A Different Bird in Paradise?

The photo above is supposed to be Impatiens psittacina, also called the Parrot Flower, at least on the Internet. It is, allegedly, a rare, endangered species, native to northern Thailand, Myanmar (Burma), and northern India. Apparently it is a Federal crime in those countries to attempt to export either the flower or the seeds. Wondering if anyone has actually seen one of these beauties in person?

According to numerous sources, which are apparently quoting from an unnamed original source, "The Impatiens are part of a morphologically diverse family, called Balsaminaceae, which has about a thousand representatives that are mainly distributed in the tropics and subtropics. The family Balsaminaceae consists of only two Genera: Hydrocera and Impatiens."

Impatiens is by far the largest and inhabits all continents except South America and Australia. Hydrocera has only one species confined to tropical Asia. One of the features that separates Impatiens from the rest of the plant kingdom is the explosive nature of the seeds. Through a process knows as 'explosive dehiscence,' the ripe seed pods explode under extreme pressure when disturbed, scattering the seeds far and wide, sometimes more than twenty feet from the parent plant.

The flower shapes of impatiens come in many different forms, and all have the ability to change sex. When an impatiens flower first opens it is male and after a few days this pollen cap is shed to reveal the female organs underneath. This evolutionary safety net is to keep the plant from self-pollination but it doesn't always work. Some species naturally set seed without even opening their flowers; this is called being cleistogamous. Some of the species have even gone one step further in that it is self-sterile and needs another of the same species in order to set seed.

Self-pollination, it seems, can weaken the species. After a combination of checking with this handy site and the ever helpful Google, I found one poster who found this:

"Evolutionary biologists and population ecologists view this mixed breeding system as a highly successful strategy for producing genetically diverse new plants from chasmogamous flowers and other new plants very similar to the parental genotypes from cleistogamous flowers. The mixed breeding system is found in many distantly related plant families and has recently been proposed as a vehicle for containment of transgenic modifications in plant groups where it could be induced. However, the molecular mechanisms underlying this fascinating system have never been investigated."

Wow---and I thought I had just found a pretty picture! Nature is amazing---a flower that can change its sex, shoot its seeds out into the world like a canon shot and trys to protect itself from self-pollination with trickery that sometimes backfires. Sounds a lot like humans!

But is the flower above real? Does it actually exist in the world...or just in a clever person's photo manipulation? This person sure does go to a great deal of trouble to convince his readers that the flower, as seen above, is real. In 1901, Botanist Joseph Dalton Hooker wrote an entry for Kew Gardens about Impatiens psittacina, and it was accompanied by a drawing shown at the bottom of the linked page. If you look at the drawing and then the closeup of one section of the drawing...hmmmm.

Are you convinced? I'm skeptical, but I have a friend who has a friend who knows a botanist from Down Under....Help!

Happy Birthday to Ann

A Very Happy Birthday to my friend, Ann Somerville, astoundingly wonderful author and all-around special person. Of course, she's in Australia, so, technically, I guess her special day was yesterday, but, I'm not, so I say it's today! Happy Birthday to you...see you in the City by the Bay in November!

September Sunset 9/11/09

Photos by Karyn, Canon Powershot S80

Update on (Clunker) Jimmy (Jack)

Well, Jimmy is recuperating, and he has a new home with our vet tech, Cathy. Despite beginning to fall in love with Jimmy over the 55 hours he spent with us, we weren’t really prepared to have another animal at the time Jimmy appeared, but we knew we’d keep him long enough to make sure he would live.

He is happily ensconced at the home of our vet tech, Cathy, who Jimmy met Tuesday morning when he was taken to our regular vet for a thorough examination. Whenever we picked him up, his skin would crackle, and he seemed to tire very easily. Still, for the three days we had him, he ate regularly, tried to befriend the not very resilient Pugs, and was generally a love and a good boy---very polite, very, very sweet.

