5 had her almost gagging.

                “Leave the door open, honey. It’s a bit stuffy in here.”

                He handed her the keys. He was still flustered.

                “Are you all right?”

                “I’m ok. She was an old and dear friend.”

                “I never heard anybody say that about her!”

                “You were gone a long time, Deidra.”

                “You know, Winston, nobody’s called me Deidra in twenty years. I don’t think I could get used to it. My friends call me Daydee. They throw nicknames at you in the French Quarter, and that one stuck. I want you to know how much I appreciate your help.”

                “Well, I’ll come back in the morning to get you around to meet everyone and see everything. I have a lawyer friend that’s pretty good at settling estates. How long do you have before you have to get back?”

                “I’m not going back. I thought after everything was settled I might go on to Chicago or maybe Miami. I gave up everything in New Orleans. It seemed to be the right time. “

                “Well, this place will probably seem boring after everything you’ve seen.”

                “I seem to remember some wild things happening right here.”

                He looked at her like a deer who’s about to be run down.

                “I got to go. Seven- thirty too early?”

                “No, that’s fine. Thanks much, honey.”

                He couldn’t wait to get to his car. She stood at the door and waved as he pulled out. He didn’t wave back.

                Part of her wished she hadn’t told him her nickname, but the sound of her real name wasn’t anything that she would react to. She didn’t want to raise suspicions about herself. When her first pimp in the French Quarter drank too much, his mouth filled with cotton and Deidra was too much of a mouthful. No one had to be told that story. Maybe she could come up with a good tall tale about the name.  She kicked off her shoes before looking around. The apartment was an old woman’s, little bric-a brac about, worn furniture with permanently indented seat cushions and that old lady smell. She walked through the apartment and opened all the windows that would open. At least she died clean. No big blood stains anywhere. There was not one picture in the entire apartment. That said something.  The last place she would be willing to sleep was in her bedroom. She found some linen and brought it out to make up the couch when she was ready.  There were a few things in the frig. And whiskey and rum. She started rifling drawers looking for paper, anything that might be a record of some kind. She brought it all out to the kitchen table. There were boxes and an accordion file. She finally took off the jacket and draped it on the back of a kitchen chair. She made herself a bologna sandwich and a rum and diet coke and started sorting through things. She had forgotten the simple pleasure of ketchup and white bread and bologna on her tongue. There was soon a pile of deeds before her. In the bottom of the box she found a photo album. There she was. And her crazy father that disappeared. And her bike and a birthday cake. And the cast on her arm at seven.  Maybe that was the story, Daydee was what her crazy father called her and when she left to make a new life, she changed to the name he had given her.  Everyone in town that was alive way back then probably remembered him.

                She wondered if he ever turned up. She would have to ask. The last memory she had of him was when she was around eight. He had decided to mow the front lawn with no clothes on and she recalled crying and pulling on his arm to try to get him inside and the neighbors watching. The cops came and made him get dressed and then took him to jail. He vanished into thin air right after that. Her mother couldn’t tell her what had happened to him. Then the string of guys started through the house. She had disappeared the same way at sixteen and was ok. Maybe her father was out there somewhere being ok too.  There was a deed to a house out in California here. Maybe he ended up there. She was amazed by what she had found. There two farms, two houses in town, a house over in Indiana, one in California, the cemetery and the apartment building and another little ten acre patch outside of town somewhere. Plenty of stuff to sell for a nest egg. Might take a little while to settle everything.  The record of her mother’s life was all here. Birth certificates, her marriage license and the divorce degree. High school diploma. And weird stuff- a lot of brochures about burial vaults and letters from the First Church of God. She had found Jesus?

                There was a knock on the front screen. A couple that was around her age was outside. They were farm folks. The man had on bib overalls and his wife had that ‘I’ve not been out of my sweats for ten years’ look about her.

                “You’re Deidra?” the guy asked.

                “I guess so.”

                “I’m Frank Harris. You don’t know me yet. I’m the sharecropper on your mother’s land. I heard you just got here today. “

                “Was it on the radio or something?”

