Christmas and Hollywood; Blood, Fights and Fun

Christmas 1011

I guess the things I like best about this time of year are the little lights in the dark.

He flies.  That’s what’s to think about.  He flies.  St. Lucy walks the northern nights unburned.  He flies. It doesn’t matter whether with reindeer or not, or with what other fanciful beasts or not. He flies.  He flies above the little lights, set against snow or darkness or moonlight.  He flies around as the darkest nights of the year push the darkest days aside, especially up here on Mystery Island where the sun is now going down at four, instead of at ten  six months from now.  The light comes and the light goes and when it goes, he flies.

Down below him, we set out the little lights. We don’t care about him, we care about them.  He doesn’t exist, after all, and they do.

Two months ago we went down to Hollywood for four shows with the Firesign Theatre at the 300-seat Barnsdall Gallery Theatre, a kind of adjunct to the famous Frank Lloyd Wright Hollyhock House, surrounded by a small park right off Hollywood Boulevard near Vermont.  Technically, that would be East Hollywood, edging closer to Mixville and the old haunts of the Early Firesign Theatre, but right in the middle of my past life – pre-FST – when I was a kind of Shakespearian actor stuck in a town where life revolves around film and other technologies unimagined – I imagine – by smartass college boys of the late Sixteenth century. I think I appeared in Twelfth Night outdoors in the little Barnsdall park, somewhere in the Sixties of the last lamented century.  I remember we dressed in the Hollyhock House itself. I always liked wearing tights in all those Shakespeare plays, because almost all girls would tell me that I had nice legs.  The way parts of my body looked were much more important then. I had a kind of brutal, intelligent approach to Shakespeare.  I figured it was my job to explain to the audience what the hell we were talking about and the actual acting and so forth came second.

So two months ago we had our own theatre for a little while, we four imitators of Sixteenth century smartasses. All partnerships become exercises in equality.  Shakespeare tended to write a lot about balance and imbalance and the teeter-totter of their union is a kind of exercise in equality and inequality.  We four partners are as interested as ever, each of us, in getting each his way.  The impossibility of ever fully achieving that had better turn to laughter, or we’re in the wrong business. It’s like four guys trying to operate four – not two – teeter-totters. There’s some running involved, some strategy, some things unsaid and some things way too said. You get the picture.  Laughing while desperately trying to reach the open end of a teeter-totter that’s low enough in your direction to get you onboard. Ah, the Firesign Theatre, back in business as big storms and rain swept over the City of the Queen of the Angels just before the Big Blonde’s birthday.

It really helps that we’re all getting along so well.  We had fun, through it all, and wound up at our house after the last show, up until two or three in the morning, drinking and smoking with friends we’ve all shared for over forty years. It’s really fun to watch Oona and Melinda at a party, because they’re both so incredibly personable.

And then the next night, she and I went to the last party of the week, about a quarter-mile over the crest of the hill toward Laurel Canyon to the rented home of our friend the Genuine Movie Star, who’s in town shooting a TV series and after staying in our house with his family for a minute, has rented a house a little ways away. We took the dogs because he and Mrs. Genuine Movie Star love dogs and have thousands themselves at their home in the East. It’s a long story.  Lets just say we laughed like idiots, that a cat attacked an actor, that an actor got really mad at a Sports Agent who made billions collecting stamps, that another Beautiful Movie Star told Oona the entire odd story of her romance and children by and with the Really Famous Good Actor Movie Star and where I finally got to meet Mrs. Invention, who’d lived a couple of hillside blocks away from us for thirty years, yet we’d never met. I just can’t tell you how much fun this all was, not only laughing with old and new friends, but searching for bandages in a household where ziplocs are considered tools of the Devil, where Green is a religion of everyday concern.  Blood everywhere and there are no paper towels (towels of the Devil) to be found.  In the bathroom, Mr. Star bleeding, surrounded by beautiful women whom he is making laugh hysterically while Mrs. Invention pours sugar on the cat wounds, Oona sends me out to the car for bandaids.  It’s a beautiful night in my old town and as fun as ever when it isn’t crapping all over you.

