It's Complicated isn't Just a Cliche

I have watched nearly episode of "The Rifleman" in its run on MeTV. In one episode, the old and tough town sheriff of Northfork has to be away for a short while. Our hero--Lucas McCain--usually the one Micah, the sheriff, calls upon to substitute is not available. So, he appoints a townperson with a great idea. No one will be allowed into Northfork unless he (it was always he in those days) gives up his gun. The bad guys, naturally, are delighted as they don't plan on giving up their guns, and well, the law, well, howdy, they don't follow that in the first place, and they mosey into town and manage to take over the sheriff's office. There 'taint anybody around, well until Lucas and his trusty rifle come back, to stop 'em.  And then our temporary sheriff realizes---the good guys really can't be without their guns when bad guys are around. Which is, as it happens, always.

I will in some other entry discuss at length "The Rifleman" a show which is in my mind among the best of old TV, back in the days with television brought you morality tales. But for now, I offer the above story from the late 1950s as an entree into what I discovered this week.

I had the perhaps odd need (for a girl who's never been in one and has no idea how to shoot except at video games and that only maybe three or four times her whole life), to visit a gun store. I had an inquiry to make; I made it, and probably will never see the inside of one again. I like the idea of target shooting, but, for me personally, only with something that wouldn't actually hurt another human being, even accidentally.

The store was, shall we say, packed. And not just with big bruisers with tattoos, though there were a few I was sure had tats under their shirts. No, there were couples; there were white people, there were black people and hispanic people and even a few women, a couple of an upper range (in my area) of age that I'd think wouldn't be in the demographic.

If this is how it was in California, I can't imagine what it must have been like in the middle of the country. It is pretty clear that while the media and political America are insisting on the townspeople being without what they view as protection in a world of bad guys, the discussion is far from being concluded as far as the townspeople are concerned.

How do I feel on the subject?  Well, as an extension of my previous entry, we wouldn't need guns if human beings were still walking in Paradise. There wouldn't be evil at all because we wouldn't have eaten from that tree which provided the knowledge of it. That ship has sure sailed.

In the world post the fall, there are still good people who protect other good people and each other, and some of those have guns, and in this imperfect world, well, it makes arguable sense. You've heard, as I have, it said that if someone who tried to help when the evil marauders wreaked their havoc had a gun, lesser havoc would have resulted. Oh, I know there are those who disagree. Disagreement used to be allowed.

I know I don't want to go back to the "Old West" when everybody carried a gun. On the other hand, I just wonder in my bones whether too much fumbling with the Second Amendment will only leave the bad guys in charge.

Like everything in discussion the marketplace of ideas, the whole subject is more complicated than the glossy pundits posit. 

I wish that we hadn't fallen in the first place. I wish religion weren't a taboo subject. I wish a lot of things that just aren't. Well, until the real end times. The Mayans missed. I'm kind of glad. I really need the extra hours to prepare. In my faith, as in many others, we aer told that we will not know the day or the hour, but we are to be watchful, of ourselves, of our souls. It'll happen, but until then we'll debate as if we can change anything without God's help.

Meanwhile, back on "The Rifleman", Mark drinks tainted water after his father tells him not to and ends up with typhoid fever. A fancy doctor comes and saves him; Lucas is happy and Mark is (I assume) sorry he didn't listen to his father.

A Law to Change Our Hearts?

I just heard what happened today in a "safe place" in Connecticut--twenty elementary children murdered by a gunman who killed his own mother (a teacher at the school) and other adults as well, twenty six people all tolled. And then he shot himself. 

The media is now recounting endlessly the murders of days gone by, at movie theatres, a campaign rallies, at Littleton, and Columbine. What they need to do is report it and shut up so that other madmen aren't encouraged to a post mortem celebrity like this malevolent soul. You say the press is serving us? What is the point of repeating it over and over?

One person's view, besides that of that well known sage, Justin Bieber. It is horrific. It is evil itself, but it isn't incomprehensible, if you just look at history and just glance at what happens when God becomes irrelevant to human hubris.

There's got to be a law!  That's the ticket. 

And all human upon human misery will be eradicated.

If you believe that I have bridge to sell you . . .

The Cacophony in (and out of) my head Whilst Waiting my Turn at the Bank

 

After I retired, my time mostly was my own. And then, people I knew, some of them anyway, came to a conclusion, "Djinn isn't doing anything!"  Well, to be fair to them, that's not what they said, and they'd probably deny that's even what they thought. But after about a year, I found myself with new"expectations". Not the typical work kind, but the kind that I suppose would fall under the rubric "charity." A couple of things I agreed to readily; a couple of things I said an absolute "no" to; a couple of things, and I'd like to kick myself over those, I said "no" many times but allowed myself to be manipulated (or so I interpreted anyway).

I am an obsessive compulsive. The real McCoy. Meaning I debate things endlessly, come to a conclusion for about a second and then begin the debate again. Until I drive myself crazy. I used to drive dad crazy with my fears and doubts. But then he died and now I mercifully (for them whoever they might have been) have found no replacement. So, these days, I talk to myself, and God, about the things that I doubt and fear endlessly about. The things I should have said "no" to and didn't--too late to back out and I have to face them, even though I am perpetually terrified and would rather be anywhere other than here or there.

Today was a particularly hard day. In between my obligations for discharge to others, I had to go to the bank to take care of something for me. I agree. I am a shit. I should love to help others. I'm a Christian. I am a Catholic Christian. I am supposed to want to sacrifice. Truth be told I don't. To the extent I do, it is despite myself.  And I am a coward besides. I pray to God for patience, for courage, for love. He's probably answering, but I'm not hearing Him; I'm too busy obsessing and being afraid.

So, I'm in a veritably empty bank. They all look like that these days. One guy in account services looking like he'd rather be anyplace else, like me.

There is a woman with the guy, the solo bank account manager guy. She is going on and on, as she has every right to be. And I want to scream "Shut up!".  The young associate is in and out of the back office trying to accommodate her various wishes. In the waiting area with me, is a man with a brief case. I see that inside the brief case are lots of papers with lots of notes. He is clearly going to take a long time when his turn, before me, comes. He's probably crazy. But that's his right. He has rights. Me, I'm just trying to be good, whatever "good" looks like.  I decide. "No, I'm here, that's it, I'm not leaving without accomplishing my business." He gives me a press clipping. He is John Scott, the oldest living "tagger".  Yep. He was oldest living tagger at 74. Now he's 77. He's very proud of his press. Nice to be so secure in one's place in the world, even home made.

He seems a very nice man, at least as we sit in this cubular sectional area. I like him. I don't like that he is a tagger, oldest living or not. But I ain't going to tell him that and ruin our very nice short relationship that won't become a longer one. In between I hear some woman come in and talk about the nearby pharmacy where they sell everything besides drugs, and I think she is talking about getting nice candle. She says, "I'm not looking for something 'fancy schmancy'".  I wonder why she is in this bank talking about candles. My head is about to explode.

As I write this, it has begun to rain. My screen door which I made the mistake of opening to "see" the stupid rain, has broken and I can't get it on track. I kicked it into a form of submission; I wanted to rip it up and throw it to the ground below; I didn't, and I will have to spend money I'd rather not to to fix it sometime in the future.

I made the additional mistake of turning on the news to hear about some shooting at Cal State Fullerton; what? this a day after some shooting at a mall in Oregon. My head is about to explode again.

You cannot imagine the panoply of words I'd like to say and write--the kind you have to make confession about, or do you? The world is so changed. I am not sure what is true or false, dogma or discretion. 

Everybody's got troubles. What was it that Spock said to Leila, which by the way, is a page in my memoir that I may never publish, one of those pre-dedication pages.  "If there are self-made purgatories, then we all have to live in them. Mine can be no worse than anyone else's."

It's hard to believe as I write this, that I really think I have had a great life. A blessed life, as my friend Veronica tells me repeatedly I have had. I know it is so. I just had my uncle, and aunt and cousin here for wine and cheese in between my whining. It was nice. And yet right now, having turned down the sound on my TV reporting yet another horrific shooting by some so called normal person, I am having a hard time seeing it.

 I need to pray. It is the last thing I want to do. I need to do it despite the feeling against it.

"Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee" which I think I did in my heart and soul today. "Help me do better tomorrow."

My head still feels like it is going to explode.

A Moment in the Real Rabbit Hole

I had business in glitzy Century City today, the Avenue of the Stars. Really.

The building I visited used to house the Schubert Theatre West, fountains fronting the two Century City Towers that were the exterior shot for the offices of "Remington Steele". (Remember that?). I sat in the old complex oh, many a year ago with Mr. Anonymous of the Deluxe Furnished Barbara Judith Apartments, feeling like I'd never find a job in California in the six weeks I had allotted myself. In the morning I'd look for a job. In the afternoon, for the two weeks he spent here, long prior to his move to LA, we'd see the sights in my rented car. It was in that old demolished complex that I saw Joan Rivers, one of many times.

Long ago, and far away. The new building looks toward the still extant twin towers, unchanged, should Remington wish to make a re-appearance, all glass and steel and glitter. I had a moment when I almost did not see where the doors were amid all the shiny-ness. Valets only and in I went into the vast expanse and deep and long stairwell downward. Business people buzzed about-I used to buzz like that, but in a far less glitzy building downtown. It being the holiday upcoming formerly known as "Christmas" there was a large, and I think real, "Christmas" tree in the courtyard decorated with tasteful elegance. The fashionability of the place was sealed with a Mickey Fine, a pharmacy/everything else known to celebrity-dom and wanna-bes, and former-be's.

I was early for my appointment and the only thing to look at was "Forbes", which I have never read before, and I perused with apparent interest so that I might not appear an orphan Annie among Daddy Warbucks'es. I did note that two of the articles I scanned had the absolute opposite predictions about the outcome of our national financial affairs. Expensive shoes clicked around me. I noted that one of mine had been chewed by one of my cats, and crossed my feet discretely.

I don't know that my appointment was a success--it was kind of a touch base sort of thing. I realized that black was the color of the day in all the offices around me, and never mind my shoes, but the bright red Chico's jacket-blouse marked me like one of the characters in red in "Sixth Sense". My parking was validated, a sure sign, like the mints Len Speaks seeks in restaurants, of the best establishments.

And then I was outside. I waited for my Toyota. A new Toyota, recently leased, to be sure, but still a Toyota. And noted the two Range Rovers one behind the other, the Porsche directly in front of me, the various Mercedes, and Audi's, and the several men seriously communing with their cell phones.
And I felt. . . good. Great in fact to be here,and have a reason to be here, the shiny fantasy land that is the business world.  

And my Toyota really isn't bad, I mean with the Bluetooth, and the USB ports, and the two glove compartments.

Elwood 'Gochis' RIP

Several times, tonight, I thought I saw him, walking bowl legged toward me, his big round eyes appealing to me for food or love. And one time, remembering he favored awkward locales to lay, like the entrance to the kitchen, I found myself picking up my legs so I wouldn't, as sometimes happened, step on him evoking a "yowl".




My lionhearted "Elwood' the cat is no more.  I'll be keeping one of the prescription bottles that identify him as in the title of this piece, Elwood 'Gochis'--silly, but somehow, right now, I like it.

It's only a few hours ago, that I could no longer hope for a  rally. He had done it before, particularly in the last six months, be on the edge of his natural death, and then with a little vet visit and medication, coming back from the precipice.

He began to lose weight, precipitously, early in the year. His fur got ridiculously matted. So I began thyroid meds, which at first seemed to turn him around; he even gained weight. And then it stopped working around September-ish. And other things started to become problems, back legs getting weak some days so much, he was dragging them both; there was always the increased appetite that signal kidney issues, although that seemed to be a not too pressing problem; ear infections; urinary tract infections; a constipation that turned out to be more about his system breaking down. But he still was showing interest in his little world and no matter how bad he looked, he wasn't, I said to myself, in consultation with my vet, "ready".  I have seen it before, three times of which I had to help it along, and a couple I did not. When they are ready, just like with us, humans, they lose the spark in their eyes and are just, there, listless, looking at a wall.




Last night I sat up with him all night, with occasional falls asleep, he next to me in a towel on my bed, showing little interest in moving--which is particularly un-cat-like. I could see that as bad as he looked a month or two ago, he looked even worse. Something about his gaze was telling me. And still this morning, I was trying to figure, no, he'll do something, this little Elwood moo--a nickname I had for him.

But there were also the howls of intense complaint, usually sprayed to the bathroom walls, like he was out of his mind. Dementia?  Pain?  Both? He'd be quiet in a chair and then one of those sounds would emit and it scared me to him. I'd pick him up and he'd be quiescent for a bit, and then a version of the wail, which seemed to say, "What are you waiting for?"

It is no doubt silly to pray to God that he take this one cat peacefully, given the many animals killed violently daily, and let's not talk about all the humans. He does not always intervene and I understand that, but I still had to try, to avoid the task I did not want to do, again, even after a good long life.

And so, I called the vet and took the appointment about an hour and a half away, 5:20 p.m.  I wrapped him in a towel again and we sat together on my favorite chair. He looked at me; for a moment sometimes, he seemed dead already, but then I saw the slow rising of his skeletal chest. I rubbed his nose. I apologized for what I was about to do.

And then it was time. A couple of those wails, less urgent as he lay awaiting his fate. He lifted his head when the vet came in, and for a moment, I thought, "Maybe I should just take him home."  But this time I knew I needed to stay strong, amid the tears and the effort to tell the vet everything about the years in which this orange tabby cat was in my life.

I'm pretty sure I've written about Elwood before--he lived next door for several years. I "met" him around the time of the Northridge quake in January 1994, when my new neighbor Doug, and I and his roommate and the upstairs neighbors gathered in the hall at 4 in the morning.  He was young, but he wasn't a kitten, so you do the math on how long he's been around--I wasn't kidding about that. Above average our Elwood in the life span department. 

He was about as neurotic as a human, if it came to that. He did not tend to like men, and a man was his owner. He would approach and then run away, tail always twitching--to the day, today, he died. And one day, he ran away from home, to our backyard, to be with the other cats of other neighbors. He was always careful to remain low man on the cat pole, in order to protect himself from harm. And he did well. He was out there some years and then losing his teeth, and his hearing, one rainy evening I took him in, and he never left. My own three cats were not in love, but they accepted a new roommate, particularly as the new snack became baby food for Elwood, which I shared with them.

He tolerated my move from the only building he ever lived better than my other cats, despite his failing health. His favorite spot remained the food dishes, whether he ate or not. He was beyond being able to clean himself, and pretty much everything was encrusted, all the time. He protested my use of wet wipes. But after I put him down, he'd stick around me anyway, so the protest was not all that serious.

There are more people than you'd imagine who are sad about his loss, his former owner, Doug, our friend Akiko, whom Elwood loved; she got to see him just after I moved here, and both of us cried over the tenacity of this little cat; my cousin Carol, who met him just after my father died. She liked him best of all my cats, because he was a personality unto none other. He trusted, while distrusting, and that was a fascinating combination.

I bawled in my car on the way home, after bawling as I touched his quickly cold furry head after he breathed his last; the vet said that he was on the way to dying indeed, and so, although he did not say this, it was a good thing I did not make him wait. He would have fought on this boy.

I will lean on my other three cats tonight, and I think for a long time, I'll see Elwood coming toward me for a pet or a little baby food. 



 Look at that well lived in face with a dollop of baby food on his nose. I'll be crying some more tonight.

Being Gone

I do not intend to seem maudlin. But something about moving out of the apartment I lived in for 30 plus years has caused me to think about death. I guess it is because after taking all my stuff out, I have had the chance to see it empty because someone I know, my cousin, is moving in (subject of another story as to how that happened), and then slowly filling up with things she moved in piecemeal, and with which I assisted her.

So, let me step back.

 This is the entry to my old place in the Fairfax District of Los Angeles. This vestibule was where my neighbors and I lurked back on January 17, 1994 after that monster earthquake we all thought might be the "big one."  It's kind of where I met Elwood, the Lionhearted Cat, who is still favoring his life despite advanced age.

Here's another angle, of the fake potted plant.

Oh, and the front entryway.

You see these front french windows?