The doctor thinks that Jimmy might have a small hole in one of his lungs, and he could require a great deal of special medical care, medication and possibly surgery to get back to normal. Certainly he will have more tests. As we already have one special needs child in the person of The Dolly Lambi, two seemed more than we could take on at this time. (Dolly was paralyzed in her hind quarters at age four by hyper extending her body on her back legs trying to get some food off the kitchen counter {so very pug-like}, and although her paralysis was not permanent, the damage from it was, and she wobbles on her back legs, is very unsteady, and is in need of being watched at all times).

But, the the main consideration was where would Jimmy get the very best treatment and care available. The vet tech would be able to provide that to Jimmy at a fraction of the cost (possibly free, except for meds), and best of all, she and her husband have been placing strays in loving homes for years. In fact, just the week prior, she placed a dog that looks very much like Jimmy with a lady in her church.

However, to make sure Jimmy wasn’t some nice person’s little love, the Doctor scanned his chip. It turns out that his given name was Jack, but the phone was disconnected. Further investigation revealed the street he lived on is in a very bad area, and we suspect that given the distance from us, he was most likely dumped in a good area, but, after checking all the usual places over the past five days, we can say with certainty that no one is looking for Jimmy. Which, in this case, means no more heartbreak for Jimmy.

Jack is now officially Jimmy, and Cathy reports that he’s off the pain meds, responding very well to the antibiotics, and, best of all, he has been drinking water, which is something he did not do for the first three days. The way we got water into him was intravenously at the ER hospital we first took him to, and by adding water to his meals at home, which he ate and slurped with great gusto.

When we got him, or should I say, when he got us, he was so matted and dirty that we had to cut the burrs and sticks and brambles out of him with a scissors. We gave him a sponge bath, but knew he was too fragile for a full grooming. Yesterday, Cathy the vet tech, decided to give Jimmy a make-over, so he could have a fresh new start, again, so she shaved him, took a picture of him and told him his official name is, in fact, Jimmy. Each day she dresses all his sores and wounds, and by the time we got him to our own vet, he had gained one pound. He was barely six pounds when he found us. Oddly, we called him Jack a few times when trying to guess his name, and he didn’t respond at all. We’re pretty certain that being Jack wasn’t fun, wasn’t a good life. The medical team at the vets felt that given his injuries, Jimmy was abused, possibly by a second owner.

Karyn cried all day after she left Jimmy with the vet tech, but we both knew it was the best decision for everyone, especially Jimmy. Today, we realized something else. It was the story of Jimmy, how he sat outside our gate, ran into her arms, was the best houseguest anyone could hope for and never complained about anything, even being that sick---it’s that story that pulled at our heartstrings so much. We’ve known Cathy for six years, and she is probably the only person in this town to whom we would have entrusted Jimmy. And we know that she is very careful when placing adoptees---she interviews them, checks out the home, really does her due diligence when it comes to placing the four-legged children.

So…Jack became Clunker became Jimmy, and although Cathy has sent us daily reports, we already know that this is going to be a HEA ending. If Jimmy can get his health back, and he is, after all, a survivor, then someone is going to have a wonderful companion, and a lot of love. Already, several people who have met Jimmy want him!

After his make-over, Cathy put Jimmy on top of her car to keep him still while she snapped this photo because her two German Shepherds love him and all they wanted to do was play, and Jimmy is way overdue for some serious play time!

Thanks to everyone who posted and wrote to us about the lovely boy Jimmy. We’ll be sure to post an “After” picture when his hair grows out.

Look Who Showed Up at the Front Gate this Morning

JIMMY

THE DOLLY LAMBI "Tell me this is not another boy."
Teddy Valentine: "No, nothing's wrong. Why?"

Completely matted, with stickers and burrs and dirt everywhere, this little boy with pure white curls stood at our gate and ignored Teddy's ferocious barking and just waited for a kind human being to invite him in. He ran into her arms. He was completely sweet, docile and in some kind of pain. We decided to take him to the Emergency Vet because we knew he wasn't a young puppy, and yet he wasn't fixed. He seemed exhausted, frightened and very hungry. We came to a quick decision. This little personable dog had not been well treated or he was a runaway who had run into some big trouble. He screamed when we touched his back. And we know for a fact that people abandon dogs in the desert area all the time. We've rescued seven lost dogs in the past few years, and they were all happily reunited with their owners. They were all in pretty good shape when they came to our gate....but there was just something about Jimmy....