                “No, I was over at the hardware store for something- the one you stopped in at.”

                “Well, come on in.”

                Daydee held open the screen for them. They both were acting a little shy. She moved the linen off the couch.

                “Have a seat. Would you like something to drink?”

                They looked at each other. They didn’t sit down.

                “Well, we came with a purpose, Deidra,” the woman said. “I don’t know how much you know about your Mama’s life.”

                Daydee laughed.

                “I can imagine.”

                “Well, you know that she married Samuel Clinton a few years ago?”

                “No, I didn’t.”

                “Well, he was my father. My mother died quite a few years ago. He gave up his house and moved in here with your Mama. He died three years ago. When they consolidated their belongings, a lot of my Mama’s things were nicer than your Mama’s, so she got rid of her old things and they kept my mother’s things. I never felt it was right to come begging for them back, they were married and all. But we’ve been kind of waiting for you to come. We were anxious to get over here, because sometimes folks are in a big hurry to clean things up and they’ll just have the Goodwill come and cart stuff away. If you know what I mean.”

                “Oh.”

                “If this isn’t a good time, we understand.”

                Daydee shook her head.

                “So what stuff were you looking for?

                “Well, these lamps were my Mama’s, and the little elephants. She had some real nice big salad bowls and a serving platter that was hand carved and there were some other things.”

                “Tell you what. Why don’t you go through everything and gather them all here and we can figure it all out.”

                “Are you sure?” the woman asked.

                “Sure. I was just starting to go through all her papers. My mother and I were not close, so you’re not bruising my feelings here. Go for it.”

                 She went back to the kitchen to refill her drink, while the woman headed for the bedroom with her husband in tow. About twenty minutes later they had collected most of the lamps and the little ceramic animals and a couple of nice ashtrays and a large mirror. She moved so they could rifle the kitchen cabinets.

                “I think that’s all,” the woman finally said. “There’s an old mantle clock that my grandmother had. If that shows up somewhere, I ‘d like to get it from you too.”

                “So what do you think?” Mr. Harris asked.

                “Well, you know, I understand these estate things take forever to work themselves out.” Daydee offered.

                “How about a hundred?” he asked.

                “Sold.”

                “We can write you a check,” the wife said.

                “I’ve not even opened an account here yet. Cash would probably be better.”

                He looked in his wallet, she in her purse. They handed her sixty.

                “I can come back with the rest,” Frank said.

                “Tomorrow’s fine. I might be seeing you anyway. Winston is coming to show me around. You’ll be out at the farm?”

                “I’m not sure.”

                “I trust you. When do you want to come get this stuff?”

                “We’ll take it now,” the woman said. “We have boxes.”

                They started carting it all out to their pick-up truck. Daydee held the screen for them.

                “You know, if you want to wrap some of them in towels to keep them safe, I can give you some,”

she offered.

                “Thanks, but I think we’re ok,” the wife said.

                She didn’t come back, remaining at the truck to tuck everything in nicely. Frank stopped to thank her on his last trip. Daydee went back in and then began to wonder if she had made a mistake. There were no lamps left in the house. She’d have to do with the overhead lights tonight. The cash was a happy thing. She only had about a hundred to her name.

               

 Really do not want feedback on this- its a first draft. When there is more and by real writers. But this and banjo is what I'm busy with these days. Thought you might want to know.

               

Smooze

When I want to do it, I can do it really well.

I Guess This Means No

 Whole Foods' response to my email: Music doesn't work with grapes I guess.

Thanks Dan!

Sounds cool!  We are always looking for talent in our community for events.  We will keep your info in mind for any events that we do in the future.  Thanks

laura Martino                                     

Marketing Supervisor

Whole Foods Market ~ Santa Monica

(310)-315-0662

laura.martino@wholefoods.com

P please consider the environment before printing this e-mail

From: Dan McNay [mailto:mcnay@mosis.com]
Sent: Tuesday, April 12, 2011 5:04 PM
To: SP SMC Marketing
Subject: Looking for space for beginning musicians

Hi,

I was interested in setting up a acoustic beginners' jam a couple of times a month on Thursdays. Something like a circle where everyone has agreed upon music and you go around the circle and everyone gets a turn to pick and everyone can play. No plug-ins or mikes. Thought I'd call it: "Anything With A Banjo In It" Maybe put up a Meet-Up for it. Make it free.

