A Day At The Races

If I could go back in time, I'd pick the summer I was nine years old. The best summer of my life. The summer my dad rented a house on the beach in Del Mar.

Yup, that was our place, right on the beach. And we had it for the whole summer.

My best memories, in no particular order, are:

1. Meeting Jimmy Durante:
He had an apartment up the beach. I'd knock on his door at every opportunity. He was cool. He played the piano and sang. I hope I wasn't overly annoying.

There were plenty of other famous people in the neighborhood - the only other ones I remember hanging out with were the Arnaz family.

2. Discovering chocolate chip ice cream at Disneyland:

That's the little Chesher Cat sitting in the back left of the hookah smoking caterpillar.
(also pictured: my older sisters Barb, back right; Pam, front lefy; and family friend, Betty Ann, front right)

3. Getting caught hanging out behind a sleazy bar down the beach at ten o'clock at night (seems I've always had an attraction to the dark side).

4. Watching cartoons on the multitude of American channels that we didn't have back home (aka the frozen tundra up north).

5. Body surfing...every day for two whole months...another thing I couldn't do in the frozen tundra.

6. And, last but not least, the Del Mar race track Where the Surf meets the Turf:

A little history I stole from somewhere on the web:

The Del Mar 350 acre horse race track has a Hollywood past. In 1937 it was built and sponsored by Bing Crosby, Pat O'Brien and Paramount Studios. The conception began when Bing Crosby a horse enthusiast and local ranch owner, was asked to organize a meet at Del Mar. He approached the Del Mar Fairgrounds to make a deal with them to build a grandstand and the rest is Hollywood history. Since then it has become one of the worlds most famous race tracks and has entertained stars such as Douglas Fairbanks, Mickey Rooney, Lucille Ball, Desi Arnaz, Jimmy Durante, Dorothy Lamour, Red Skelton, Paulette Goddard and Ava Gardner.

My dad had a thing for race horses. And he liked having his race horses in California. They raced the Santa Anita/Hollywood Park/Del Mar circuit. And that summer I got to go to the track several times. Going to the races was a big deal. We dressed up and sat in the special box seats that were reserved for the owners and celebrities. We ate a fancy lunch. Picked horses to win, place or show. Watched the horses walk around the paddock. Cheered. And once in awhile, proudly stood in the winner's circle.

By now you must be thinking, "Wow, what a spoiled little brat." And I won't disagree. But as luck would have it, all good things must come to an end. And sadly, that amazing summer ended. And then, exactly three years later, the privileged childhood ended too. My parents got divorced and one thing led to another and I quickly found out what it was like to live a much less privileged life.

So that amazing summer was the last time I went to the Del Mar race track. Until this summer.

This time it was for work. To be honest, it was a lot more fun than work. I was shooting stills on the indie feature, Big Heart City starring Shawn Andrews and Seymour Cassel. My anticipation driving to the track was--damn, I can't think of anything worthy to compare it to-- that's how excited I was. And as soon as I got out of my car, poof, I was nine years old again. First, the smell of the stables and then walking through gates. The outside has had a facelift but inside it felt the same. Special. Alive. Like something big was about to happen.

One of the first things I saw was this:
It brought tears to my eyes. Seriously. Not because I knew him (of course I didn't...he died many years before I set foot on this planet). Not because he inspired a generation during the depression. Not because of the movie. These pictures brought tears to my eyes because of our six degrees of separation. Me and Seabiscuit. Forever joined at the hip...by Pixie Wings:

The great-great-maybe even greater-granddaughter of the great Seabiscuit.

After the downfall of the family, my dad still had a few horses kicking around. One was a three year old filly named Pixie Wings. She was a race horse - and I think she was even racing at Del Mar - but she sucked. She was a pretty little thing that couldn't run fast enough to win a race. I think I was about fourteen at the time, and somehow I talked my dad into letting me have her to train as show horse.

In her first outing, I entered her in the Show Hack division. I had no hopes of winning anything. The field was completely dominated by Arabian horses. Pixie Wings was a thoroughbred. And thoroughbreds couldn't beat Arabians in the Show Hack competition. Thoroughbreds didn't have that elongated gate that the judges liked to see in Show Hacks. But the weirdest thing happened. Pixie Wings did pretty good in one of the lower level classes. And people started taking notice. They'd come to watch her. The sweet little thoroughbred up against the throngs of majestic, champion Arabians. They started rooting for her. And then she won an upper level class and qualified for the big one - the Show Hack Stake.

It had been a nice little run, what with the win and her new-found fans, but I knew we didn't have a chance in the Stakes class. I mean, we were up against the heavy hitters. Arabian horses and their snobby owners who knew they were a shoe-in for another Stakes win. So Pixie Wings and I were just there to have fun. Still, it was a tough class. It was at night - you know you've hit the big time when your class is at night - in the same arena where the Calgary Flames played hockey. There were thousands of spectators. And most of them were rooting for Pixie Wings. They were looking for an upset. Rooting for the underdog. Just like her great-great-maybe even greater grandfather, Seabiscuit. (Obviously not on the grand scale as the big guy but, please, let me have my moment.)

Well, like I said, the class was tough. And it was Pixie Wings' first show. She had no experience. She didn't belong in the ring with the seasoned horses. But still, she won the hearts of the spectators. Then, she won the hearts of the judges. And the ultimate, she won the Show Hack Stakes! She beat the snooty Arabian horses! All of them.

The Arabian horsey-set were furious. How could this happen? A thoroughbred stealing the Stakes from the champion Arabians? What could be worse? I don't know. How about Pixie Wings being named Show Hack Champion? Turns out, as much as Seabiscuit was an amazing race horse, Pixie Wings was an amazing show horse.

After her Show Hack triumph, I trained her to do this:

Look at that face, and then check out this close-up of Seabiscuit:
Maybe my horse couldn't run worth a damn but she had that same look in her eye and she had just as much heart.

Okay, back to the present and my day at the races. Did you know that you can go to the horse races at Del Mar for just six bucks? What a deal!