I went to work and Clunker's new Mommy took him to the vet. The minute I saw him, I knew he was going to cost some serious cash. Cash for Clunker? Uh, no, Mommy said, way no.

Hours later I got a phone call. The vet said he had suffered some kind of blunt force trauma, but she couldn't find anything broken. He walks just fine. He was dehydrated so they gave him fluids intravenously, gave him antibiotics because we had no history, took a blood panel to make sure his kidneys were working, and gave him some effective pain meds. He is chipped, but the chip is not from anywhere around here.

Our scenario, which may or may not be true, is that he has been mistreated because he cowers when one first pets him; then he crawls right up into one's arms and falls asleep. We drove around looking for signs, but saw none. I've checked the lost and found in the newspaper. We'll call the SPCA on Tuesday and see if anyone has reported him missing. He had no collar. We don't think anyone is looking for him. Or maybe we just hope no one is. But if he's someone's sweetheart, we want to find out who and kick the shit out of 'em. No, I mean, we would, of course, try to unite any loved ones.

I think he's ours, now, and his name is Jimmy. He cost $299 to put him back in running order, and if he stays, he'll get tutored. The black and now mostly grey Dolly Lambi, our eldest pug, age fourteen and half, is not happy. Teddy Valentine, our two-year old pug, is not happy. But both pugs seems to be behaving a bit better than their usual spoiled selves. Jimmy, very quite, and very polite, thinks we said thugs, not Pugs. But he's too sweet to say so to their faces.

Making Progress...and Helping Out

Martine Colette, Wildlife Waystation

(California wildfires light the hillsides of the Tujunga area of Los Angeles on Monday, Aug. 31, 2009 . (AP Photo/John Lazar))

This photo of fire is the scene I saw on the drive home from work night before last that I made reference to in a post the day before yesterday. The new front of the fire is the Big and Little Tujunga canyon areas of Los Angeles. This front is at the opposite end of the fire from us, at a distance of about 40 miles.

Yesterday brought the on-shore breezes and higher humidity being attributed to Hurricane Jimena, approaching Cabo San Lucas, but the temperature was high 90s, low 100s, and although the fires still burn, the reports put containment of the Station Fire (nearest us) at 22%. We are fine and not in any danger at all. Thanks for the concern and good wishes. It really made us realize how connected we all really are.

As the city was completely enveloped in a cloud cover and a smoke shroud yeserday, I only saw a couple huge flareups on the distant mountains above Acton. Although Action is only about 16 miles from us, the amount of smoke coming our way this past couple days made it seems as though the fire were just over the next ridge; it's actually farther than 16 miles because it's up and down the mountain ridges that surround Action, although it did progress down the mountain sufficiently to warrant evacuation of much of the rural Acton community.

The big news today was the trouble The Wildlife Waystation was having finding enough cages to take out the bigger animals, as flames tore down Tujunga Canyon. As an alternative, firefighters set risky backfires to push the flames away from the WW, and it worked. As of this morning (9/2), all the animals left at the sanctuary are safe.

Wildlife Waystation (WW) houses about 400 animals, many of them disabled, and is a place I was introduced to over 15 years ago by singer Dusty Springfield, a friend. The WW was one of her favorite causes and chosen non-profit charities, but she didn't give only money. Often, she would visit and pitch in and help around the grounds whenever she could. There's always work to be done in place like WW.

The woman who started the WW is Martine Colette, a real scrapper of a Frenchwoman who has devoted her entire life to saving a variety of large animals (mostly), many of whom started out as pets by people too stupid to realize these animals get big and need a lifetime of care and protection once they are in any kind of captivity.

Today, two chimps got loose on their way to their evacuation headquarters at the LA Zoo. One headed for the small primate and bird sanctuary of the zoo (Whohoo, look at me!), and was tranquillized by dart gun within 20 minutes. The other chimp was on the lam for nearly an hour, but was eventually found and finally coaxed into her cage by her trainer. Griffith Park had to be closed while authorities hunted for the runaway. Truth is, the evacuations have completely traumatized the animals, and these kids aren't easy to move under any circumstances.