I hadn’t been in Hollywood in some nine months and our house there seems huge compared to what is basically a beach cabin up where we live so much now.  The Hollywood house is very small too, but an architectural gem a mile above Hollywood Boulevard in the hills between Laurel and Hockney Canyons.  We’ve got an acre there and it’s quieter and more filled with wildlife than the Mystery Island place.  I saw a bobcat at the end of the little street that bounds our bottom lot line.  A bobcat.  The towhees are still there and the hummingbirds and the wacky ravens that feed on the fig trees that arch over the garage on the flat roof of which the deer feed.  I’m going to hate to have to sell that house, but we’ve got to face the facts someday soon.  We’re Mystery Islanders now and Hollywood, strange and wonderful as it is, doesn’t need us or we it much more.

Well, two months later and the little lights are out and all the sacred stuff that covers every flat surface of our house up here up north is out.  All the little stuff among the little lights punching colored holes in the darkest dark of the year.

He flies above teeter-totterers.  He doesn’t care and neither do I.  We’re both imaginary.


80 thoughts on “Christmas and Hollywood; Blood, Fights and Fun

  1. Where do you go for a testiclemonial as to the state of surgical repair these days? Why right here, of course. But I might go to faceboot if I wanted to see the printed phrase, “Ken Nordine has confirmed you as a friend.” I always suspected we could get along if we just spent more time together.

    Tim Id

  2. Yay! Phil joined Facebook. Now go befriend Ken Nordine, Phil! I was inspired by Mark’s posting above and decided to try for myself, and damned if Ken didn’t give me the same breathtaking reply he did to Mark.

    Should I tell Ken I have a copy of “Love Words”? He used to tell fans “if you ever find a copy of this LP, sit on it”.

  3. It was the day before Phrydae, and all through the house, every creature was staring, if I couldn’t carry-on without. Well, it’s quarter to four and I’ve have been up at least twice during the night, with my only company of not being seen. The last thing seen, before going horizontal, was Charlie Rose, with an interview that could make any decent person shutter. The real grabber, in it all, was the prediction of a “double dip,” from the toxic assets being held for future maturity dates, in the near future, two-thousand eleven and so forth. No restructuring of the institution, with no new bylaws, leaves a time bomb for future disasters to repeat with impunity. The banks have profited from not doing business, at the expense of the American taxpayer. Some courage now, with great opposition from lobbyists, could give the average American half a chance, having any future in the next decade. Presently, all indicators are up, but with a smaller staff doing it and with almost the complete elimination of the middle class or what would resemble it. You have to wonder, if what little money you have, is safe, anywhere, in this environment. Even a reasonable deposit used for a purchasing purpose would be worth less, in the uncertain immediate future.

    If this is all true or even partially true, that illusion of my retirement being right now, could be more of a reality, than thought before. Living for the moment, with no hold on the future has a mysterious ring and makes for great pause, to wonder if these old bones can weather the winds that will blow, in the future. Those visions of tribal living might be more than a passing thought. Sometimes, forces tap you on the shoulder, with that brief daydream in passing and with all the significance of just being a surreal thought, you move past it. There is more to be considered, between heaven and earth, if given that simple moment of consideration. The Wild West could have more of a future, than thought before, assuming it could never happen again, so many years in our nation’s future. We have all been here before . . .

  4. fourface is an app on top of foursquare. Real tea is finally catching up to where 4 or 5 crazy guys were 40 years ago. Yikes! But nobody can have just one Charge-R-Card.

    Facebook is really anti-social networking, but then again, Altamont was the predictable end of the summer of love in 20/20 hindsight. If blogging is millions of people masturbating in the corners of n-polygonal rooms, FB is millions more getting drunk and lying face down in it. There is no productivity paradox, this workers paradise we’ve created is all there is. Who needs drugs, we’ve got computers!

  5. Needless-to-say, I logged in about three, last night, a slight increase from the previous ones, but, for some reason, never being more than, always meaning to pick up the pieces and never get it in one session or night.

    I tend to hold the two states, closer, and side-by-side, where one looks over to see the other, from time-to-time. The cast of characters seem to differ, in appearance and logic, often making the statement, with no conception of intent or meaning, but the surreal is real, really, you just haven’t met it, yet, that’s all.

    Too many images rushing in from the other side, just like tossing trash over the fence, when sitting quietly, and splitdreaming takes the lead, once again. For the moment, I’ll let it parallel exist, while not focusing attention, figuring, it can take care of itself, having done it before, so much for reality busting.

