They still won’t let me play catch.


We talk about equality. Concede women might not have the musculature of men, but science tell us women are less susceptible to fatigue than men are. Women have superior stamina, muscle stamina they call it. A higher threshold for pain glaringly evident when we grow and conceive pushing out entire screaming humans. Yet TENNIS doesn’t allow women to play the best of five sets in a Grand Slam tournament?


ON the road to Kukuiula Market



for grass fed beef bones, I recognize those very next up cows grazing in a pasture huddling together under an Acacia tree. A conclave of slave labor they were already in a dug out next in line. Last night I found this spider. A Mediterranean Recluse. I’m wondering about his cousins. But my attention is interrupted and I had to think quick and avoid a black and white kitten laid out in the middle of the road. I decided to drive over straddling around it with my tires. I checked the rearview and it wasn’t ghastly no intestines or squish. I’ve seen disembodied heads turned around, looking alive, eyes fixed down the road. I made a U-ie blocking traffic and took the floor matts from the carwash. I said I’m sorry little guy I thought I might help, regretting a friendship that would never be. I toy with the idea of going back to get him.

f o c u s


The sporting life demands warfare. Especially for the sophomore pure skill will never be enough to sustain the hard grind and practice of winning. The most difficult opponent is a weak one. The wounded or inferior target will present the greatest challenge with a preordained walkover. For that boredom, of court life, the well coached neophyte will find hatred the most bio available fuel for focus and inspiration. Allowance for the agile mind to suspend time and repetition in games where points come in flurries of just seconds of doubt. The monologue controlled with silent oaths and storytelling must be so detailed of tooth ~ to dupe the listener.

h o r r o r ~ s c o p I c

Safari - Aries Horoscope: Daily & Today | Horoscope.comI was told at a young age that I would be a leader. President even. A naturally born idea person. Or so I was told. If you read and I read. Even a cursory investigation into astrology and particularly those born under the sign ~ ARIES.  Know very well what I’m describing. These assignments we are given are a curiosity ONLY.  To the principal’s office. A daughter of divorce. That is what I am? This is why they call it SHRINKERY this over simplification of our schtick. Now that I know how I feel there is nothing except paying for the therapist to fall asleep on me again. Today my deep thoughts are running toward circumnavigating a roof that keeps this house too hot. This pitch has proved problematic. No more heavy eyelids I’m not buying it.

How to DYI solo in the age of trash ?


The planet is burning and I’m buying too many olives. One CAN alone of the Sicilian’s could feed a restaurant. I’m learning to cook and I have to start with beginning recipes. My first dish is to be a MIXED OLIVE FIESTA. The complex part will be infusing the oil. Amassing all the seasoning, the twist of lemon, the orange rind, a bay leaf, pepper flakes and the coup de gratis the fennel seeds. Really I’ve heard, it all comes down to flavoring the fat. But, since I won’t be able to eat all of it and John won’t be back until Christmas I’ve hesitated on moving forward. So much waste. I’ve tried to calculate exactly how many olives I’ll have to eat each day but the back ordered olives keep coming from Amazon. Its like cheese you can buy a huge hunk but when it comes to the nitty gritty can you really suck down an entire wheel and if you can’t then what? This trash I make I don’t know how to stop it.

Puppy Chow

With her annual offerings of holiday ambrosia or kugel you might speculate that my mother was a deft homemaker. Her ethos was positively Betty Crockerian. Frozen or canned the end justified the means. A dollop of preserved apricots topped her famous egg noodles. Del Monte tropical fruit cocktail, the rusted & expired cans first, stirred into Cool Whip and marshmallows. Mother’s cooking was a sensation and compliments encouraged encores. When CeCe’s mother had a blind date I saw this special event as my coming out to cater. Mother had stocked up on OLD FEDCAL liquor and I would use that, make a special aperitif and offer up hors d’oeuvres. Using locally sourced ingredients from my mother’s kitchen like FEDCO spices that she kept decades past their best used by date. Mother didn’t believe in trash or land fills or pampered palates. I might have been testing her philosophy when I concocted these finger foods, very grand using a silver etched antique platter, lace doilies. I piled high on the Ritz. According to CeCe’s mother, I was a worthwhile person. Although she would never choose a treat from my passing tray, she understood my work. We were just that close, if not a second mother, a spiritual mentor. She knew what I had to offer, and what I put into everything, and she was always so proud to host me. Even when CeCe was mad, Bonnie was always standing by laughing and crying.



Ensar Oud ~ Private Blend

Making sense of my newest slip. More of an avalanche really at Ensar Oud. If you haven’t seen this video I recommend watching it. (If you collect smoke and perfume:)) I am a recent victim of his brilliant campaign to sell Bambi testicles, or meat Parfum.