But in a cruel twist of irony, the day before the fires started, the Wildlife Waystation put out a press release about a different kind of emergency. It's out of money, due largely to having to close the facility to the public over a year ago as it was unable to meet certain LA County requirements. Evidently it takes about $5000 per day to feed all the animals and provide them with veterinary oversight. Anyway, like so many of the animal rescue and/or sanctuary operations that begin as someone's labor of love, the daily coin of the realm is always so much more than expected. Anyway, you might want to take a look at their website, and pass this story on to anyone else who might be able to lend a hand to the Wildlife Waystation.

In every fire and natural disaster, it's the faces of the vulnerable and helpless, people and animals, that strike a chord within us.

Still Here!

Good Morning Everyone,

Hey the prayers and good wishes must have been heard---we're still here, and actually I'm going to work today as the Freeway appears to be open. There's still plenty of smoke in the sky, but I'm sure the Super Scoopers were flying early this morning. If the winds cooperate, things could turn the corner. I'll try to get some pictures as I drive through Acton, on my way to work. The real test of how much the fire is contained will be this evening after the Sundowner winds come up. I'll be driving home at 8:30 p.m. my time, getting home around 10 p.m. Will update then and whenever I can during the day. Thanks you guys!

Fire Update: 10:00 p.m., 30 August 2009

Sadly, two firefighters died today when their vehicle overturned fighting the monstrous Angeles National Forest fire. They lost their lives defending the LaCanada/Flintridge area. The fire area closest to us, in Acton, is now being called The Station Fire. As awful as the fires are, it's pretty demoralizing to realize that some of them were arson. The authorities do not think the original source of the fire was arson, but at one point today, suspicious spot fires were popping up all over the various routes located alongside freeways leading to areas of the Angeles National Forest. Some of this area has not burned for 60 years, so it's pretty much a tinderbox.

Also, Shambala Preserve, the large cat sanctuary, started by actress Tippi Hedren was threatened a couple hours ago, but heroic efforts by the kind of helicopters you see above saved the Preserve. The entire staff is sleeping there and are ready to evacuate if necessary, an evacuation that would be difficult under good circumstances, never mind a raging fire.

Above you see the last of today's pictures, including the delicious cafe au lait personally made for this roving reporter by her Editor-in-Chief, Karyn, with assistance from freelance photographer, Kimberly.

Here's a recap of where we're at at this hour: The fire has burned 100,000 acres, covering nearly 66 square miles; three people were injured, in addition to the loss of life mentioned above; 18 residence have been destroyed, mostly cabins in the Angeles Forest, but 12,000 homes are currently threatened at various fronts along the 130-mile fireline; the cost of fighting the fire, thus far, is $7.7 Million, and rising; the fire is only 5% contained, but the two Super Scoopers have arrived at Van Nuys Airport in the San Fernando Valeey, and are scheduled to attack the Station Fire (Acton area) at first light.

The skies above us are red/orange, even in the dark, but I think we're good for the night, so over and out and thanks for all your letters and posts.

Fire Update: 5:49 p.m., 30 August 2009

OK, we're fine, but this thing is whipping up something fierce. If you look at the map above, we're located directly across from the Rancho Vista golf course in the nearby foothills--we are to the right of Warwick Park, by about 3 miles. The yellow area is the area within which they are trying to contain the fire. The red area, which is a couple hours old, is where the fire was---it has progressed into a third of the yellow area.

The Mt Wilson area has some bad news: Atop Mt. Wilson is the entire Los Angeles communication center---towers for every television and radio station and much of the telephone transmission centers, as well as the "repeater" transmission towers for the emergency notification system. The fire fighting arsenal has been pulled off the Mt. Wilson lines due to extreme safety hazards to crews. Unless the direction, heat and intensity change, fire officials expect Mt. Wilson to be extensively damaged.

The backyard pictures are from our house, the horse and trailer photo from the Acton foothills (Courtesy KNX).