Here's what it looked like this summer:

And here's a shot of the star himself, Shawn Andrews, hanging with the pin-up babes:
I saw that poster on the wall and showed it to Shawn. He posed for me and then the DP shot some footage of it. Hopefully, it will make it into the movie. If not, it will always be here. (thanks, Shawn, you're awesome!)

Time Crunch - Part Deux

I worked on that 1 page thing for a while and then bitched for a while and then worked on it for a while. It's a tricky piece of writing. I didn't want it to be one of those dry synopses...you know, this happens and then that happens, etc. I wanted it to highlight the main characters, give a sense of the plot and hit the act break beats. But mostly, I wanted it to entice whoever read it to want more. And I finally finished it.

I talked to my person and suggested we shouldn't submit it until Monday. That way I'd have a couple of extra days to hopefully finish the script rewrite. Any screenwriters reading this are probably breaking out in laughter about now. Are you kidding? If you hand it in on Monday, you'll be lucky if you hear back in a month...or ever. Yes, I know that.

Anyway, I waited until Saturday at noon to email the 1 pager to my person. Guess what? My person emailed it on. And by 4PM I get an email back, the subject: Oh, boy... With the message: Just got the request for the first act. Again, I probably shouldn't be writing all this in my blog. Don't want to jinx it. But I'm assuming that I didn't jinx it last time. Maybe blabbing it as it happens might just be the anti-jinx.

So, what next? I polished the first act last night and today. Also, made a litlle progress on the second act. Tonight, I tweaked the first act and sent it off. And now I'm praying they take their time reading the first act because if (I mean when) they want the rest of the script I don't want to say, "sorry, still rewriting."

Stop laughing, Screenwriters. I know it's a slim chance in hell they'll request more. Believe me, I'm not expecting this specific exercise to result in "the sale." Things like this rarely result in "the sale." I'm just grateful for the externally imposed deadline. And I'll be glad to get this rewrite done and add another finished script to my arsenal. I look at this little jaunt as a barometer. The dry run for the next submission. Which, from what I've been told, could be "the sale" that I really want. One can always dream the big dream.

Promise to get to those other posts as soon as I can. Translation: when act 2 and act 3 are on the page to my satisfaction.

Time Crunch

I don't know about the other bloggers out there but it can take me two to three hours to compose a post.

What? That's ridiculous!

Yeah, I know I'm slow. But you have to consider my posts generally require scanning and finding things that may never be found - even though I put 100% effort into the search. And, I also put a lot of thought into what I put up here, even if it doesn't show.

Today, for example, I planned a post titled "A Day At The Races." It's about my trip to Del Mar yesterday to shoot another day of stills on that indie movie. It's a post that will definitely require a full three hours to create because it also delves far into my past and will expose things about me that most of you don't know. (Wow, that sounds like a build-up that will certainly fall flat in the execution.) And I was prepared to do that today. Take three hours out of my screenwriting time to share how a past and a present can collide (in a nice way).

But then I got the phone call. The phone call had to do with one of the opportunites I alluded to in a recent post. One of the things I don't want to write about because if I do it will immediately be jinxed. Note: This is where this post should end. Right here, right now. If you do not want to be responsible for jinxing me, stop reading now.

Guess what? I've decided I'm not superstitious and I don't believe in jinxes. (Fuck, I hope I'm not wrong about that.) A week and a half ago I got a call asking if I happened to have a suspense thriller script in my bag of tricks. Well, it just so happens I do. Can you send it to me...I have a couple of companies that are looking for suspense thrillers. (BTW, the caller happens to be with a company that made a couple of films that have won the ultimate award.)

No, I can't send it to you. It needs a page 1 rewrite. Can you give me a couple of weeks? OK. (Now you know why you haven't heard much from me) A week ago, I sent the caller the first fifteen of the rewrite, just to see if the concept was something they might be interested in. The caller emailed back with something that amounted to, "your script rocks." During this time, I'm still writing like a maniac, trying to meet my self-imposed deadline of this Monday. (Understand I'm making a lot of changes so it's not that easy.)

Then I get an email yesterday morning. "Get me a logline on this IMMEDIATELY. As in BEFORE you leave for del mar. I have to send out the logline on THURSDAY." Thursday being the same Thursday as yesterday and the same Thursday I have to leave for Del Mar by 9:15AM. Okay, no problem. I throw together three potential loglines and send them off with a note saying "do with them as you please."

Fast forward to today. I 'm driving to rent-a-wreck to pick up my screenwriter houseguest friend and drop him at his friend's place who is lending him a car (obviously a convoluted off-topic story) when I get the call. "Out of the four (could have been five) loglines I sent out, yours is the only one they are interested in. They want to see a 1 pager." For me that's a good news/bad news scenario. Awesome!/Fuck, I have to write a 1 pager? (For my rock'n'roll readers, a 1 pager is a summary of the story that is so amazing it entices them to ask for the script. I've never met a screenwriter that likes to do a 1 pager.)

The result of this? I'm in a time crunch. Not only do I have to steal a bunch of my script writing time to write the 1 pager, but if (I mean when) they like the 1 pager, they're going to say, "send over the script." That means the script has to be ready too. Ha, ha...it's not. And for all of you? You have to wait a little longer for A Day At The Races.

Stills

No, no, no...I'm not talking about this Stills:

I'm talking about the other kind of stills. The ones that get you the IMDB credit known as Still Photographer. Yes, it looks like I've added another flower to the potpourri I loosely refer to as my career.

Actually, I "broke" into the film industry as a still photographer. Short-lived as it may have been. I was hired to shoot stills on Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo. (OK, stop laughing.) And then I was fired. Yes, it seems the professional rock 'n' roll photographer couldn't hack it as a set photographer. Well, not exactly.

I think I better tell you how it really went down. The head of marketing called me into her office. She had one of those silvery home screens that she pulled down from the ceiling and a slide projector with a rotating slide holder so she could hit the thumb button and scroll through the slides. The overhead lights were off when I entered the room. Her wickedness sat behind the desk. Her face eerily illuminated by the light spilling from the projector.