  6. Not wanting to break tradition, last night was only two and a quarter hours; I could have slept in, but once up, it’s all about the fascination, that’s just out of reach, far enough to be without you. Looking over that fence is a long practiced habit, knowing all the moves, and where things should be, without actually ever being involved. that passive look, the depressed brow, and never being surprised. Pulling past the mundane, lifting the pieces, and looking for that connection, I might have not seen it, before. Would I even know it, if it was right in front of me? So many things just slipped by with no effort, never knowing what or who they were. The best could have passed already, and who would be the last to know, when all the pieces were never in a neat row? Given every opportunity, would you have the sense to put all the pieces together, lined up silently, standing like old neighbors talking, a familiar old thing, a simple found quality? After practicing a practice, often a second nature, on the demeanor and condition of the weather and where it put you, in the meantime, there it found you; setting there all the time.

    Don’t stare too hard, or you might see past, to where you don’t want to be, in the first place. What was old is new, and maybe the other way, too. But, what is it, never having any age? The wrong questions asked, and reaching for the ring, it was all about what was happening in between, that slide of thought not seen, a simple moment’s urge for fascination, the way before that first motion, of feet planted, on the way to find out. Has anyone seen where they put the weather, set the scene with every moment in between. Cross the T’s, dot the I’s, and underline the title, never wanting to be caught in mid-sentence, then following the period, one begets the other, than the next. I have been here before, knowing each of the words well.

  7. I went to see Sarah, to have that talk,
    with any chance, if it was true,
    would be welcomed.

    All conversations spent,
    in the past, were pats on the back,
    a greeting to know her better, in a word’s way.

    As the years passed,
    and circumstance of her mortality parted our ways,
    the words came from within,
    a whimsical embrace of the spirit.

    I was the one standing on the other side of the divide,
    while she on her side looking through,
    and sometimes past me,
    as I only knew there was no touch between us.
    What can I say, but silence?

  8. If we keep at this rate, it’ll be next Christmas, soon, or any other chosen holiday you want to observe and celebrate.

    Maybe moving Christmas to the middle of the year, just after The Fourth?

  9. It might have been two hours, but I’m not quite sure. With only taking things in little bits, you can’t really tell, where one transitions, without episode, into the next, and one begot another, when they weren’t even allowed. It’s one of those mysteries or being the one, last on a whisper chain, where truth and what you were talking about, to begin with, are far removed from reality and truth. Welcome to the surreal world, where all roads lead in all direction, at once.

    Believing in diversification is one things, and choosing not to go, has to be another matter. Let’s strictly commit to paused thinking, but not as fast as most would like. Then-again, fast is never fast enough, with the complete lack of patients always applying to almost everything, at the same time. Oh, by the way, make a choice, yesterday.

    At best, and for sanity’s sake, you quickly turn that off, standing in the silent realm, only to pan visually, from side-to-side. Alice would have had more luck going through the rabbit’s hole, if that was on the list of choices. The mundane and the ordinary have to be dressed up, to look like ‘the choice of the century,’ in gold guild. That only relegates to narrow the list, and aiming lower, so not to be easily disappointed or surprised, when all doesn’t flow that well, after. I never did want that pony for Christmas; too much clean up, following its main entrance. Being a responsibility, you have to step into, to appreciate; leave your shoes at the door.

    All of it doesn’t make any sense, unless you’ve been there to appreciate the view. Pass the sun screen, put on the shades, and watch the sun exposure. It’s a long bake in the sun, with your eyes closed, and the sound of the surf, somewhere out there, just beyond your reach. For the moment, everything is held in limbo, or simply the complete lack to make any choice or commitment, for the most immediate moments, and then your neighbor’s next one, too. Everything simply halts and goes into a circling hold pattern, and questioning why there ever was a race to begin with. Even contemplating your navel becomes too-much of a complex choice. Turn the light switch off, at the wall, wasting the effort is far too wasteful, if there ever was one to begin with. Pull the handle, on the wish machine, and ask for a million dollars, but continue to walk past, not dwelling on it.