I remember that I had a little desk in front of those windows, where I studied for the California Bar, while my then new little cat Hollywood, the size of the palm of my hand, sat on my Bar Bri books to prevent it.  That was 1981. Hollywood lasted till 1999, dying at the age of 18, after a long full life.

The living room had many changes of furniture. I always liked the large room and the bright cheerfulness providing by side French windows, although my wall space was then severely limited.The kitchen was only recently, like in April, remodeled from the original 1920's crumbling tile, but I only rarely hated what it was before that change--since I have never been much of a cook. I needed neither much space nor particular beauty in that room.

My favorite space was what had been once in time, likely, a dressing closet/room. When Oscar Rovinsky, the landlord at the time, gave me the keys for the grand sum of $375.00 a month, the little built in table with a built in mirror was falling apart, not really usable. My uncle took it out for me. At first, I used it basically as an ordinary junk closet, and then one day realized I could make it a library. Now, my cousin will use it to store the tools of her avocation, sewing.

So, what's this talk of a "death"? Well, here is the thing. Because I have been able to go back and see the apartment develop with the taste of my cousin, there is this sense that in a small way I am experiencing, with myself, what it might be like to go into an apartment of a loved one, clear it out and see what it becomes, without the former occupant. In a way, the thirty years of my inhabitantcy is wiped away with the removal of my "stuff". It is, as if, I was never there for well over a quarter of a century.

It gives some sort of perspective; I am considering what that is.  There is a book by Stephen Levine, called, "One Year to Live".  It tries to teach the reader to engage in exercises derived from the idea of what would it be like if you knew you had only a year to live. Now obviously this actually happens to people, but not to most of us. We don't get a timetable in advance. Or even close. One of the exercises is to go through a day as if you are not here, on this earth. It has an interesting effect--you become less attached to the self, because the exercise presumes no "self" literally. Since no one sees you, there is no opportunity or reason to be slighted.  It causes you to think about what is truly to be done by you in THIS life, if you were not trying to please or obtain the kudos of others. There was something of that exercise in emptying the first apartment I ever lived in as an adult (I was old when I ran away from home), and watching it fill up with someone else's possessions.

It's interesting being gone while being here. I have been in this apartment for just shy of two months. You'd never know I'd been anywhere else.  Until, of course, I'm gone, again. By the way, I'm in no rush. From my lips to God's Ears.

Eternal Boys and Girls, Oh My

When I was a wee Bronx Djinn, I was like all the other kids. I liked Halloween, the secular manifestation of the religiously based All Hallow's Eve. I'd get dressed as a Princess or something like that and with my cousins Barbara and Carol, accompanied by Aunt Rita, we'd go from building to building on our block, yelling "Trick or Treat" and getting some favorites in the seasonal shopping bag, Nestle     Crunch, Bazooka Bubble Gum and pennies and nickels. Sometimes, I seem to remember stopping to bob an apple or two at one of the buildings across the street.

We did not worry too much about dangerous candy--this being the era before razors in your gummy bears--although even then we weren't allowed to eat the unwrapped donations.

I grew up and not having children of my own, gave nary a thought to Halloween. But when I came to California and moved into my first neighborhood (and only one until about a month ago) in the Fairfax District, that first year, I had plenty of candy for the kids. But none came. In those days, it was attributable to the fact that most of the children were from religious Jewish families.  The neighborhood became more mixed ethnically, religiously and secular-ly, but by then we did have to worry about the people who hurt children and so trick or treating was like taking a dive off a cliff. So, still no children came to the door.

What had happened, though, was that adults made Halloween--the former province of children--their own, dressing up, like in this picture, say as Captain America, or the Faeirie Godmother in one or another of those tales, like Cinderella and partying hardy with modern candy or magical dust of one sort or another (wink wink).

Here in Los Angeles, they close entire blocks, at taxpayer expense, so that these 20, 30, 40 and who knows whether it goes into the 50s-somethings can cavort as skeletons on the boulevards. My vet had to deal with its own "skeleton" staff, because people could not get in and out of the area. Don't have a sick cat or dog on the night of the pumpkins and werewolves!

I hear that around Hollywood Boulevard there was a shooting, and they had to close that part of town down.
Some pour soul is now officially a ghoul.

Maybe we should return this holiday to the children.

Waving Goodbye to One RAV in favor of Another to Rave About

Talk about starting a new chapter. Clearing the decks. Turning the page. Sweeping the cobwebs. (I am reminded of that Monty Python bit about the dead parrot as I begin this tale, but I veer. . .). Career of 25 years. Ended. Turns out to have been a bit of fortuitous synchronicity. Who'd a thunk?  And then I wrote a memoir (on draft three now). And then I decided I needed to renovate Dad's. And then I decided that I needed to leave my rental of 30 years in favor of moving into the place I own, the renovation of which I rather liked.situated in a trendy area (given the number of tour vans I see) .

I had been putting off service my 14 year old RAV-4. Last time I visited my Toyota Hollywood, they told me that there was some oil pan related thing that was in need of attention, really soon, that would cost $500.00. There would surely be more than that. Each visit for maintenance was costing me more. And registration, and the dreaded smog check was coming up. So, I began to think. Maybe a new car was in order, even if, as my friends are tired of hearing me say, "I've been spending money like water" lately, at a time when what is coming in isn't the same as what iused to be.

Now, that RAV 4, 1999, boxy, silver and exactly to my liking had been leased in October 1998 during one of the many whirlwind crisis at my job occasioned by the politics of lawyer regulation, the veto of the fee bill that kept regulators regulating. A few of us were left to blow on the embers of ethics enforcement, but it was also possible that since we had also been given provisional "pink slips" I'd be out pounding the pavement, which in Los Angeles is more like, "wheeling on the pavement", it being a car community. And I had an old car then, also a Toyota, a Corolla. I figured I better have something new, and already acquired for when I no longer had a job, so I could get a new one. Within weeks of this new shiny chick SUV coming into my life, a man backed into it while I was stopped and claimed against me, and on the same day, I was informed that a responding lawyer had put a contract out on my life.

Those crazy days passed. I concluded therapy about a year after the car. I stopped studying psychology. I put a new radio in so I could play CDs (this RAV had no player); I loved my arcane eight disc changer in the BACK of my RAV that I could operate from the controls up front. I exchanged that once again for a better system, and only one CD at a time, some years later. I repaired a dent I put in the side as I backed out of the parking space in dad's new condo, that is now mine. I left another dent I put in it as I avoided an improperly parked car in my back yard and hit the iron wrought stair handle. I had long ago stopped going to the CAR WASH on La Cienega where I once saw Jerry Stiller, and Adrian Paul (the TV version of the Highlander; actually he was in the furniture store next door) in favor of occasional hose downs on weekends. I lost my fear of being hit by people cutting me off (silly because my body was just as susceptible to damage as when the car was new) because I superstitioned that a dented car wouldn't likely be hit anymore. RAV and I, well, we kind of moved as one for all the years we spent together, and 102,000 plus miles. But the paint was peeling from its being parked in the sun. Time to say goodbye old friend.

I did not want to pay anything up front for something new. Len Speaks recommended we travel to Longo. No, it is not a far away fantasy land, but a car dealership, the largest, is it in California or the country, for Toyotas. And while I complained I did not like the new RAV's, the shape is not the simple and small of days gone by, I found myself enthralled by the bells and whistles of modern technology and the smooth ride.

And now, in that same parking space sits a Pacific Blue, Blue Tooth enabled, I Heart playing, grandson of RAV 1.


It's bigger and so I am nervous-er around that pole I hit with his predecessor, because I haven't quite become comfortable going in and out. But all is new in this old little world of mine.

I regret that my farewell to RAV 1 was little more than a wave, a see ya, not what was deserved for all the years of faithful service. So, I offer this little eulogy for work well done, for pleasant days on the road, several to San Francisco and back in the days when I was part of the legal ethics biz. 

Alas, poor RAV, I knew him, a chariot of infinite zest, laid to his mechanical rest.