I wondered if your store might be interested in hosting it?

Let me know.

Thanks

Dan McNay
310-448-8215

Misc Reading

Just finished a friend's book of poetry about this guy. Good stuff- though not published yet. Sort of a poetic exploration of the creature, Mary Shelly, her sister, the characters in the book. Makes me want to go back and reread the book. I also have Mary Shelly's letters, which I've never read. If I don't give them to the lady that wrote these poems, maybe I read them finally.

 

I had the one of the Mummy when I was kid. Don't think its changed in forty years. Glued it together myself and painted it. Wonder what happened to it. Probably in a landfill somewhere. There was a kid whose father helped him build one of those transparent men things.

Always wanted an old man like that.

Naulins Music

Saw this guy at this place in San Jose.Junkie and they made me run upstairs to use a credit card for drinks. The food was trash poor New Orleans fare.

The Latest

Mandolin Orange - Running Red from Alex Loops on Vimeo.

Forgotten Things

At nineteen I was climbing Mt. Logan with a couple of buddies. I was carrying a camera to take photos from the top for my wife who couldn't climb mountains because of her knee. The marriage was ending. She would go out without me. We barely talked. She went to a shrink with me once- declared that she had been very hurt by me, and wouldn't discuss why and that was it- no more therapy to work anything out. The other two guys on the mountain with me were experienced mountain climbers and this was a day lark for them. I was very tired and at one point was entirely willing to lie down and act out that scene from "Women In Love:" where the guy goes to sleep in the snow- to freeze to death. They came back and got me and got me to go the rest of the way. We were just below the summit it seems. Coming down was a lot easier. I didn't take one picture. Told her I was too exhausted to get it out. (Is that a metaphor or what?) Anyway, was talking the other night and realized that I did know what that feeling was like: lying down to die. It's a whole lot easier to feel that way when you are young. There is no love like the first one for unleashed passion and agony.

Writer's Ed- The Best There Was

This was posted a lot time ago of parties we used to have at the Venice house. The little building with the two windows was our little one car garage that I remodeled into a studio space for me- a place to go write and paint. We had a Writer's Group- Workshop that met there once a month I think- maybe twice a month? David Carren, Rex (that guy standing in the doorway) Jim Badham sitting in the maroon sweater there, me with my hair and baby on knee, Jim Anderson, and Elena and Diane Williams and I tried to get Lorraine and Bobbie Goodwin, but it didn't quite work for them. Anyway, we read everything ahead of time, analyzed and critiqued and made suggestions and tried to help people get where they wanted to go. It probably was the best workshop I've ever attended and I learned a lot. All the folks are off somewhere else now except for Rex and me. The baby on my knee is graduating from college next month and I did finish the novel that I started in this group and self-published it. Those were the days, huh? We're not done yet. I have six pages into my four days working on the first draft of a brand new book. A new song that I'm practicing to get the kinks out- that has a thirty year old chorus that I made up in the shower and brand new verses to make it good. I've given up on the GLAWS writing group. Reached my burn out point. I need people to hold my feet to the fire. 

The Perfect Place

Looking for a new Writer's Group and a new music jam group. Hit up a friend to get a lead on the writers. Called another friend to see if her church would want to host a jam group for beginners. "Everything that has a banjo in it" -hows that for a title. Emailed "The Talking Stick" a coffee house about the music group- haven't received a response. Left a message with Santa Monica Parks & Rec- haven't gotten a call back. Try some more today. If you don't have what you want- go get it- or make it yourself.
Or read "A Winter's Tale" by Mark Helprin - Its a book about building a bridge to no where.