    Now, while you were away, on commercial break, Andy Hardy decided to hold a musical, right here, with his girl friend, Judy. It justifiably seemed like the right thing to do, without any charts written and no musicians hired, all trivial matters to be ironed out later. Smile for that closing shot, the camera’s focusing in, close and long. I was always out, getting the popcorn and jujubes, anyway, missing that part entirely and coming back when the credits were being run, at the end. The classic story of my life, only to see who, but not what happens in the interim.

    Curtain’s drawn, lights coming up, and everybody exiting to the right. It’s been another one, again.

  10. It could have been the other one, but all seems to have gone missing. So where did it all go? Everyone I knew and have known, went, as if they were only meant to be a memory.

    Any of the excuses, but always the eventuality, succumbed to not endure, and wink out of existence, not having the strength to stay longer. Am I the only one that remembers, while standing alone?

    With all going hastily, being quietly absorbed into that single moment, and for nothing else, being contained in that culmination, means nothing but yourself.

  11. It was one of those days, that could have been any other, but it was the only one presented. Other options of waking up, elsewhere, was out of the question. Although, it might have been a change, that could have held my interest, something out of the ordinary. With no challenge, other than getting through it, the mundane seems to have the upper hand, accepting anything to simply fill the empty space, taking up air and preventing the total collapse from within, and on either side of boredom’s wit, to the plain and simple nothingness, in between. ’ Better treat it well or they will even take away all of your every-things, leaving you to define beyond a loosely fitted boredom and void. Taking away the very essence of what it is to complain is enough to push anything or anyone over the edge, just suffer in silence with nothing to say. The average will take that as being content in equanimity, but we all know who’s composure it really is. Don’t we?

  12. You want to talk about flying by the seat of your pants, while I, personally, don’t even know where I will land, at any point in the future. You like things to be wide-open, but to the point of a wide expanse, with no borders, is mind boggling. The only thing you have left is what is left of you physical endurance, to perform another mindless job for the minimal, once again. This unemployment has to be the longest ever experienced, for one stretch of time. I may have not lived during ‘The Thirties,’ but this version will do as a substitute. Let’s hope, it doesn’t come to a black-and-white photo, I remember seeing, of a woman and her children eating grass off a front lawn. Those visions of things potentially going tribal, might not be that far-fetched, not because of societal changes, but strictly economical.

    On a broader macro front, if the Chinese ask for much of their debt, to come due, they could end up owning a far chunk of this country, as default collection of what is owed. If not that, at least a buyer’s market, much like the Japanese during the eighties, acquiring several assets, here. While that seems really out-there, no one ever thought there would be this crash, even as little as three years ago. They all thought we were recession/depression proof, and had learned our lessons from the past.(only to repeat) In the past thirty or more years, we have gotten away from government housing, as an answer to making it affordable for many who couldn’t, and demolishing many buildings. What has gone around, has appeared, again. This is the time to construct many of those government affordable apartment buildings and housing, before all those previously failed 401K run out, during their retirement, and there is no safety net, to call a home or food to eat. If the housing is already in place to cushion that effect, it could be one less thing to contend with, in the future.

    It’s a strange tickle, in the back of your head, telling that you are where you’re suppose to be, for the moment, and better to be poised to move with the next thing coming down the pike. That, and I will win the lottery, twice in a row, too.

    Pardon the soapbox, please . . .

  13. ‘Hope things work out for Peter and the Great Oz.
    Gotta give him a whole lot of credit for patients and a positive point of view.
    Best Wishes and all of that, please

  14. Then there was that other time, when there was a four-pound, eight dollar box of assortments. It was a contest of how many different ones could be tried at once and all the caffeine and sugar took over, dripping out of the corner of her mouth, too much was just enough, knowing what was waiting on the other side, after this confection was finished.

    Wrap your life around those few practiced habits of likes and dislikes, watch some soap operas and then a well timed treat, that’s what got one person though a lot of long countless days. But not everywhere had candy, as her living scene changed, to her ever progressing physical disability or simply what MS took away in physical coordination.

    If you could freeze a moment with a chocolate delight or a nugget creamy, and for that very brief time, a God given pleasure in taste and sharing, with all the people who took the time to sit with her, in simple conversation.

    It’s one less moment spent, with what people take for granted, while she was looking at your face, as in the same company of more than one, instead of the emptiness from within, consuming us all, individually What of the gossip that breaks up the boredom, when she lived in a Section Eight subsidized apartment complex?