"Have you seen your pictures?" she snarled.

Why did she ask? She knew I hadn't. I picked up the unexposed rolls of film from her and returned the exposed rolls of film to her. She had them developed. I was not allowed to see them.

She flipped to a picture. "What's this supposed to be?" she cackled.

"Ah, it's a picture of the ground. Obviously the first picture on the roll. That's what happens when you load the film," I politely offered.

Her thumb presses the button at warp speed, "Look at all these pictures. They're no good. They're all out of focus."

"If you wouldn't mind, could you stop on a picture you think is out of focus?"

She stops on one. Then I hear the projector focus adjusting back and forth. The picture goes in and out of focus. But I couldn't accuse her of sabotaging the focus, even thought I knew she was. I blamed the loose hanging screen. "I think the screen is moving from the air conditioning," I suggested.

She jumps down my throat, "I looked at them on a light table. They're out of focus. Every single shot. They're useless. And so are you. You're fired."

Well, okay then. What can I say?...other than it took several weeks to remove her from my throat. Thank God for that surgeon at Cedars-Sinai.

So, why did she really fire me? Turns out she just didn't like me. After that firing, I got a job at the same film company as a freelance production artist in the art department. I was mysteriously let go from there as well. Sure enough, I found out later that she threatened the art director, forcing him to stop calling me in for work. A few years later, I ended up being hired as the art director. Nothing she could do about it. I was suddenly her equal. And I had spent the better part of two years devising several torturous methods for her ultimate demise. But being the team player I am, I let her previous behavior slide. And sooner than later I won her over. I hate to admit it, but we even became friends. (Please don't tell anyone I have a soft side.) Uh oh, I just rambled on with a story I had no intention of sharing...ever. I guess the point of it was I didn't get a still photographer credit on Breakin' 2. (As if I cared.)

But I have a credit now. What? Yup. It recently showed up. I never even thought about the credit when I offered to shoot stills on a short film, currently titled Easy Winners. I got paid the same as everyone else on the film. Food. But it was a fun shoot with a lot of nice people. The film stars Mehcad Brooks (Desperate Housewives, Glory Road) and was directed by the very cool actor Harry Lennix (Commander In Chief, The Matrix[s]). It was written by and also starred Reggie Nelson, as a vehicle for his acting - and although I haven't seen the rough cut yet, all reports say he did a great job - and exec produced by some friend of his who directed him in a play...I think his name is David Schwimmer. Did I mention they had amazing food?

Here are a couple of "stills" (can't show any of the actual production or DS 'cause that would probably require endless approvals):

Fancy HD camera. Helps when you have a budget.

Relaxing between takes.
That's Mehcad on the left and Reggie second from the right.

Jesse, the 22 year-old DP with an amzing eye, is on the left.
Definitely my first choice for the movie I wrote and will produce.

The guy in the middle is director/writer/producer/friend Peter Basler. Since I volunteered him for the behind-the-scenes on Easy Winners, he volunteered me as the still photographer on Big Heart City, an indie feature he is currently producing. Wow, my second still photographer credit in the past six months without even trying.

My first day on the set was today - an easy two hours at Union Station. I walked in the building and immediately felt the ghosts of decades past.

I think that's one of them on the right side of this photo.

Check this place out. I'm surprised they let you visit for free.

I have no plans to pursue a real career as a still photographer and I promise this won't turn into the first set photographer blog on the internet. After all, I'm writing that book called Everybody I Shot Is Dead and a bunch of screenplays.

So, why am I whoring myself out as a still photographer you ask? Is it for the money? Uh, no.

I call it networking...and then there's always the enhancement to my social life...sad but true.

Exciting Opportunities Abound...

...which means I have no time to put together the post I had planned. And I can't really say anything about the opportunities because if I do, they'll be jinxed. I can only tell you I have a lot to get done in a short period of time.

In lieu of the other post, here are a couple of things to keep in mind, especially for those of us involved in subjective creative pursuits:

1. When one door closes, other doors open. But if you're in the corner crying about the closed door, you'll miss the open one.

2. Not only do we have to create our "art," we also have to create our opportunities.

Back to work.

I-Haul

The follow-up to my U-Haul adventures (prequel in the post before last)...

Even though the truck was a filthy, old piece of crap with a frown on it's face, it rocketed me to the Bay area in a mere five hours. It would have been four and a half without the traffic jam for unknown reasons in the middle of nowhere. Don't judge a truck by it's cover is my new motto. The drive was a breeze compared to the two hours of unloading I did by myself before the volunteer helper showed up to assist with the heavy lifting.

It was a little after 7PM by the time everything was unloaded and I could drop the truck off at the Berkeley U-Haul lot. I was happy the place would be closed so I could leave the truck, put the key in the drop-box and not have to make human contact. Or so I thought. Turns out the place was open 'til eight.

The yard guy checks in the truck and hands me the paperwork. I was about to walk off the lot until he says I have to take it into the office to have it processed. Damn. I'm knackered. I just want to get some food and some sleep. I proceed to the office. Three people behind the counter are engaged in an argument with a customer who pleads with them to waive his late return fee because it wasn't his fault that the keys were locked in the truck since the doors locked on their own when he got out of the truck. Good luck with that one, Buddy. Nope...it didn't fly. A fourth guy is perched on the back counter doing and saying absolutely nothing.

Then it's my turn. The head tough chick grabs the paper from my hand and begins pecking her keyboard.

"We're all set then? I can go?" I ask nicely.

"I'm charging you for the gas." She doesn't even look my way.

"Excuse me? I brought it back with more gas than I got it with."

"You brought it in with an eighth. You got it with a quarter."

"No. I got it empty."

"Contract says a quarter."

"I never got a contract."

"I don't need your contract. It's right here. And it says a quarter."

"It was empty when I picked it up. I wasn't given a contract and I called customer service and they made note of the gas."