As dusk is about two hours from now, the Night Shift of the fire fighting efforts is moving into place. That means the pictures we show of the air arsenal are the last of the day shift flights. The larger airplanes cannot fly at night, and the time between now and dusk is largely the purview of water-dropping helicopters and strategically positioned strike teams on the ground. With the speed, heat and wind fueling the bone-dry terrain into small infernos dotting the hillsides and ridges of the nearby mountains, the fire fighting equipment and personnel is definitely inadequate to keep this fire from moving closer to us. We need a major wind shift. Or as they say in Hollywood, some "good" Force Majeure!

Fire Update: 12:43 p.m., 30 August 2009

You can see the tips of the fleur de lis of our wrought iron driveway gate and the hill straight ahead, facing South. It's getting very hot here, around 103 degrees, the winds are up, to about 35 m.p.h., but so is air firepower and the fleet is working hard. Still, in evacuated Acton, the fire is only two miles from homes, with flames leaping to a height of 200 feet. Several schools (including Highland High School) and park areas (including Tierra Subida) in the Antelope Valley have now been declared as Evacuation Centers for people, horses and other farm and ranch livestock.

A new concern is the electrical power transmission lines that criss-cross some of the mountain ridges and valleys. (Another argument in favor of below ground power lines and other kinds of power generation and transmission!)

A total of 35,000 acres have burned in this La Canada/Flintridge-named fire since Wednesday night when the fire began. There have been three injuries (reportedly to folks who refused to evacuate) and a dozen structures burned, some of them houses.

We're fine, but very watchful!

Fire Update: 11:05 a.m., 30 August 2009

As you can see, winds throughout the night cleared out some of the darkest of the smoke clouds. The shot above was taken a few minutes ago, from our driveway, looking South toward Acton. Unfortunately, that is new smoke from the rapidly growing Acton fire, which is moving North, in our direction. It's still 12 miles away, and there's hours of dense brush that would have to burn before the fire reaches us, as well as several fairly high mountains (3000-4200-foot elevations) to cross. Our house sits at an elevation of about 2800 feet.

Until about a half hour ago, there were no airplanes in the air around Action and the head of Delta Rescue, one of the largest dog and cat rescue organizations, located in Acton, was on a local radio station bitterly complaining about the lack of air power. The super scoopers are not due to arrive from Northern California until tomorrow. In the past few minutes, though, I have seen and heard smaller fire-fighting air power headed in the direction of the fire. At I write, Governor Arnold is holding a press conference, and the questions from the residents are testy---they need information. A fire official tried to shine the people on with jargon-speak, and Gov. Arnold interrupted and said: "Let's give these people the name of someone here, right now, so they aren't lacking information." He's pretty cool, and suddenly several specific names materialized.

Yesterday the fire was able to travel over 10 miles in 8 hours in many sections of this massive fire, which stretches across a total line of nearly 125 miles. The concern at the moment is the mid-morning winds, which are blowing about 25 m.p.h; the higher risk, however, are the Sundowners, which come up around 5 p.m., and can blow upwards of 40 m.p.h. The winds that the fire itself kick up often reach speeds of upwards of 80 m.p.h.

Thanks to everyone for their well wishes! Robin, yes, I just remembered to email the book to myself---I have been off for several days while Kimberly, Karyn's sister visits, and while the sisters caught up on all the news, I wrote nearly 35 more pages, so I didn't have a backup of the new stuff until this morning. But I double insured by emailing it to myself, as Robin suggested. We're OK Ann, and yes, A-Lady, it's alarmingly close.

I will update briefly throughout the day.

This is Not a Sunset; It's Smoke

No fire within 16 miles of us, but look at the skies around 2 p.m. this afternoon! Most of the smoke is coming from the huge Angeles National Forest fire, also known as the La Canada/Flintridge fire, which is only five per cent contained. Evacuations have reached nearly 3000, and tens of thousands of homes are threatened. Then, shortly after 5 p.m., a fire broke out in the Agua Dulce area (which had such a bad burn last year), closing down the Antelope Valley Freeway in both directions.