    It’s the small things she held onto, when everything else left her behind. So eat the chocolate, smoke that last cigarette, and maybe, a Western might be on the TV. It’s the ‘Rifleman,’ with Chuck Connors, her childhood crush, when she could walk and be whole, at that time in space, yet physically in her mind and in her past.

  15. “When everything else left her behind” reminds me of my wife, a lost weekend in Mexicali and street vendor ceviche. I apologize in advance.

    Peso Doble

  16. Talking about her vises, Sarah Ann’s, I don’t mean them as criticism, but traits making up the complexity that made her who she was and is in all the hearts of those that hold her dear. Besides the people who she knew and encountered, everyone knew she loved to smoke, a simple vise or pleasure, maybe both.

    It filled a void with some momentary pleasure from not being ambulatory, at any and all and the hours of the day, always staring at you in the face, taking you on that open highway of endless daydreams, alone. It was the accent to the day, like the wallpaper on the wall. It was always there when she could or afford to have that white cloud surround her, comforting her on all sides. Sometimes they were measured of when and how many. It was a matter of budget and how many were left, until the next time. Getting to the store or someone else buying them for her, she depended on people as much as she was addicted to the cigarettes. When her quasi-budget was fat, it was name brand, any other time, the cheapest possible, as long as they smoked and had tobacco in them

    When coordination with her main right hand became compromised, she became a left-handed person and that’s where she held her smoke, right there. It’s like a close buddy you always make accommodation for, no matter what, filling that empty space and always floating lightly in the air.

    Even when they put ‘The Patch’ on her, it never deterred her from lighting up. But, she would shiver from the extra dose of nicotine, that was produced by the patch and all the additional smoked cigarettes, but it was still her self-declared right, or wrong. It was all the conversations and the company she kept, and really so much more than all of nicotine’s bad habit. The experience was so embedded into the very fabric of her being, a given relief from the long time spent in the loneliness of MS.

    When she accepted her delicate condition, it made the time pass easier and the cigarette, in-hand, was that much extra, as the white cloud circled around her head. It couldn’t be helped, being the persuasion of her total sociable experience, whether it was smoking by herself, or in the company of non-smokers or not. It was first and foremost the person, not the physical act, making the habit so distantly unrelated and secondary. It was always the company she kept and it was an understood given, if you were ever in her company and loving concern.

    It’s strange sometimes. I would mind when other people smoked, being a nonsmoker, but never when it came to Sally. I even went as far as to hold her cigarette, when she had trouble with her physical hand coordination, as the result of being hampered by the onslaughts and effect of MS.

    Was I concerned, with the smoke, or could it be, one of the few simple pleasures a wheelchair-bound person enjoyed? Sometimes, you have to see past the obvious, and be selfless, seeing the other point-of-view. It was always the person, first, even if the habit wasn’t her best health pastime. While those few extra moments that were given to something she had control over, smoking was what little she did have, when MS was completely dominate and always front and center in her life. A draw on her cigarette and the long stare into the oblivion of uncertainly, a stunted future, saying, this is what little I have, now, this very moment.

    It was always the things, most people wouldn’t even consider “all that important” and something so inconsequential, by most. Quite often, it was all that she had, making due on disability, and all the little things, mattering the most. Maybe, by chance, it was someone who stopped by or a cloud from smoking, when there was nothing or no one else. It was more in the believing of who she was, and quite often, I saw past the smoke screen and overlooked what appeared to be a minor inconvenience.

    Simple and few were the pleasures that she called her own, and could financially afford, defining in the most basic way, that moment in time with her cigarette (holding everything in paused-slow motion).

    Then-again, the subject came up, to quit smoking and maybe get healthy, . . . for what? ( A simple and direct question ) At the time, he resided in a nursing home, after, previously, living in an efficiency handicap apartment. As the MS advanced, her independent living receded, with the aid of others, making up the difference. But, it wasn’t just that, other people assumed every aspect of her life. Sometimes, it was the small things that defined who she was, that they questioned and thought their habits and pastimes were always her’s, as well. Quite often, the nursing staff equating themselves as her, as if they ever experienced the wrath of MS, and they would deny one of her most basic and simple pleasures, smoking. What was looming, in her future, was bigger and more terminally lasting, than the act of smoking could ever affect.