"I'm charging your card."

"You can't do that! I'm not authorizing you to charge my card!"

"I don't need your authorization."

Under my breath, "Are you always this snotty?"

Not under my breath, "You need to call customer service. They'll tell you."

"I go by what the contract says."

"How much are you charging my card?"

"$30 service charge and $4 a gallon."

Blood begins to boil. I pull out my cell phone.

"If I call customer service will you listen to them? They know the truck was empty."

"You can call whoever you want. I'm charging your card."

Under my breath, "You are a fucking evil bitch-ho."

Ten minutes on hold listening to, "Thank you for calling U-Haul. All of our agents are currently helping other customers. Please stay on the line for the next available agent."

It's closing in on eight o'clock. Evil bitch-ho and the other two lock up the shop. With me in it. The fourth guy remains on his perch, looking at me as if to say, "You picked the wrong evil bitch-ho, Miss Wonderbread." Another five minutes on hold. I gotta get out of here before the U-Haul Gang forces me to their filthy floor and strip me of whatever assets I have left.

"They're not answering and I have to be somewhere. If they call you will you credit the gas charge?"

"I go by the contract."

"What is your name?" Under my breath, "Cause I'm going to report your rude fat ass to whoever will listen."

"Princess."

As I walk out the door, I can't hold back. I turn toward the evil bitch-ho. "Princess? You have got to be kidding."

Under my breath, "I bet your momma rues the day."

Several days and many arguments with the company later, I get a call from Christine. I bet she's that special person U-Haul employs to handle the really pissed off customers. The ones who make the endless phone calls, screaming at any idiot who dares to pick up the phone. Why do I bet that? Cuase when I pick up the phone her sweet, soothing baby voice says, "I'm so, so sorry for all the problems you've had with our company."

"You are?"

"As a matter of fact, I checked with the woman who rented the truck to you and she backed up every word you said. I can't tell you how sorry we are that you had a bad experience with us. I'm crediting the $50 they charged your card for the gas and I am also sending you $40 in coupons that you can redeem at any of our stores for anything you want."

"Really? Thank you. But what about Princess?" Under my breath, "The evil bitch-ho who completely ruined my life."

"Don't worry. I'm sending a copy of my report, which includes everything you've told us, to the regional office in Berkeley. They'll take care of her."

Under my breath, "I hope they burn the evil bitch-ho at the stake."

Not under my breath, "That's good. Thank you. You're really good at your job."

Aaah...Justice. It's the American way.

Could This Have Taken Any Longer?

I'm assuming I've alienated all of my readers, especially those who were kind enough to enter my last caption contest, because I haven't been taking care of business. I'm not sure when I launched this particular contest. I can't remember that far back. Oh, wait, these blog entries are dated. I can look it up. Please hold on while I look through the cobwebbed archives..... ..... .....just a few more seconds..... ..... .....I've almost got it..... .....oops, it wasn't in July..... .....June?..... .....nope..... .....aha..... .....there it is, hiding behind George Harrison..... ......sheesh, May 22nd.

I'm ashamed of myself. Apologies all around. I have no excuses. Nor will I make any.

And the good news is...thanks to another awesome panel of independent judges...somebody won the contest.

Drum roll, please....

...and the winner is:

"I'm writing this book called Everybody I Shot Is Dead
and I must say I have a lot of pictures of you. "
by Rumely aka Mark J. from Iowa

2nd Place was a three-way tie:

"Stop laughing -- I'm serious! I just saw egret fly up your nose!"

by Brett N. from Texas

"Excuse me, but you DO realize you're drinking
KC Masterpiece on the rocks, right? Right?"
also by Brett N.from Texas

"That's great, that's great. Just shut up and give me that bottle!"
by Adam Battaglia

3rd place:

"No, seriously -- you have a bottle in your armpit."
by Julie O. from Florida

Thanks to all the fantastic judges who volunteered for this daunting task. I would name them but since they didn't give their permission I can only tell you the judging panel was made up of a professional screenwriter/producer, two previous contest winners, an aspiring screenwriter, a journalist, a produced writer/director and a koala.

It seems a couple of the judges thought they could do better than the contestants - they sent their results back with their own captions. Here's the three they thought were winners:

Ron: "You have gorgeous eyes; anyone ever look high enough to see them?"

She’s kidding, right? I’m not sharing this bottle with anyone.

1 tequila, 2 tequila, 3 tequila, floor.

Feel free to judge the judges.

Happy Birthday, Michael

Mike Bloomfield would have been 63 today.

Truckin'

Now that power has finally been restored and I have the cleanest refrigerator this side of the Mississippi, I'm goin' truckin' in this:

They (U-Haul) promised me a newer model truck since I am doing a one-way trip. In other words, I wouldn't be getting one of their falling-apart trucks that they rent out for in-town moving. When I picked the truck up this morning, it looked like it had been sitting in the back of the storage facility for several months. It chugged and sputtered and coughed a little as I started it - as you can see, the front bumper has molded itself into a very cute frown - but the air conditioner spat cold air out in a matter of seconds. After sweating it out in my house for several days, cold air continues to be in the forefront of my little mind.

I don't think the lady who rented the truck knew what she was doing. She didn't run my credit card, didn't fill out one of those long contract forms where you have to initial your life away, and she didn't even note the mileage nor the gas tank level (empty, btw). She just gave me a single-sheet computer print-out called a contract receipt. Can you get a contract receipt without getting a contract?

As I was driving the truck home, I noticed an illuminated yellow warning light..."Engine service needed soon." And then I saw the mileage... 158571. Great. Tomorrow I am going to fall out of bed, get in the truck, hit the local Starbucks and make my way up the I-5 to San Francisco. Is this truck going to make it?

And now I can't get this song out of my dead head:

"Truckin' got my chips cashed in. Keep truckin', like the do-dah man
Together, more or less in line, just keep truckin' on."

So, I decided I better dip into my dead musician files and scan the G.D. negs. Wow...I was as awestruck seeing these soundcheck photos today as I was when took them:

I am at the very back of the Coliseum...that thing is huge.

