"We're running, Keep holdin' my hand, so we don't get separated.."


It's that long stretch between the big holidays (xmas and new years) and the next one. Valentine's Day. Which sucks if you don't have a Valentine. And sometimes sucks even if you do. I barely remember Valentine's Days past. Boo fucking hoo. Get your hankies.

It was brought to my attention that I am not charging enough for the work I do. Hmm, raising my rates might alleviate some of the debt. Do you think? It just seems weird to charge people for what seems like fun. Seems, until it gets to be a drag. Anyway. I was assigned a book called "The Business Side of Creativity," which I will get to as soon as I finish the much more interesting and much less status-quo-threatening "All She Was Worth." A kick in the ass to make sure I'm not undervaluing myself.

My daughter is back in new york. she was excited to go back. but she finds the environment a little weird. hell, she ain't gonna read this. she said everyone seemed "dead." The general atmosphere of excitement and curiosity and outrageousness and whatever - it was gone. maybe it's just sophomore year. an awakening to the reality of life.
are you waiting for a definition? I don't know. Maybe it's that people get older and tired and settle into their ways. and they want to just get things over with. enough challenges. enough thinking. tell me how to wrap the cheeseburger and how much do i charge. I tried to explain to her that that is why I find myself making friends with and being attracted to younger women. people who still have that zest and drive and curiosity. that shit that gets kicked out of you as you get older. just bring me my martini and give me the preparation H. don't make me think. turn on the television and let me laugh.

did i ever mention the day i moved out to los angeles? I got here at six in the morning. i parked outside the apartment of some friends. and waited for three hours until a decent time. I knocked on the door and my friend let me in. happy to see me. we brought in my stuff. had a cup of coffee. i had written a play for his wife and a celeb... i was going to stay with them for a while... la dee da...
And then his wife walked into the kicthen, slapped a newspaper across my chest and said, "Find a job, find a place to stay, because you aren't staying here." Welcome to fucking L.A. And for some goddamn reason i stayed. I found another friend who let me use his place while he was out of town. Eventually got my own place. But the warm welcome left me in a state of shock for a long time.
And the punchline? This woman, the wife, is now on a big sitcom. I'd use some bad language, but I'm trying to quit. I keep thinking there must be a reason, I must have done something. But you know what I figured out? Some people are just fucking assholes.

Uh... uhhh... Did I show you this?

Who cares?
Anyway, at the moment, I seem to be pretty happy. But I've been there before. In the hallucination of happiness. Drag through the days, do some work. Getting my class together. Trying to impart something I'm not sure if I have myself. Fearlessness to create personal work with attitude. And here I sit, painted with yellow tempra, hiding my face. No, wait. I painted it to make the statement. Little yellow heart. That's my indian name. Char used to mock me for the lengths I would go to just to set up a picture. Painting my face was like... well... like a drug story...

Okay. Enough.

I thought I was past the nun phase, but they're all still in my house and they wind up in photos...

I want to get a bunch of people together and go in on a hefty gift certificate to Saks Fifth Avenue for Winona Ryder. Something to help. After all, she is a Liz Phair fan. And that, in my book, gets you at least a fifty dollar gift at Saks. Why can't they just leave celebrities alone?
Where the hell else are you supposed to practice for a part? How much business has this drummed up for Saks? Consider Beverly Hills a playground for the celebs. So, at the worst, she should get a detention. If she gets community service, I have a couple of back doors that desperately need painting. Seriously. I don't want her handing plates of food to people in a shelter. They can get their own food. I need someone with an artistic flair to paint my doors.
'Nonie, we're behind you, kid.

my olympic event
rock sliding

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