    Her only vice and pleasure, while waiting for that big one, ever looming and ready to strike home for the last time, was always in that background, unspoken to her. At the same time, it was always about all the moments, before, of how many more of them might there ever be, in the immediate future.

    While at the nursing home, the imposed nurses’ will, of “no more smoking” was attempted. The aftereffect, of making her mind-set-situation, of their willed point-of-view neatly fitting her’s. Having made ‘All-of-This’ (the smoking it) was their very own life to call their own, while imposing their own, it excluded and minus her ever-present and consuming condition. That left her to deal with that ever-progressing aspect, by herself and on her own, casually-called, MS, the aches, paralyzing, numbing, and slurred speech. That really became too abstract, when the medical opinion, separated the habit from the person, separately. It was her life to die the way she wanted, slowly or express.

    From her vantage point, it’s like being told a fairy tail about how you might land, while in a free fall. What was the real intent and point to it, at the conclusion of becoming their smokeless way? To her it was not how much she could be like them, and not to be so concerned about what she did with her time in the interim, and, also, not to be preoccupied with her journey’s end, either, however long MS would take. All the joys and habitual vices were what should happen in the time spent, in between her every immediate moment, and the last one as well. Live in the moment and embrace what was shared, that was her basic simple focus. So, what do you do in the meantime, while on that big journey, and stuck with waiting for the next tedious moment to pass? . . . Smoke, maybe, and think the long view over? What of it?

    As her finances dwindled, her choice of cigarette brand did too. When she was not so affected by the MS, living in another town and working everyday, it was a name brand. When there was just enough to eat, in a handicap apartment, it was whatever cost the cheapest, as long as it smoked like a cigarette.

    It was a habit that was on a parallel with the budget for food, every week. The viewed importance was food to live and cigarettes to make it pleasant to live in. All this was part of the essence that made up her “mood of ambiance.” If you have to sit in hell and be wheelchair bound, it may as well be with what small pleasures and vices you can surround yourself with, making that time maybe that much shorter. She cheated the devil and even entertained the beast.

  17. “I haven’t read a book since The Godfather…wait, I read the Dolly Parton story.” – overheard outside Book Shop, Burbank, 8/20/2005

  18. So, the deed is done, a funeral account for my older brother has been made, with me signing on the dotted line for the rest of it, to be paid subsequentially. That means once a year, or as situation demands, that I come forth with approximately five hundred, per year, keeping my older brother, an exclusive member of the cremated. He will stand shoulder-to-shoulder, in that club, if they could find which part of him, was formally that region of his former body. Needless-to-say, I did what was necessary and keeping his assets below the Medicaid limit to qualify. As for me, this is all very strange, as having the mystical hand pointed at me, to do almost all the family functions needed, while the flunkies around me, do exactly that, flunk out. A distorted saying says, “If you want to do something, you’re the only one left,” or something like that.

  19. Nothing terrible out of the ordinary happening, as this misnamed recession opens its arms, to further grip us all in another depression, where one year become another, and a string of them making an era, and all sounding vaguely reminiscently like ‘The Thirties,’ all over again, with a certain extra twist to it, not seen before. Pardon, if the social safety net disappears, and things go strangely tribal, like the hobos riding the rail, during the depression.

    I remember my grandmother recalling how she handed out loosely wrapped homemade sandwiches to any knocking vagrant, that was hungry. Imagine that, not worry about being robbed, and a common set of courtesies and standards, no matter who you were, at whatever end of misfortune.

    So, it all unfolds, not necessarily in some predictable order, with all the digital form of communication available, and they still can’t get it, missing an essential piece to make it all work. Greedy, self-absorbed, not seeing anyone, but themselves, having no immediate comprehension of their immediate surrounding, usually paying someone to take that sock-on-the-jaw. One sweats and the other wipes their brow in response. How disconnected can you be and still say, you’ve experienced it first hand?

    My eyes briefly closed and the splitdreaming started, like viewing the Turner channel, in black-and-white. It’s a first-run feature, with some of them wearing fedoras and smoking cigarettes. If I stayed long enough, in the dream, making out the particular conversation, could have easily been done, being the fly on the wall.

  20. There’s a thing about Facebook.

    Sometimes the information and comments are not that particular end.


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