Yes, that's J.G. second from the left.
How many speakers does one little Truckin' band need?
Can you say, "Loud"?

If you happen to see me puttering up the northbound side of the Grapevine tomorrow, don't forget to honk and wave. And if I'm stopped on the side of the freeway with the engine smoking, you better damn well stop.

In the meantime....

"Sometimes the light's all shinin' on me;

Other times I can barely see.
Lately it occurs to me What a long, strange trip it's been."

Powerless

Almost 24 hours since my power went out and guess what? It's still out! I'm not complaining, mind you. After hitting Starbucks last night to upload yesterday's post, I went home and read a book with a flashlight as I sweated myself to sleep. It was a good lesson.I don't read enough books. But without the distraction of TV and the internet...

The continuing power outage has made me realize how spoiled I (we) really am (are). What is a minor inconvenience for me is a daily nightmare for a lot of less fortunate souls here and around the world. Plenty have people have no power...ever. Think about it. I'm not going to mention any of them here because it's too depressing and the list is too long. Make your own list and appreciate all the conveniences you don't have to live without.

Of course, I'm also lucky I didn't have to sit in my house all day. Last report, it was 96˚ inside my house. I have spent the whole day at my over-air-conditioned Starbucks, doing a little work, helping a friend with her short film script and generally chit-chatting with the regulars and meeting a few new people.

And just when I put down in the old blog - which I liken to setting in stone - that I never recognize anyone...an actor walks in here...I look at him...and immediately recognize him. Any of you watch Crossing Jordan? It was Steve Valentine, the English guy that plays the the morgue doc who mans all the cool scientific gadgetry. Okay, not such a big star but, come on, I recognized him all by myself. Probably 'cause he's tall and English. I hope I haven't reversed my affliction. I don't want to have to book weekly appointments with my chiropractor.

One last thing...anybody know how long the food in my fridge and freezer will last?

My Dinner With...

I went out to dinner last night with a writer/producer friend. Since it has been freakin' hot here lately I was wearing a pair of just-below-the-knees white shorts, a white shirt and black sandals. I thought we were going somewhere casual.

My friend doesn't live in my area so he asked of friend of his who does where to go to eat. His answer was Ventura Blvd. between Coldwater Canyon and wherever, so we drove off to wherever until he passed this restuarant with a bluish neon sign he liked. "Let's go there," he said as we passed the restaurant. He made a left by Casa Vega and turned around twice, pulling up to the valet behind an ultra-expensive Porsche with some Hollywood nobody it-couple climbing out of the car.

We walk in the restaurant and I immediately notice the perfectly ironed, perfectly white table clothes on the candle-lit tables. Uh, this place is expensive. The maitre d' descended on us with speed and grace. Uh, this place is really expensive. "Are you with the Lieberman party?" "No. Two for dinner. We don't have a reservation." "Well, I'm sorry I don't have anything at the moment. You'll have to wait." I volunteer to go elsewhere. Maybe Denny's will have a table. "How long?" my friend asks. "Fifteen or twenty minutes." "No problem."

We stand by the door. All the seats at the mahogany bar are occupied by well-dressed patrons. I glance at a menu. Uh, this place is really, really expensive. My friend doesn't seem to mind. He says he's happy to have dinner with me because I crack him up. Great. More pressure. The maitre d' seats us sooner than later at a small table for two wedged between a similar table on my left and a round table for three to my right. We are close enough to the other two tables to eat off their plates.

We had barely ordered a glass of wine when my friend signaled me to check out the woman seated at the round table to my right. In some foreign tongue he mumbled something like, "is that who I think it is?" I glance at the table. First I see the balding probably past middle age guy. Couldn't miss him. He's as large as the restaurant is expensive. Trying not to be obvious my eyes wander farther to the right and I'm looking at a very beautiful woman who is maybe fifty. It took me a couple of minutes of casual glances to even realize who he thought she was. Not that she didn't look like who he thought she was but I just don't have a knack for recognizing people. Especially famous people.

[Damn. The power just went out. And it's well over 100 degrees outside. Going to check if it's just my house or the neighborhood.] [Okay, I took a walk around the neighborhood. It still feels like the 115 it was a few hours ago. The guys across the street have power. It seems like it's only affecting 3/4 of my block and the block behind me. And the power company phone lines are busy. Crap. It's already heating up in the house. 1:30 left on the laptop.]

So, where was I? Oh yeah, I don't recognize famous people. I think that's a good affliction to have if you live in L.A. Otherwise, I'd be craning my neck every which way on a regular basis and probably end up with whiplash. The only time I recognize people is when someone says, "Hey, look, it's so and so." The Starbucks I generally write at has its share of famous people streaming in and out who I recognize now because someone told me who they are and I see them on a regular basis. They include Kelsey Grammar, Dick Van Patten, Harry Hamlin and his soapy wife Lisa (she owns a boutique down the street), Roger Rabbit (he's a regular so we sometimes chat), a couple of well-paid screenwriters, the guy who played Viggo's son in A History of Violence and Ashlee Simpson's on-again off-again boyfriend, Ryan Cabrera who I'm sure would prefer to be referenced on his own merits. There's probably a lot more but I don't notice.

Back to the restaurant. We have snails - oops, I mean escargot - and one of them leaps out of my friends tongs and skips down the front of his shirt, leaving a trail of melted butter. Much laughter ensued. But he's still trying to decide if the beauty at the next table is the person he thinks she is. I don't think so...she's too young. We have to talk in code about this because they are that close to us. And she and I have a straight on view of each other when I move my eyes 20º right. Yes, between me cracking him up, identifying the woman has become an obsession.