An Unexpected Blessing within an Expected One(s)

As you who read these pages know, I began to attend Mass more frequently after the chapter of a "regular job" closed, allowing me a freedom of schedule. As several servers came and went, at least one to become a seminarian, my nascent skills in that arena have been used more frequently as I share the role with a couple of others. Often I find myself the only server, and after a number of mistakes, I think I am becoming more efficient in carrying out this serious role and not losing a sense of reverence as I do so. Our current pastor has physical impairments that make turning the pages of the altar missal difficult, so I often remain kneeling behind the altar as he speaks the words of Transubstantiation to be close to the book at the critical times. On more than one occasion, as I considered the Moment of the Moment, when Christ Himself persists in Body, Blood, Soul and Divinity under the appearance of bread, I have found myself teary eyed back there. But it is hard for a mere human to sustain the enormity of the Event for more than a fraction of time itself. I am grateful for my moment of real faith even if I return to that vague one which characterizes my practice.

Today, something else was added. We have visiting priests because of the overall shortage, but also because of the need to spell our current Monsignor, who drives himself in a holy but wearing manner. They have all been, in the brief acquaintance I have made of them, sincere ministers of the Catholic faith. Rarely, there is someone who blows you out of religious complacency. And today, I met such a man, and served the Mass he celebrated feeling that I had observed in persona Christi in a way I rarely have.

I had been expecting our Monsignor, who was returning from another celebration of Mass for the benefit of some nuns in nearby Hollywood. I was sitting in a pew in the altar area, and I saw a tall, lean priest walking toward me, a strong, young man. He wore a large Cross, the type worn by Eastern Rite Catholics and he bore the skull cap of a bishop.




The idea that a bishop I had never seen before had been called to substitute was not congruent and so I did not want to assume what my eyes were telling me, that this indeed as some bishop here to celebrate the 12:10 Mass attended usually by no more than 20-40 people a day. He had a strong face and a pleasant humble manner. He was here in the U.S. from Peru for a two week period on some form of missionary work he did not specify. I stumbled over his name Kay something-hausen, which seemed German, not Peruvian. I did not wish him to be uncomfortable so I stopped prying. As it turns out his mother is Peruvian and  his father German.

He told us his English was not good. It was, to me, pristine, every word spoken with clarity and intent, whether it was his homily or the words of the Eucharistic Prayer. Every move on the altar spoke an understanding of the awe we should hold for God, the God who sent His Son to repair our broken race and its relationship with Him. There was none of the rushing through that I have seen since I was a child. I understood nearly for the first time the importance of every part of the Mass and the words we usually repeat without thought.

His life, this young (he is still in his forties) priest, and bishop, is nothing like that of us in the United States. I looked up his prelature. It is a place of hard work on the earth, in the earth.






      

And this day, he was in a little Church in West Hollywood, humbly celebrating the Mass that is the same always and everywhere.

There truly are no accidents with God, Our Father.

The Bishop and the sometime server, Catholics together no matter how far apart the lands of our birth! Thank you, Lord. And thanks for Most Reverend Kay Martin Schmalhassen Panizo.

They're Going to Have to Carry Me Out!

Those of you who know me live and up close and through this blog, know that I do not much like change. This is a foolish rebellion in that change is in the very nature of life and often is a door toward growth. Oh, yes, change has been thrust upon me in some things, the death of my mother and other relatives and friends, at far too young ages, the loss of my job in the last 18 or plus months, and the like. But volitional change, I have avoided assiduously, no doubt my effort at controlling the uncontrollable universe.

Forced into change, I cope. That's a good thing as I have seen many of those with whom I am acquainted not able to do so readily. The last major change I initiated, though, was probably my move to California, which was 31 years ago. And for all that time, very nearly, I lived in the same apartment. It was only the third place I ever lived, the other two being in New York, as I grew awkwardly to adulthood.

Pretty much the consensus was, and I include myself in the consensus, that I would be in that apartment near the Grove and Fairfax Avene until I kicked the proverbial bucket. There were many who felt, and said, to me, and to one another (I speculate) that it was a shame I did not buy a big house commensurate with my professional status as an attorney. I thought about it. I even looked at a place or two over the years, but I was comfortable where I was, in a broken down (for most of the years until my new landlord did work on the place and I did some of my own) apartment building, with its often seedy back yard (the neighbors and I improved it some over the years; for me it became a garden of paradise; anyone who comes back there probably thinks I am delusional). If I had a big house, I'd still cozy up in a room or two. I am at heart a New York bedsitter dweller.

Looking back, I am glad I did what I did as I did. My job was always precarious, for the whole 25 years I navigated the tides and eddies of changing administrations and inadequate understanding of what an ethics prosecutor actally did, but having survived for so long, a little like the fake imbecilic Claudius avoided the family political massacres of ancient Rome into old age, I was still a little stunned and surprised that it was not my idea to cease public service. (Claudius ultimately met his end from poison mushrooms provided by his loving wife). My not expanding my life turned out to give me the wherewithal to survive and begin to do those things I had always wanted to--those creative things that don't usually bring in an income unless one hits it big. It also made possible the expense to renovate the bathroom and kitchen of the condo in which my father lived and which I inherited, a condo I couldn't sell after the crash of 2008 (just when my father died).

Losing my job severed the last thread to the life I had been leading for 31 years. The page was partially turned for me, and it was now mine to turn the rest of the way.  Oh, not crazy big, admittedly, like those among my friends who have moved from state to state, have bought many a house and sold them again, who travel with ease and delight (I like being places, not the transport to them, which I find almost intolerable),  t for me, a self propelled and big enough change. I decided to move into the condo once the renovation was done rather than to try to sell again. While my property is now chock full of amenities, the building itself is 1957 crusty, with concomitant problems of roof and plumbing in the common areas, and a too low reserve; I 'd likely still have trouble selling. 

The anticipated 10 week or so renovation took five months, with various glitches popping up and driving me to distraction and near regret that I had even tried to effect any change of my own accord.

I had wonderful movers in Starving Students, taking a piano up two stories with sharp turns on the stairwells. My old apartment still has remnants of my old life, and it has been heavy and dusty work in bringing "stuff" over here and paring other stuff (putting much of it by the "magic tree" as I call it, where people come and make my old treasures their new ones). I am cleaning things up, the refrigerator, the bathroom, the carpet, which I'd do even if my cousin weren't moving in there to be closer to her ailing father and caretaking mother. Yes, the old place will be staying in the family thanks to a negotiation with my kind erstwhile landlords.

As for me, they really are going to have to carry me out of here. But I'll tell you, I find this an amiable place to focus on the writing that I have always claimed is my dream--so I have the opportunity to put my money where my mouth is.

I might even do some travelling, despite my wish they could beam me there rather than make me take a plane and wait at airports and go through security and worry about my containers. I see all this as Chapter III, Reinvention.

E.T. Skywalks and a Paramount Tribute in Which We Find that Lalo Schifrin is Happily Still Among Us

My friends and I closed out the Hollywood Bowl season 2012 this weekend, with two concerts.  On Friday, John Williams played his many scores amid many scores of fans interested only in the compositions of one movie series, Star Wars.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jHO_Hgavfrw&feature=player_detailpage

On Friday it was a 100th anniversary celebration of Paramount Studios featuring music from 1927 (Wings) to date, meaning Star Trek 2009 and Transformers. David Newman, of the musical composing and conducting family, Lionel et al. was the maestro at the podium for the Sunday night show, sloppy, but intent and talented.  Mr. Williams in his turn was reliably pleasing, although he tended to feature music from his lesser known works--his right as a bona fide pop culture icon. And he was
a master of milking applause from the audience, with flourishes of the hand to his heart and the most effective Hollywood Bowl Orchestra (really mostly the LA Philharmonic, summer class).
There was a special clip of the last reel of E.T., celebrating its 30th anniversary, the one where Elliot and his friends help a dying E.T.escape from minute scientific inspection to get to the woods to meet his spaceship and "go home" instead of phoning home. I hadn't seen the film for a long time and I found myself as teary eyed this time when E.T. says goodbye to his human teenager patron, as I was in some Westchester theatre in New York when I saw it all those years ago, I mean, yes, those very 30 years ago. I was sitting in one of the most mesmerizing locales in Los Angeles watching the composer of this very movie direct his music in time to the events on the screen.  Not for one second when I was whizzing around the Bronx and its environs did I EVER consider that I'd be watching the creator of this music. How could you not cry at this!