Beginning with the most apprecitive guttural groan. With an all star cast including a buddhist monkette begging for the only bottle in existence of this Private Blend. Never inquiring as buddhist’s will sometimes do into the humanity or treatment of the musk deer. I believe if I do believe in past lives that I was NOT a legend but likely a deer, hiding, not wanting to get my privates snared. But I lost my mind to teacher and he is a fine teacher, suggesting the PRIVATE BLEND was a ride, an atom bomb of animalistic sensuality.

I found instead a blood relative of EO2. With a candy opening that immediately exploded, which was a cool party trick and then became musk with pink pepper corns popping like pop corn. I basically bought the naked emperor’s wardrobe, just a stitch on the hem, 10mil. Hopefully I will find someone more discernible than myself to buy from me. Please.

It wouldn’t have been such a dark day for my learning curve and wallet had the disciples at EO included an LTD sample. Perhaps they don’t see me as part of an elite worthy of sniffing the finest elixirs. They might even suggest that my writing is a blackmail when really my earnest wish is this, that samples might be offered. Or even sizes that each of us might glimpse before jumping. The way Tyson does it. See his sparkling attar. Without any hype. And Tyson could say that no one has made attar like this for centuries. The delivery was a clean sparkling transcendent dream catcher.

Let godhead rain.

I once lived in Santa Monica with a buddhist. He was not content with our cohabitation. He complained to our therapist that I made the floor dirty and he was constantly hunched over following me around the house to clean up after. Marriage was out of the question and he asked me to move. For the interim we still lived together and even entertained other roommates. With his newly acquired monk status we had monk visitors flying in from Tibet. What surprised me most about living with a buddhist was the value placed on money and transitory materials, stuff like like my stuff. I wasn’t prepared for that.

r e v e r s e c o w


x reverse cow

I’ve been trying to scramble my dreams. Leaving on the Hallmark Channel for true crime all night. INVESTIGATION DISCOVERY. I have the end now. That’s all. The calf around my neck in rigor that I brake bones to splinter off. Moaning from a dumpster, I kicked off my crocs to climb in. Vaguely remembering I slammed it to the ground on a third attempt to kill it and then the disposition. I left “it” transmogrified. A tire flattened chicken with splayed feathers. A dreamcatcher. The moo baby barely moving could only suckle and wanted comfort. It didn’t know it was dying. I gave over my breast and neck confounded. What kind of killer am I?

Little Bit of Country Mixology for my Roxy Girls and NOT Name Droppings

I met John Belushi at a private club on Sunset called ON THE ROX. I had been working downstairs as the backstage waitress for the Roxy Theatre. Setting up dressing rooms with whatever a band’s rider/ contract might stipulate. Regularly troughs of beer, water, cases at a time packed in ice.

Whatever was required. Willie De Ville was too dope sick to go on stage at the Whiskey. He was given supplements, not cheerfully, but what was the alternative, really?

My boss, ex Chicago cop, Elmer Valentine had invited me to work upstairs at ON THE ROX.  Christened a “morgue” by Rod Stewart, ON THE ROX only had a membership of 50 individuals at that time. You might see a Rolling Stone or a Beatle or a Laker. Much like an airport the stars used it as a sort of waiting room coming or going some place else. Depending on their work schedules landing for a tour, or a movie, principal photography or post. It was so exclusive it was uninhabited.

For example Jim Harrison one of my favorite writers at the time didn’t live in California but when he rolled into town he would meet with a friend for a drink. Jim and his pal Jack Nicolson might be the only two people in the club for the entire evening. With the variable of Harry Dean Stanton a regular, but Harry even when he was present was perhaps the quietest man I had ever sat with. He wasn’t uninterested in me. He asked  me out on a date, which if I had had any sense I would have gone but I calculated he was too old for me. Anyway what would we talk about?

Harry could sit comfortably for hours without a word. I would play music on the tape deck when I wasn’t staring at the bar. I noticed flecks in some of the bottles floating almost swimming in just the right light, wondering if it was all real and normal. Harry might eventually pick up my nylon string guitar and play. Sometimes I howled along guessing syllables to a heartfelt Mexican cantata. Harry presented me with 2 gifts. A hat and a book. THE TAO OF POOH. 

On the  particular night that I am drawing your attention to, ON THE ROX was actually buzzing.  Insular with “A” listers indulging their desire to be left alone to commune with their own kind. My focus was a little red cocktail recipe book that I had purchased across the street. I had never made a Margarita before. We had triple sec, check, limes, a blender. I had heard peripherally and from Tom Scott specifically sitting at the bar, that John Belushi was in town, doing the movie NEIGHBORS, and wanted to replace him?!  They had been great friends once and now he was devastated that John had not come to him directly but that he had to find out from someone else. And so here he was rehearsing how he would approach John.