As luck would have it, my friend happens to be acquainted with the assistant to the beautiful woman - if that is her. How weird is that? So, in the middle of dinner, in this classy upscale really, really, really expensive restaurant, my friend pulls out his cell phone and gives his friend a call. "Do you know where your boss is tonight? I'm at a restaurant in Sherman Oaks. Could she be having dinner with a really fat guy?" I look over at the woman for identifying jewelry. "Ask if her boss wears rings on her right index finger." "Does she wear rings..." "No, wait, it's her left index finger." He finally hangs up and confirms that it could be her.

Well, now I gotta know. They finish their dinner, we finish ours. I had a chicken dish that was to die for. We talk a little bit about the biz and screenwriting and gossip - even though my friend is also tuned into the conversation at the other table. Then it happens. At the precise perfect moment in their conversation, but out of the blue, my friend looks at them and lets out a little laugh followed by something like, "you guys are really getting into it." Hide me under the table now. They laugh politely and the fat guy says something like, "no, it's all in fun" and my friend interjects, "Do you happen to know Christine (whatever her name is)?" The beuatiful woman's face lights up and she says, "Why, yes" and he cuts her off and says, "Because she just called me and I asked her if it was possible that you were you."

Introductions all around and a little small talk and all was well. Who was the beautiful woman at the next table?






I trust I don't have to tell you her name.

Mighty Mites

I've been MIA the past few days, for a number of reasons.

First and foremost is a problem I've been trying to deal with...unsuccessfully. It's a "tiny" problem that feels enormous. The biggest problem with the problem is I couldn't identify it. I googled and researched for days and found nothing.

I have also been otherwise indisposed because I am working on a new script - one that is quickly developing into a story I am very passionate about and can really sink my teeth into. I'm working on it with a partner which I don't normally do - his name is John and has been previously referred to in my blog as "Big Hollywood Executive." This script is really exciting and we are hoping to complete it within the next month.

So, John comes over this morning to work with me and I show him my "tiny" problem and lo and behold the Big Hollywood Executive has the answer. This is what I showed him:
My problem is the tiny specks surrounding the penny. Even though these little guys are close to microscopic, within two seconds John says: Mites. I couldn't believe it. Mites? I google food mites and come upon an article about grain mites. I had looked at one of my little critters under my photo lupe and sure enough, it looked suspiciously like this drawing that accompanied the article:
Damn. John was right. Well, that should dispel some of the misconceptions we writers have about Big Hollywood Executives.

Now the hard part. I have to get rid of them. I already dumped all the boxed cereals that were on top of the fridge. And I emptied out a cupboard that had crackers, pasta and rice - even stuff that appeared to be sealed because I figured these little guys could get into anything. The article confirmed my suspicion. Not only can they sneak into closed containers, they can eat their way into sealed cardboard boxes and plastic ziplock bags. In order to rid myself of the vermin, I have to throw most everything away, vacuum all the cupboards and wash them down with soapy water. They said not to use insect spray in the cupboards - oops. I'm also going to empty/clean the fridge and pull it, and the stove, out from the wall and bleach the floor. Then I won't bring cupboard food in the house for at least a week, just to make sure they've all met their demise.

How did I get grain mites? Probably from something I bought from a store that was already infested. I can only imagine how many of them I digested before I even realized I had a problem. Ugh! I'm definitely not a candidate for Fear Factor.

What else has kept me MIA? I had my garage sale. I have two words about that. Never again.

And last but not least, I tidied up the office. Heres the before picture I put in my "I'm Ashamed of Myself" post:

And this is the after picture:
What did I learn from this? Public shame is a great motivator.

And by the end of the week that bulletin board will be covered in index cards, mapping out the new script.

I can't wait.

Sticks and (no) Stones

I was planning to do a Pink Floyd post.

Something like "Syd Barrett is dead...but I didn't shoot him." He was a founding member of Pink Floyd, even gave them their name. But then he went a bit wacky and left the band in 1968. That was before my time.

Anyway, I pulled out the Pink Floyd slides and negs I shot when it was my time, thinking I'd put some up in tribute to their former bandmate. But then, printed on the top of the neg sheet was "PINK FLOYD/STICKS." Did I shoot Styx and not know how to spell their name? I hope not.

Put the negs in the scanner. Okay, there's Pink Floyd and there's...wait, that's not Styx, it's some guy sitting behind a drum kit. Sticks? Hmmm. A guy named Sticks. A drummer, no less. Vaguely familiar. But on the same neg strip as Roger Waters? I'm not kidding...here's the proof:

Who is this guy Sticks? In keeping with my credo to honor those I've shot who are dead, it's my duty to find out. But how do I google I guy named Sticks? "Sticks"=93.5 million hits. No, I'm not checking every single one of those. Try "drummer named Sticks"...wow, 4 hits - actually 2 duplicated to 4.

First one: Electro-Harmonix LPB-1
I did some sessions with a drummer named "Sticks" that did some gigs with Hendrix, and he said that Hendrix had one of these on his Marshalls. ...

Sticks played with Hendrix? Impressive. It's a post by a guy named Ryan Bruner, reviewing an Electro-Harmonix, whatever that is. He had a band called Feet of Clay and has a couple of IMDB credits. And there's an email address on his review. I'll email him and see if he has any info on Sticks.

And the other hit? Something about him playing with the Jimmy Snyder Band (?) at a club in Nashville.

In the meantime, here's a photo of the drummer named Sticks. Anybody out there know anything about this guy? Maybe I have a Jimi Hendrix expert on board? Much appreciated, as usual.
A drummer named Sticks. I remember thinking that was funny when I met him and shot the photos. It's even funnier now.

Your Wish Is My Command

Yes, I have become subservient to the readers of my blog.

This is what transpired in the comment section of another post:
The Moviequill said... yeah, I have way too much fun captioning than to be a neutral judge... by my calculations we're do for another photo too
Chesher Cat said... Anything specific you're wanting to see, Sir Quill?
The Moviequill said... hmmm, how about a sexy female rocker in a provocative pose? this will bring out my worst.. I mean best caption prowess ha

Sir Quill's request spurred me into pulling out my as yet unscanned Tammy Wynette negs (which means I actually did some work on the book today) because I knew I had this sexy female well-maybe-not-rocker on the same show.