Which brings us to Sunday's concert. After all the traditional music of the traditional movies and a few cutting edge ones of their time (e.g. the Godfather), one of the films was introduced that I had not seen, an adaptation of a television series I had watched assiduously every Saturday (I think) night, Mission: Impossible. It was one of those rare shows that both child and parent loved. A group of highly skilled operatives go out on dangerous tasks in every fictitious Eastern European nation (this was the Cold War period), with the admonition that IF they fail, "The director will disavow any knowledge of (their) actions."  Luckily they never actually fail, although there were always lots of cliffhangers mid way into the hour show. I always loved that two of the actors, Martin Landau and Barbara Bain (aka Rollin Hand, master of disguise and Cinnamon Carter, temptress extraordinaire) were actually married at the time (after Space 1999, remember that one? they divorced; oh, on the only in Hollywood track, I saw Ms. Bain a year or two ago lurking glamorously--which was quite a feat since she is up there chronologically beyond even me- at the Arclight Theatre on the Strip). If I were in my bedroom the music da, da, dada, began with the sound of the strike and swoosh of a match on a dynamite wick, and I flew into the living room. Iconic. Yep.

And there, introducing the film score, written by a much younger composer, but integrating the original music, was Lalo Schifin himself!



 He and the young composer engaged in pleasantries and mutual compliments, and I thought, "How far away, almost in a magical way, am I from that 11 year old who ran into the living room, never dreaming that I'd be living in Los Angeles more years than I ever lived in New York and seeing the creative movie and television world as part of my every day life." And I had thought Mr. Schfrin had long gone to his great reward. I was happy he had not, in fact. That was Bruce Geller, the producer, alas.

So, another season ends, and I just consider that in a way I am a traveller in a fascinating alien world, called Hollywood. And I am so glad. 

The Pleasing Artifacts of Days Gone By

The packing continues for the move I hope will be accomplished in September, sometime, to my dad's condo. Aside from the packing, there has been shredding of documents that go back more than a decade, mine and my dad's, there have been donations to Good Will, there have been deposits by what I call the "magic tree", the tree outside my current place where, if you leave something you no longer want, someone comes by and adopts it for his or her own. I recently left a free standing bar out there, and I was delighted to see a young couple grab it up! There has been a whole loftof plain ole tossing of things that I have held onto for years (see the entry about how hard it is to get rid of stuff, going back a few months on these pages). It has been hard. The item pictured above is just one such particularly precious piece. It came with me from New York nearly 31 years ago, just about as empty as it is now, and I had it with slightly more liquid in it, some five years before that.

Yes, it is a barren bottle of cologne, called Aliage, which I wore until the contents were no more, except for a few drops that still cannot be sprayed out from the bottom. Perhaps because of the trouble the gifter took to have my initials placed at the top, the item has had even more value to me on the sentimental scale.

For the briefest of three months or so circa the fall and winter of 1975, I sort of dated a classmate--the second and last one, in college.With me, dating was always a bit of a "sort of". Don't get the idea that I am blaming anybody but myself. I just wasn't good at it, and never became good at it. Therein lies another tale, perhaps to be told, or not, we shall see. This young man was in a class taught by an aged stage actor, Vaughan Deering--who carried clippings from his 1918 appearances on stage (I believe as Iago) in San Francisco in his pocket, and lived at the now defunct Lamb's Club, and who, was a prototype for the absent minded professor except one who looked like he was homeless. Len Speaks will remember this class, not only for Mr. Deering's distress at the lack of our actor abilities, but for the fact that he was the note passing conduit from my would be suitor to me, one I recall inviting me to meet him by the coat rack at WFUV. I was suspicious of these entreaties because he had been involved in an intense relationship with another of our classmates, which had broken up with equal passion, and I knew he wasn't over her. And I knew, and I say this with absolute honesty, not self-deprecation alone, I could not compete with that lovely girl on any level.

But this was the second time I had actually been pursued with such obvious intensity (having not been pursued at all before) and well, he was already a friend, and I already liked him. He was New York cute, which for me is a little rough edged but with a boisterous sense of humor. So, for those few months, we went out casually and I enjoyed his company. It was he, I guess around Christmas, who gave me the cologne in the initialled bottle. I still have the card he sent with it (yes, I do. . .) a sweet thank you for my being there for him at a tough time.  By January of 1976, he transitioned to the woman, also a classmate, who would become his wife and with whom he had his two beautiful children. I was hurt but I never believed he was serious about me.

It was indeed the sweetness of the gesture of initials on the bottle that made me keep it, and I think, looking backward to my too quiet salad days, it was a reminder of things that could have been but weren't mostly because I lacked the necessary social and romantic skills. Or was afraid of them.

That bottle represented the possibility of youth. It will be hard to let it go, this bottle. On the other hand, I realize I don't need it in the same way anymore, even as only something to discover in the back of a closet and take in my hand with a smile. It will be enough I think to have the picture on this blog.

And move on, with a contentment that surprises even me, to another chapter of my life, with gratefulness for the ones in the past.  

.

The Quasi-Bionic Djinn

Up until I was 18 years old I had great teeth, not even one cavity. And then it all changed. Probably my less healthy diet, but I really never knew for sure. Suddenly I had a plethora of decay and fillings. By the time I came to California in 1981, I still had my teeth (except for a couple of wisdom teeth that did not fully develop), but they were filled with gold, amalgam and man made porcelain type products. My father thought this was mighty fine, as he had lost all his teeth in his 20s, and was wearing dentures while he fought in WWII.

I had a wonderful dentist from about 1982 until hummm, I can't exactly remember, the early 2000s, I am thinking, Roy Nakaiye. We even dated a couple of times; I met his lovely family, but I just did not see us as a couple. He stayed my dentist until he retired to Florida (he was an avid fisherman) and sold his practice. I did not like the crew that replaced him, who seemed to have checklists of all the cosmetic dentistry that they felt needed to be done for the outrageous prices that these non-urgent repairs required. They called and sent me notes of such a number and caliber that I considered they were less concerned about the well being of my mouth than of the well being of their pocket books. Although not necessarily a wise decision on my part, I avoided them henceforward and had no dentist for three years or so.

Mr. Anonymous of the Deluxe Furnished Barbara Judith Apartments had the same problem I did--for Roy became his dentist as well upon his transplantation from NY to LA. It was he who introduced me to my new dental office, Hanna Hoseli. When a dental pain became too much to bear, I sought her out. I fell in love, with the office, with the receptionist/office manager, he sister, and with the fact that I was always the only one waiting as the prior patient left--Hanna's approach was that each patient required her full attention, for a full hour at least, and there was no serial seeing, or it was limited. And she worked with steady hands and a quiet patience. After only a few visits, she became ill (she later died at far too young an age of brain cancer), and the young woman she hired to stand in for her while she fought her battle Nicola Malik, was in her mold, although she had not been licensed that long. I hated to lose Hanna, but I knew Hanna wouldn't select someone who wasn't a chip off the old block. I had let a germinating problem fester into a big one, an old root canal that had fluctuating pain. It would hurt. I'd take aspirin. It would go away, and then the cycle would begin again, until it hurt just too much. It was a tooth that Hanna had recommended I see a specialist over--of course I didn't.

By the time Dr. Malik saw me, she told me the root was fractured and the tooth, pretty well infected, couldn't be saved. She referred me to an oral surgeon, Dr. David Salehani in Beverly Hills (apropos of nothing, it was the building where in a Hamburger Hamlet I saw my very first LA celebrity, back in 1978, Michael Callan--anybody remember him?). He pulled the tooth, in a most elaborate display of surgical care, cleanliness, etc, but they still pull a tooth with what looks like a pair of pliers. My other teeth were ok, so I wasn't going to have any removed for a bridge. So onward to the dental implant, which is quite the process. I had a bone graft that day (I had to stop him for a little more information when he used the word 'cadaver'; you see the material is made from cadavers, along with some synthetics--thank you whoever's bone I now have integrated into my upper small molar space), and the I waited for three months to see if the graft would take. It did.