John Belushi was a presence although I wasn’t sure exactly when he arrived. He was just  suddenly he was in the house and everywhere at once. He had commandeered the stereo and was blasting FEAR and pogoing in and out of the rich and famous denizens. Perhaps I should have known that this situation would need to be tempered but I didn’t. Lou Adler my boss, a deliberate and calculated thoughtful man spoke to me. His usual reticence addressing me I attributed to his preference for blonds. Although that night I had a half a head of blond hair freshly bleached on the crown ~ the work of the great punk hair-dresser ATILLA. Lou actually spoke to me, and said and this a loose paraphrase, contain him or else. 

I was a bit afraid. Lou almost never spoke to me. I had learned if nothing else besides making drinks at ON THE ROX. That silence was a craft onto itself used by those in the acting profession especially as an implement of control. It wasn’t shyness. Maybe sometimes. And in this case it wasn’t TAO. I had no idea how it would go but I basically physically had to corral John to speak to me concerning his choice of music. He was immediately compliant and a bit stupefied as to what exactly the big deal was? Weren’t we having fun? I know I was. I told him I preferred FEAR to this other crap and I snorted to illustrate that, as I replaced his cassette with KIM CARNES. I knew Lou Adler’s taste and he would choose BETTY DAVIS EYES.

The next time John came to the club he brought Derf Scratch. (Fred backwards.) The bass player for FEAR. We all were immediate chums. There would be road trips with Derf when John was back in Chicago there was never a lull when John was in town. With the club all to ourselves that first night we blew out the speakers with FEAR and smoked blunts and jumped around the empty club ordering Chinese from the private chef.

John noticed my guitar and listened to my story of getting kicked out KOMMUNITY FK for basically having a job and wanting to get paid for a gig. After that when John came to town we would get together and jam. We wrote detailed sappy country songs and sang howling doggrel harmonies. We had this idea of making an album, getting at least a set together, recording. Usually we would go to Derf’s house or to John’s hotel. I was the chauffeur. I had no idea John Belushi dabbled in heroin. I knew he was married and he didn’t hold that against me. I was star struck driving his Mercedes, with the top down, Sunset Blvd, with the music cranked, with John and Derf.  I do like expensive cars. Cars that command respect. But I prefer poor people to commune with but John was an exception. 

We spent hours going over the same song, writing and rewriting. When I got fired from ON THE ROX I was bummed. I didn’t know who I was anymore. The job had become my identity. Derf told John what had happened and stuck John on the phone. I figured he wouldn’t want to be friends anymore. He said you’re so much better than that lame waitressing job. I’ll be in LA in a few weeks. They did you a favor. Fuck them. That was the last time we spoke. My friend was dead within a few weeks and everything seemed really quiet again. 

Healing Network

healing network

On their second play date, OREO a black obese recent rescue trashed the house. Plowed right through the screen door. Making it a flap. Trampled the rugs and wood floors. I had filled up a small pool outside and left the front door open so the dogs wouldn’t stray beyond the chicken wire fence. Meeschoo was so pumped, she ran laps as fast as she could.  

Oreo itched.  I had treated him on the sly less than a month ago on his last play date so I knew it wasn’t fleas but I checked anyway with a comb, fanning his fur back and forth. He would almost buckle itching on one hind leg. Then I noticed that Meeschoo was getting really really itchy and so was I. 

When John was here, he would remind me that dogs itch. It would help me pardon the thought, she’s probably just nervous, and finds some release in the gnawing on herself. It got worse at night, the licking and itching for both of us. I checked us for lesions and scrubbed. Googled pustules. Found no evidence of bed bugs or crop circles. We’ve both been bathed in hydrogen peroxide, tea tree, and aloe vera. The comforter too is boiling in over 100 degree temperatures, on its second cycle. All of the linens and clothes in the closet have been piled up and moved out. The carpet vacuumed with the stand up and hand models. Still our scalps itch. I have a headache. 

Something is wrong with my throat. I called 2 vets and made an appointment for tomorrow. One of the vets had a secretary who stated emphatically they would only treat the dog. I said, I KNOW THAT. She said mites were impossible on Meeschoo with NEXguard chewables. I had gently dug around in Meeschoo’s ear with a q-tip and found nothing mite like. I called Kevin, Oreo’s owner very late, and left a message telling him he might have scabies or mange. When I woke up I remembered, the way an 8 ball answer rises from the murky depths. That I had contracted this “issue” years ago and now with stress it came back, a calling. I have to cancel the vet appointment. Figure out what to tell Kevin.