Feel free to post captions on this or any of the other photos, Sir Quill.

Whenever I go into my old photos I always find some sort of surprise. This batch had two. First, I was happy to see I have photos of Tammy Wynette singing with then husband George Jones. It had to have been one of their last performances together before they split, as in D-I-V-O-R-C-E. Let's see if anybody gets that.

The second surprise was photos of Chaka Khan. Don't ask me what Chaka was doing on the same roll as Dolly, Tammy and George. Must have been the next show I shot. She was touring with Rufus at the time and since she fits Sir Quill's requirements I decided to throw her up here too.
I guess she's looking a little more provacative than Dolly.

And I couldn't put up female rockers without including Suzi Quatro. Okay, I know most of you don't know who she is but she wears leather and was one of the first female glam-rockers - need I say more? She's American but when she couldn't crack the US charts she moved across the pond and found success in England. Here she is chillin' backstage:
And on stage, with slightly provocative highlighting on the leather:
And, in case you like your female rockers a little on the wild side:
Or maybe a little more educated:
The classes the Quatro band enrolled in were "R" rated. Hopefully. you couldn't make out all those dirty words on the blackboard when you clicked on the photo to make it bigger.

Anybody who knows the names of the band members, please chime in. I think the guy on the far left might be the drummer and the guy next to him, the keyboard player. And I'm pretty sure the guy on the far right is the guitar player, who Suzi Quatro married a year later. I have no idea who the other two people are - just backstage whoevers, although the girl looks like she could be the naughty school teacher.

And to come completely clean here - since it's summertime and I'm in that mood - I don't know what I had going with the two guys on the left, but I have other pictures of them. Like a shot of Mr. Second-to-the-left taking a picture of me (yes, it looks like I may have made a habit of that) and a cute little shot of Mr. Guy-on-the-far-left peeking his head out at me from behind a door (No, not that head!).

So, anyway, I have decided that I am going to cop to sleeping with every male musician that came through town. Why not? It's just easier that way. And maybe it will up my rock'n'roll cred. Ah, hell, I slept with all the women too. There you have it. You heard it here first. And in case you were wondering, I'm sorry to say all the plaster casts were destroyed in the '94 earthquake.

Waylon Wailin'

Congratulations to the late-great Waylon Jennings on his long over-due induction to Hollywood's RockWalk yesterday. His widow, Jessi Colter was on hand at the ceremony as well as Kris Kristofferson, who was also inducted.

Did I mention sexy?

Remember That Contest?

You know, the Ron Wood et Moi photo caption contest I put up a really long time ago? I do, sort of. You were probably thinking I decided my own caption was the best and awarded myself the prize. Believe me, I thought about it but then decided that wouldn't be fair.

So, I finally got off my butt and recruited some awesome independent judges. And they are so diligent, I even got some of the votes back. But now I'm thinking I could use three more judges. For some reason, I like my judges in sevens. Which means, if you are a regular or even occasional reader of my blog and you feel qualified to determine the fate of all those contestants that are on the edge of their seats waiting for the results, send me an email (deborah@cheshercat.com) and I'll give you a robe and gavel and put you on the bench.

If you're one of the contestants, don't even think about sending me an email under some assumed name so you can vote for yourself. Like E. Poe or J. Rotten or R. Wood for that matter. I will know who you are and you will be immediately disqualified. Then I will hunt you down and...no, I better not say in case it can be used against me in a court of law.

I'm Ashamed Of Myself

As if my last post wasn't enough to send me into a self-imposed permanent exile...

Went to a movie last night and rushed home because the movie inspired me to post something on my blog. Not a story. Not a review. A something. A something that I had to find. I looked everywhere it could possibly be (the office, the garage, the old office area...) but, alas, I couldn't find it.

As a punishment for not finding it, and not having a back-up post - oh my God, I can't believe I'm letting you see this - I am putting up a couple of pictures of my office. First let me say, my excuse for the office looking like a bomb hit it is "a bomb hit it." The bomb was me, me trying to find the something. I really thought it was in the evil trunk. So I emptied most of the trunk onto the floor, the couch, the coffee table and other places you can't even see. The something wasn't there. Other somethings similar to the something I was looking for were there but not the something I wanted to post.

Of course, not all this mess was created in the short span of the couple of hours it took me not to find the something. My excuse for the rest of the mess is "I'm crazy busy breaking a story for a new screenplay I'm writing." Fine. Fine. I know none of my excuses are valid for the state of my office. But I'm hoping by subjecting myself to this public humiliation, I will get off my ass and clean it up. Okay...here's the pictures. Look, if you dare.


If you are of the anal persuaion and these photos give you the urge to rush over and organize me (after you finish throwing up, of course) please contact me ASAP.

Please...Do Not Read This Post!

I knew doing this book wouldn't be easy. I've been down this road before. It's never easy. At least with Starart I was just an objective observer. All I had to do was hound the artists I wanted until they agreed to be in the book, then take photos of their art, interview them, assemble a mock-up of their chapter, get their approval, go off to the printers, do a few TV shows, talk on the radio, get interviewed by newspapers and throw a few kick-ass parties. My personal involvement is nowhere to be found other than the "designed and edited by" credit I gave myself.

Oh yeah, and the introduction I wrote. Funny. I remember struggling over that thing, not knowing what to say. The long-winded pages of stuff I wrote about the artists were a piece of cake compared to my introduction. This is what I wrote:
"I find it difficult to introduce you to Starart because I really feel the book speaks for itself. Personally, it has been an amazing experience to work with these six artists over the past three years. They openly gave their time and their thoughts, allowing me to offer you a closer look into their art than might otherwise have been possible. I only hope you get as much enjoyment out of Starart as the artists and I have."

Four sentences. Not very enlightening. Tactfully keeping my voice out. Don't you agree? Oh shit...I forgot, I asked you not to read this post. I bet a couple of you are reading, even though I asked you not to. You're curious to see why I don't want you to read it, aren't you? Okay, I'll tell you. But then you have to promise to stop reading. Promise?