So yesterday, was the second, biggest part of this process--the actual implant. Yes, essentially it is a screw that is put into the space where your root used to be--and this is done after drilling a nice little canal into that newly replaced or edified bone area. It's all just below the sinus (you shoulda seen the consent form!). But I felt secure somehow. This doctor is young (if he's forty I'd be surprised), with just enough gray at his temples to allow for a sigh of relief and his calm is profound. The office is high tech and spare. The implant--it's made of titanium, right out of the Bionic man, or woman, in this case. It took all of 45 minutes for the whole process, which included a few moments to twist the screw into place such that I felt like I was a tire--I could hear the click, click, click until it tightened.

I was expecting a fair amount of discomfort when the local wore off, I mean, the man used massive drills right into my bone and there's a screw in my face now to which in another three or four months, assuming the implant "takes" which he thinks likely, will be added a crown.  But except for a bit of throbbing an hour or two after the surgery--I admit I took ibuprophen with codeine, just in case, because I was going to a Dodger game with Lenspeaks, I woke up this morning with nearly no discomfort, except for the sites where the needles went in to numb me up.

So, here I am, the happy quasi-bionic Djinn.

A La Recherche du Temps Perdu

Two intersecting ordinary events have triggered this entry. The first is that I am getting ready to move from my rental apartment, in which I have lived for over 30 years, to my dad's former condominium. The space is roughly the same size, but it represents a shift in my time space continuum. My dad died over four years ago. My long time job/career, as those of you who follow the DjinnfromtheBronx blog know, became moot. While a good thing, in retrospect, that change was seismic as well.--that which I had invested a quarter of a century was proven to be like the mist, fine and transient.The girl who came to this apartment at age 27 has become the seriously older woman of age 58. Like the Professor in the Time Machine, I have watched life change from out of my window as time passed. Unlike the Professor, as I moved into the future, I did not remain young. The second thing was catching up on the blog of my friend from a couple of weeks ago, his paean to the now late Ernest Borgnine, and, in particular, his role in "Marty".  That role resonated with me as well. Aside from the location appeal--it was shot in the Bronx back in a more innocent time just around the time I came onto the cosmic scene--Marty is the story of the everyman, the not so beautiful people. He is the Italian butcher who still lives at home with his widowed mother at the age of 35, and though trying to keep up with the better looking (they think) guys who search for the girls at the prim and proper dancing halls prevalent in those days, pretending that he's on the "make" for something lithe and pretty like all the sensible guys, he is a man full of a sense of inadequacy and loneliness. He watches the parade of men, like his brother, who find if not the loves of their lives, the companion of their days, and he wonders how the heck he managed not to get whatever it is that other men have, if not good looks, some vague charm that overcomes them. little later in the time scale, I would know these people, who lived and died in the Bronx, and I could easily have been one of them, as someone who never liked change. Luckily I hated the weather there and liked it better here, or I'd probably still be near the Jerome Reservoir, walking down to 233rd Street on a muggy summer's day.

Well, maybe it was a third thing that set me to this entry. I pulled out my photograph albums for storage in the little space that comes with the condo's garage. And the albums with the detritus of occasions long since past, a ticket stub, letters, diplomas, articles, term papers, report cards--the proofs of my "success". As I look backward at my own face, at 5, at 20, at 27, at 30 something, my fortieth birthday, I don't entirely recognize me.  I see in that face, in that time, something I clearly missed then, potentiality, even prettiness. You see, except for fleeting moments which were more about convincing myself, than about a real feeling, I always thought I wasn't particularly pretty. And of course, I sealed my feeling by fighting a  weight problem, well not fighting it, really, as I eat and always have eaten, obsessively.  I have done many things, obsessively, one replacing the other and occasionally overlapping the other. Well, I suppose it was understandable, considering my high school graduation picture--talk about a bear like visage with a helmet of hair and fuzzy eyebrows.

Well, that's how I felt. I remember it well. Oh, yes, lots of kids feel that way. I know we are a vast club. And looking at the other pictures in the yearbook, the others did not fare much better. But that's how I see it now, not then.  Guys see themselves as Marty. I saw myself as a cross between him and the girl that he meets that everyone says isn't good enough for him. You know, the girl most likely to be a wallflower.  Every time I ever watched that movie and he said, "You ain't the dog you think you are.," or something like that, I cried, a little more or little less depending on the state of my dating life, which did not begin until sophomore year of college--you can't count Ginny's cousin for the Sophomore Tea or Denise's good friend Ray, so I could get to the Senior Prom at all.  He was shorter and thinner by the way, so my already pretty shot self-esteem was fully exploded when he noted the height disparity--or was it, as I remember that he pointed out I was "bigger" than he was. He later sold me an annuity which I think I lost money.

But it was more than thinking I was a "dog". It was about something missing in my training, or my learning, outside of the educational training, the intellectual stuff (though I am not much of an intellectual if it comes to that for all the effort thrown that way). Attracted though I always was to men (yes, really, for those of you who think I am gay, not, as a la Seinfield "there's anything wrong with that"--for we each have our paths in life), I had no meaningful commerce (my apologies to James from Monticello; he actually asked me out in 1970, but I didn't realize that's what he was doing, so oblivious was I) with them until college and I was ill prepared in every way to encounter them when I got there. So what was in fact sufficiently attractive was hiding her light under a barrel for fear of what to do if the light got out, plus all the other psychological twist and turns the mind takes in order to convince itself that something stupid in behavior makes sense.  I just didn't "get" what other people, boys, and girls, men, and women, seemed to as part of the rites of passage. I wish I could say that I ultimately did, but I can't.

So, here I am in one of the pictures I actually always liked--there were about 15 of those pictures in the multitude of pictures taken of me over the years--circa 1982 ish in Santa Barbara. That makes me about 28--oh boy. . . .y'd never know that this face hid a mass of neuroses, fears, a hatred of her very vessel, her body and knew, at some very deep place--no doubt the essence of self-fulfilling prophecy--that she'd be a spinster like one of her mother's three sisters.

The title of this entry is from Marcel Proust, alternately translated as "In Remembrance of Things Past" or, "In Search of Times Lost". Well, the latter is more my sense of things--I am, as I pack up and shift gears, in ever my so small a way, in search of times lost--lost because of choices that did not seem to be choices, but now I realize despite every bit of resistance that tugs at me, were indeed choice. My "can'ts" as often my therapist tried to get me to see were "won't's". They still felt like "can'ts". But now it all doesn't matter that much to me--my mind and soul, if you will, has gone in a different direction, which may be hormonal or Divine Mercy, or both.

I'm guessing that everybody, whether he or she will admit it or not, realizes that in those things which did not "work out" in relationship--was a matter of being one's own worst enemy. I certainly twisted myself into knots most of my life.

The thing about "Marty" is that he wakes up faster than many of us do. It's his game to win or lose. Well, that's the other reality--it isn't a game.

I have had a very full life in my eccentric way. So, if it seems I am, I'm not complaining. And that is a first! I spent much of my life doing just that--complaining. To myself. To my journal, which was my alternate self. To my father, when he was alive. Probably to a few people that I would deny I complained to if they said, "Oh, yeah, you complained to me." 

And, what hasn't been enough, well, I'm responsible for that, but don't press me on it 'cause I could easily look for some external force to blame, and have, and will again.

The time that's lost, it's gone. End of story. Won a few, lost a few, failed to play the game more times than I'd like to count. Thought I wasn't invited to the game, truth be told, my mistake. But, if I live a statistical life, I have time to use without reserve the time left to me. I don't mean in activity per se--I'm talking the things that are ineffable, the mind, the soul.

So, what's the bottom line--grab with gusto the time forward, which will quickly be lost in the haze of memory. What will that look like? I have no idea. But if I have learned anything from Marty, it's better late than never. And, if I haven't said this before, though I think I have, I am happier than I have ever been, and I am grateful indeed.  I have good friends and a blessed life. What I don't have well, it's part of my journey, and you know what, it's not too late to use each day well.  There's an entire universe in a day!

Sherlock!

The exclamation point is my addition to the Great Detective's name, expressing my continued affection for the Arthur Conan Doyle character and his excellent reproduction in modern dress by the BBC, starring Benedict Cumberbatch (oh, what a name is that1) and Martin Freeman as Holmes and Watson.


For me, the last really good Sherlock was Jeremy Brett, and that was the 90s. The idea of updating him may not be particularly original--after all, even Basil Rathbone flashed forward from late18th Century Holmes to WWII Holmes in name of the war effort. And I did not think he lost anything in that translation. But bringing him into the 21st Century, hmmmm?  Well, for me it works, because they have kept all the basic premises of whom these men are--and personally I have liked the last few later versions concept of smarting up Watson--which really is more true to the written stories anyway.


So, about a year ago, I was flipping channels and ran into the end of the first episode (they do them more like movies than a TV show) of Season One--where Holmes and Watson meet. Holmes lives at 221B Baker Street, which is next door, in modern London to a little cafe called "Speedy's".  Watson is a doctor back from his war, Afghanistan where he was wounded, in the leg. Holmes is the violin playing, fast thinking, easily bored character, 7 percent solution using man we need him to be, in rooms that manage to be modern without sacrificing the feeling of well crafted clutter, and they give him a little bit of the air of a throwback to an earlier time, while incorporating all the interests of the old time Holmes (in the newest scientific methods) into the world where such interest is commonplace--but our new Holmes is more adapt than anyone could ever be at it. I love this relationship between the two men, the psychological closed offness (he's probably either a schizoid or Asperger type, our Mr. Holmes) of Holmes, the sexual ambiguity of his character that comes mostly from his focus on other things that interest him more, the next case, and the heterosexual insecurity of Watson at being considered too close to Holmes (in a more recent episode he asks "what are they saying when they say I'm a confirmed bachelor?"). What I see is a close relationship not based on attraction but on the essence of soul friendship.  And it's a relationship that requires work, for Watson, having to try to tame the narcissism of his all too smart friend and Holmes trying to learn an empathy that does not come natural to him, plus the idea of having any friends.


So, I had to rush out and see if there was a DVD, since likely it was that if I was seeing it for the first time on Public Television, it was a year or more old already, having been broadcast in the UK. And there it was. I refreshed myself on the first episode and then the remaining two, and then, not hearing about whether or not it had taken off there in the mother country, or here in the colonies, hoping that it had, cause I wanted more.


And then the other day, I ran across a part of Season Two on PBS, the second of the three episodes each of which uses the original stories, this one the Hound of the Baskervilles, wherein we find out that the Hound is a product of the chemically altered mind. And Holmes almost doesn't realize it and thinks he cannot trust his OWN eyes. And off I went to Barnes and Noble and found it, and watched it, meeting the 21st century Irene Adler, and oh, yes, being reintroduced to James Moriarity, more sociopathic than anything I've seen on TV, a bit more Heath Ledger Joker, but not so much that you despise him quite as readilly as, well, I did the Joker of the Batman movie.


Happy Camper am I, with Downton Abbey coming back soon, and knowing that Sherlock is a hit.

Forget the movies they are making right now--which are insulting to Conan Doyle's conception. This TV show is an homage.  As for me, I just got a Sherlock ringtone!

Exorcism Exercise at the Geffen

I have never read the book, "The Exorcist" nor seen the movie of the same name. Oh, of course, I saw clips of the movie. I mean it was the talk of the 1970s, and it still gets on lists of horror films to be seen. But I avoided it, even though part of the movie was filmed at the language lab of my college.
If the movie, and maybe the book, asks the question, "Do you believe in the devil", well, it really wasn't a question for me. I believe there was a beautiful angel, Lucifer, the bearer of light, who decided that he did not want to answer to his Creator.  He was cast out of heaven to begin his dominion in hell, cut off from the Divinity he so ruthlessly sought to wrest. And so began the work of the Tempter against God's other creatures of conscience, mankind. 


I had a couple of encounters with him, as far as I am concerned, or some part of his realm. When I was a kid, whenever I stayed at a certain friend's house, I always felt uncomfortable, like someone or something evil was watching me. I discounted it until I idly mentioned to my friend my creepy feeling. She said, matter of factly, as I recall, "Oh, we have a ghost".  When their schizophrenic next door neighbor broke into their house while we were lunching on day, carrying a knife, holy water, and candles, I came as close to the devil's business as I ever wanted to do. And I'd heard about some of the scenes in the movie, which I simply found distasteful--they seemed too blasphemous to me, with my Catholic background.


So, I don't know exactly what made me say "yes" to the invitation of Len Speaks to see the recently opened stage version at the Geffen Playhouse. Maybe it was that he told me it was less horror (and so I later read) than psychological drama. But having said, "yes" I can now say dear Len Speaks, I considered backing out. I won't go so far as feeling that by going I was maybe committing a sin, but it was pretty close to that feeling. 


I was relieved we were in the balcony. If there was something ugly I'd not get a clear view. And we were close to the exit, just in case I needed to go into a hallway to save my soul. I was a bit discomfited immediately by the single set, which stands for the home, and bedroom of the possessed girl, Regan, that looked exactly like the inside of a Church, a Catholic Church. On the altar like table, which doubled as Regan's bed (oh, yes, those creative theatre folk!) there was a set up for the Mass, a Chalice was covered by a veil, and the girl's bedsheet was also the altar covering. I couldn't miss the big cross hovering over the altar/bed, but I did initially miss the lamp that signifies the Presence of God in the tabernacle. When I saw it, I cringed a little.  The first thing the girl does (played happily by a child like adult), is take that chalice and the large unconsecrated host and breaks it up, like a priest, turning the chalice upside down and using the pieces in a Ouija board sort of "game" in which she is summoning the evil within her. It was not looking good, but Djinn what did you think you were going to "Carousel"?


You know the story, right? Mom, Chris, played to exquisite woodenness by Brooke Shields (who I think is a good actress, wrong role), is an atheist, whose beautiful daughter is acting really weird. She urinates in odd places, like on people's shoes. She speaks in languages she shouldn't know. She cusses a lot in them. She predicts the death of an"uncle" an actor who drinks too much and like one or more of the producers or writers of the play, is a smug "fallen away" Catholic. I say smug, not because of the fallen away part, but because they make it sound like only intelligent people "fall away." Oh, and Regan/Devil actually kills dear uncle, which is why Chris doesn't want any kind of social services, or other authorities involved. Doctors can't help or try to explain the child's behavior away by calling it plain old mental illness. So, she goes to a priest, Fr. Damien, who is busy doubting God, the devil, and Daniel Webster played to exquisite woodenness by an actor whose name I don't remember. (You'd think he was dealing with an errant fly the way he reads his lines). He is also feeling guilty about how he treated his mother in her last illness. Chris, the non-believer, has to exhort Damien, the kinda believer, to get an exorcist in there to deal with Regan. And the devil is looking forward to another fight with that particular exorcist, Fr. Merrin. (Richard Chamberlain who is back to using his English accent. Don't get me wrong, I have a copy of the Thorn Birds and I love Richard Chamberlain, but Fr. Merrin is really nothing more than a way to move the story along, whenever the dialogue is unable to do it). Fr. Merrin does a preliminary exorcism in which Regan levitates (thanks to Penn of Penn and Teller amid her other gyrations),  Fr. Merrin though has a weak heart from the last encounter. And he dies rather quietly (and very much like Father whats-his-name in The Thorn Birds) requiring Damien to get out of his civvies and into his cassock and sacrifice himself to banish the devil from the little girl in the exorcism majeur. Oh,the sacrifice is emphasized by a spray of blood from the hovering cross. In between there is banter about God, the nature of evil, doubt, belief, man's responsibility (maybe), free choice. For my part, and forgive the flippancy, Lord, God seems to be wisely absent from the proceedings nothwithstanding the light signfying Him..


The execution of this play, apparently going to Broadway (say it ain't so), was, amateurish for all the pablum in various high brow papers and on line sites about the streamlining of the book and avoiding the horror of the film. One of the reviewers said the dialogue was stilted. I think that was generous. With rare moments of coherence the script was abysmal. They were going for gravitas. I will stop short of saying they got "drivel", but that too is a close one. The voices, often saying the Hail Mary, were distracting and reminded me of an episode in Star Trek where Captain Kirk was caught in a world of too many people, but thought his ship was empty. Everybody drank out of chalices, like they just had them lying around the house. I'm guessing that this was considered a really stunning idea by the artistes. Heavy handed.


Since the book was written by a Catholic, and I've never read the book, I cannot say whether the massive misunderstanding and mockery of the Catholic faith is Blatty's or the adaptation. There was also confusion on the part of the play writers about whether it is the Devil or man who causes things like Rwanda. It ain't the devil folks, although I'm sure he's delighted. 