I don't want you to read it because it's too damn personal. Not the kind of thing I want 'out there.' Fuck. It's embarrassing. So, I'd really appreciate it if you stop reading. Right now. This very second.

Thanks.

Now that I'm alone...I have a problem. Actually, a better word would be:
co·nun·drum (k-nndrm) n. A paradoxical, insoluble, or difficult problem; a dilemma; a difficult problem [syn: riddle, enigma, brain-teaser]

A conundrum I've been struggling with for a couple of weeks. Ever since Peter White told me Peter Wood was dead and I had to go back into my Al Stewart pictures and see what I had of him. Originally, I only glanced at the shots as I scanned the negs into little contact sheets. Then I scanned one of the backstage group shots and barely looked at it before I emailed it to Peter White. But as I inferred in my 06/06/06 post, I had an instant recognition when I saw Peter Wood's name in the email Peter White sent back. And even more-so when I actually 'looked' at the group shot but part of that recognition was an indescribable "oh, shit" feeling. As I went deeper into the pictures, the "oh, shit" feeling intensified. I know I'm not supposed to put pictures up here that will probably be in the book...but since no one is reading this post, I guess it's okay.

First there was this:
No big deal. It's a picture of me. I must have taken it in a mirror. Not something I would normally do, but hey, we were partying backstage. Maybe I was bored and...wait a second...that's not me in a mirror. Look at the camera. It's vertical and the picture is horizontal. And the "Pentax" name is not reversed. And I wear my watch on my left wrist. I didn't take this picture.

Then there was this:
A picture of Peter Wood. Wait another freakin' second. The picture of me is horizontal but my camera is vertical and the picture of Peter Wood is vertical but his camera is horizontal. Ah Ha...memory fade in...we took pictures of each other taking pictures of each other. How cute is that? What the...?...I distinctly remember my guitar-type camera strap and that funky flash mount. That's my camera he's using! Then whose camera am I using? I have no idea. And how did I end up with the negatives? No clue.

I admit, my memory is a little fuzzy when it comes to some of the people I shot. There were a lot of bands, in a very short period of time. But some of my memories are crystal clear. Like my Led Zeppelin encounter. And of course, Chris Parker, Paul Butterfield and Michael Bloomfield. And the memories that aren't as clear generally materialize as soon as the pictures come to life. And that's what happened with my Peter Wood photos...partially. I definitely remember him. His voice. The goofing around. It's right there in the photos.

There's an inordinate number of backstage pictures that he took of me, like this:

There's even a more inordinate number of backstage pictures that I took of him, like this:
And that "oh, shit" feeling still hanging over me. So, when I met with Peter White, I had a hidden agenda. I hoped he could shed some light on the backstage hijinx. Sadly, he told me out of all the band members, he was least close with Peter Wood. But as I opened up photo after photo, he did say, "Wow, he was really flirting with you, wasn't he?" I have this nagging feeling that I saw Peter Wood again. Like he came back to Vancouver on his own. Or at least we were in touch, aside from the Al Stewart concert. Fuck. I don't know.

So, that "oh, shit" feeling remains...along with one question...

Did I sleep with Peter Wood?

I am so glad no one is reading this.

Do Ya Think I'm Morbid?

I met up with Peter White this week (the former member of Al Stewart's band from my 06/06/06 post) to show him the pictures of the Vancouver show. He told me he had been reading the blog and found it very entertaining. Thanks, Peter.

He also mentioned that maybe I'm a bit morbid - that maybe by sending him the email with the band photo, I was hoping someone would be dead. The comment was made in passing, very casually, but it stuck with me. If the thought occurred to him, it's probably occurred to most of you. Hell, it even occurred to me. Am I being morbid?

When the title first popped into my head, I thought it was really catchy. And a catchy title, whether you're writing a book or a screenplay, is extremely important. I admit, the title could lead one to think I am hoping all the people I photographed systematically drop dead between now and my publication date. Wouldn't that be great for sales? Yeah sure, that and the FBI on my ass 24/7.

To tell you the truth, I was happy with the number of dead rock stars I had when I started the project - before I began the arduous task of going through the picture boxes and doing the research - back when I did my little book proposal and the number off the top of my head was 20. I'm not pulling out the pom-poms every time I find a new dead person to add to my list. And I'm certainly not sticking pins into any rock star voodoo dolls. But let's face it. Everybody's got to go. You, me and the guy next door. So, my question is: why do we associate death with being morbid? Why is it the forbidden conversation? And, do ya think I'm morbid?
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P.S. to Rod Stewart...you think there's a song in the title of this post?

Dear Ronnie,

I have felt the urge to write you since last week, when I heard you entered a rehab facility...yet again. I hope the picture I posted of you with a margarita in your hand and a bottle of tequila (pronounced: tekillya) under your arm didn't drive you back to the drink. I suppose it was in bad taste to elicit humorous captions on such a photo, especially now that I know you were in the midst of falling off your little red wagon. For that, I apologize.

But, I have decided this same photo - the one that my readers have been using as their inspiration for tasteless jokes - could be used to demonstrate my own personal feelings toward your current situation. And to do so, I've written my own, more appropriate caption.

"If you take even one tiny little sip of that demon alcohol,

I swear I'll put you over my knee and spank you!"

I'm not kidding, Ronnie. Listen to me. I DO NOT WANT YOU TO BE IN MY NEW BOOK! Even though I have tons of great pictures of you (remember the ones I took of you in your apartment on Ave Victor Hugo in Paris, sitting in the window sketching?) and lots and lots of stories I could tell (no, I'm not going to talk out of school), and even though your presence in the book would certainly up my sales, I WANT YOU TO STAY ALIVE! Honestly. I'd rather be on the guest list for your next art opening than on the guest list for your funeral. So, QUIT DRINKING! And if you're doing any drugs, quit them too. You are much more fun and way cuter when you are sober. Trust me.

With love and affection,
Deborah