Frankly, to be fair, I'm not sure this is a story that can be done on stage. Maybe if you insist, one does  it a la "My Conversation with Andre" where an atheist, an agnostic and a priest sit and talk about these weighty subjects. Or maybe it's just better to leave it all alone and let philosophers and theologians have at it, which by the way, they have for thousands of years.


And if you insist on going to Broadway, well, it really needs work.  

July to July

During this last life changing year, I had the chance to read a book the name of which has been escaping me. It was written by a woman who used to work for Martha Stewart Enterprises in a high powered, money making position..At the height of her success, she walked away to live in her ramshackle home in some rural community,writing and gardening and discovering herself. Throughout the book she repeated the question "Who am I if I'm not XXXXXX. @MarthaStewart.com?" 


I resonated with her story, although in my case, I did not walk away from my career, as those of you who read this blog know. I might have, even likely, decided to leave in a few months or a year, or two, but I didn't. Having invested 25 years of time, sweat, passion, doubt, mission, doing my truly niche job, at which, if I do finally say so myself I was quite skilled, I was, literally in the space of five minutes, no longer Djinn, Assistant Chief Trial Counsel.. For the speed in which I and several of my colleagues were told our long services were no longer needed, it almost seemed that I had never been there at all. I knew I was not indispensable, as I have no doubt written here before, but to find out how utterly dispensable I was, wreaked havoc on my not inconsiderable ego. Everything, from getting good grades at the Mount back in the Bronx, to graduating magna cum laude at Fordham, to tolerating law school, which I thought a useless preparation for the real world, to working for the Corporation Counsel as an intern during law school (the summer of Three Mile Island), to the nuttiness of the Law Offices of a Madison Avenue lawyer, passing the Bar in California, the nuttiness of another Law Office on Wilshire Boulevard had led to that quarter of a century as an ethics lawyer and prosecutor. And then it was gone. I was one big step behind the author who made the knowing and intentional decision to leave her career. I needed to absorb the trauma of forced separation before I could do anything else. I credit myself (oh, yes, yet again!) with having done better at that and more quickly than I would have supposed given my personality. And for the last year, I have been trying to see who I am if I'm not, Djinn, Assistant Chief Trial Counsel.


Well, first I began writing more in this blog. I thoroughly enjoy it. A few good friends and some lovely strangers in places like China and Russia apparently have been among my audience. For a few months, I wrote in a religious blog, describing the spiritual dimensions of becoming unemployed, including charity, and forgiveness and recognition of Providence even in the most unpleasant of life's events. I almost took a part time legal job at the behest of a good friend and old colleague, getting into the ground floor of a special administrative court for the Transit Authority. But I decided that it was the "wrong" road for me just then. I have remained an active lawyer, at least for 2012. No matter how much you discourage it, people insist on asking legal questions. I have referred more people to the Legal Referral Service of the Bar than almost I did when I worked there. Lightening would have to strike twice for me to find the kind of career that fit my psychological being so well. I am not holding my breath.


I have done a fair amount of reading. I painted a couple of canvases. I began a renovation of a condo I now own since Dad died. It has been a long slow haul and remains unfinished. I took three voice over classes and remain on line occasionally sending an audition. Because it costs money to do a demo tape and for now my cash flow is flowing into the direction of the renovation, I have put that on a temporary hold. I read for Learning Ally.  I help in a couple of charities, one very dear to my heart, also written about in these pages, The Sisters Servants of Mary, Ministers to the Sick. I have begun to pray more, though distraction remains a challenge. I go more often to Daily Mass, serve there, and bring communion to one or two sick. I decided to stop the ministry at the hospital--it just wasn't a good fit. As you also may know I finished the first draft of a memoir I may never publish, and am now 100 pages into a revision. It was way too long at 417 pages. It is at present 371, with much much more to cut.  I have found that I don't write at any set time. The mood strikes. I can sit for an hour or several hours, or minutes. I just let it happen.


The days unfold. As one of the colleagues who left the Bar on the same day I did has noted for herself, I have learned not to be self-punitive because every day does not have the same structure. There has been the odd crisis here and there, but I find myself happier overall than ever I was in many a year. I've renewed my passport in case I get over that renewed fear of flying and I actually do take a trip somewhere, like Ireland or England or both. Now that there are no cats (although a new cat in the neighborhood has been visiting more than I'd like) in the backyard I started to feed the birds and it is a peaceful marvel to watch them dive into the little container to get their fills.

I used to think about "fame and fortune", moving "up" in the world. I moved up, in a limited way, and then it was gone. That was a lesson in humility. I have come to believe that humility is the key to happiness. I'm not very good at it, the idea of "fame and fortune" still intrudes, but I get to practice every day. If you're laughing, really I am trying!  I realize that people will perceive me in a largely different way than I perceive myself. I can't say which of us is right. I used to struggle with that, a lot. I needed to believe that my perceptions were reasonable. I am doing my best, that's all I can say.

My mother died when she was 48. My dad when he was 90 I don't know where the ball in the roulette wheel will fall for me. But what I've come to, with occasional lapses of old neuroses, is that every day is a world unto itself to be embraced and savored.  I'm going outside now with a glass of wine to say Evening Prayer. That may not be how the monks are doing it, but there you are, one Djinn's approach.


Let me leave you with a small piece of a prayer by a very famous lawyer who saw his fame and his life taken from him for what he perceived a greater Good.  I used to have it hanging on my lamp in my office.

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I am surely no longer Djinn, Assistant Chief Trial Counsel.. Maybe I never really was. Who I am remains to be seen, in God's good time. But overall I think it's been a good year.   

Manilow (Still Has Some) Magic

Life is really one big circle. In 1977, I was working for a New York radio station, courtesy of a kind friend, Joe Persek, WXLO, 99X. I had put off law school for six months thinking that I might try my hand at radio broadcasting, the college version of which I had done already for five years.  The main job I had was related to the weekly top ten. One afternoon, in between management sweeps of staff, I was passing by Jay Thomas' studio and there was a freshly famous (by a few years) Barry Manilow. And fresh faced, with the shaggy hair of the period, casual jeans dress, and, of course, the renowned nose that somehow did not prevent him from being kind of attractive. It was definitely the oozing charm. I didn't speak to him, of course, respecting the boundaries of famous/not famous and employee/stay out of the way rules.

Last night, 35 years later, he brought his now retro showman self (he made a joke about how he was the "Justin Bieber" of his day, apt, but a little sad for those of us of a certain age), to the Hollywood Bowl. As he said, he's been a lot of places in between. So have I, though perhaps not so glamorous. And so too the mostly senior-ish crowd who sang every every song that Manilow wrote (yep, including "I Write the Songs") when all of us were fresh-faced and on our way to who knew where.  I was tempted to ask "Who ARE all these old people?" until I realized that someone was probably saying that about me!

But I didn't feel old when I walked in there, and I surely did not while I marvelled at Barry's style and grace, even when in lower registers he seemed to struggle with his voice. Then he'd pull out the Manilow I remembered. I felt like I needed to run home and stuff my I-pod with songs I had actually forgotten about, "Even Now" among them.  How did I forget to put Manilow on there?  Sacrilegious almost!

I remember pushing the door open of WFUV's engineering room as "Mandy" played time and time again, when, was it 1975?  I watched the crowd last night waving their red glow sticks and I could touch the nostalgia, the sense of delight at a summer time machine evening, each of us conjuring memories of where we were when we heard each song.. And yet, there was a connection to 2012, as some of the crowd clearly had not been there back in the "day". The kids next to me couldn't have been more than 20 something. And as some of the more romantic tunes were crooned, the young man with the Corona put his arm around the young girl with the tasteful glass of white, and they smiled at one another. 

I see why the old talk about the past so much- people and things which used to be right there, part of a taken for granted existence--it's something to hold onto as life whisks by. When a Manilow appears on stage, we can say, "Oh, things are safe, things are like we remember." And then we lose someone like Andy Griffith, and we have to recognize that things just aren't the same, and neither are any of us.

But for an hour and a half last night, we had the magic of old. And Manilow was still around to give it to us.

Even now.