The latest report (10:05 p.m.) on the largest fire closest to us is that the LaCanada/Flintridge fire is moving rapidly toward the horse and hill country of Acton, an attractive rural community about 12 miles from us. We don't want the Agua Dulce fire and the LaCanada/Flintridge fires to merge. Acton is located midway between where we are and the Agua Dulce fire. Here's some pictures...very dramatic. The silhouette shot is of Karyn's sister, Kimberly, visiting for the weekend, and she's the woman in the straw hat near the pool. She and I took these photos. The regal pampas grass in our front yard stands guard at the gate!

But fear not, if we have to leave, we're ready: dogs, people, documents, survival duffel bag, two iMacs, a couple dozen irreplaceable pictures, and water, coffee and snacks. Check. Oh, and dog food and Teddy Valentine's blankie, known as Priscilla. Check.

10:17 p.m. Update: And my damn manuscripts and the backup discs!!! Good grief, CHECK!

Listen Up: My Cousins Are Coming!

Uh...short note to my 7 regular readers. I've sent the link to this blog to some of my cousins---cousins I have been searching for many years, and found. That's a great story, and I'll be writing about it soon. In the meantime, welcome to Kathleen, Colleen, Diana and Don, and Patricia and Leonard....here's a snapshot of my life, and I'm glad I found you again.

Oh, also, my cousins do not yet know that I'm known as Fire Marshall Margaret and Meteorologist Margaret.

So, just to get them used to my other jobs around here,the photo above is of tonight's lightening storm in the desert. It was part of a movie that I was trying to shoot, so, since I'm not so good with the camera yet, I plucked a single shot from the video to place here on the blog. So, sorry it's a little grainy, but it gives you the idea of what we had here tonight. Since we're in Highest Fire Danger alert, I'm happy to say, nothing caught fire that we know of. The storm was actually about 20 miles away from the house, and positioned over the San Gabriel Mountain Range.

Iris Party

Ladybugs Galore And Sneak Preview of Spring Yards & Gardens

From Spring Here!

Great Topic for Writers at "Teach Me Tonight"

More Doug Savage Work here

Dr Sarah Frantz has come up with another great topic for writers, here. I probably should have put my response to her post on my blog instead of hogging space on her post...but it does somewhat explain my ability with word dumps! 

This blog is one of my favorites, and I think any writer would benefit from the information provided, the topics covered and the skill of all the staff contributors.

Signs of Spring

As my seven long-time readers well know, everything in the garden has a given name. Given by Karyn. This morning I took some pictures of some "people" you may have seen in prior pictures to show the incredible growth, despite the limb-breaking snows of winter, the sogginess of pre-Spring and the already warm winds of pre-Summer.


These photos have been published over the protests of the professional landscape architect who has assured me that these vignettes are nowhere near ready for their closeups. The professional says things won't be ready for the cover of any publication for at least a month...so consider this a sneak preview.


First, welcome Mondo, also known by his birth name of agave americana variegata.









Next, Pinky, a lovely flowering Plum tree. In the background, you can see one of the many ancient groves of Joshua tree that surround us. Ollie, the fruitless olive tree, peeks in from the right.



And finally, we introduce you to Goliath, child of Mondo. Goliath seems happily surrounded by the Orange Grove, and if you look closely, you'll see Lemoncello, both varieties of ice plant.

So, enjoy the preview. I'm in such trouble! heh.

"Simply Red" By Our Guy Bob

Bob is our brother-in-law, and I thought this was a pretty cool story about him. He completely customized the 1956 Lincoln Continental Mark II you see above, and he's brilliant with customizing Harley's, too. I'll take some more pictures when we visit Karyn's sister Kimberly, and Bob, in April. 

And if you want to know about the six degrees of separation between Karyn and me, there's another story here, too. When I was in my just barely legal twenties, I was a reporter for The Daily Review, the same newspaper that published the article below. My "beat" was "The Women's Page" (that's how long ago it was---now it's called Lifestyle or Your World or Whatevah!) 

I spent my day writing engagement and wedding announcements. Anyway, the Daily Review owned a small weekly paper in the Newark/Fremont called The Argus. Karyn's family subscribed to The Argus (and still do). At that paper, they actually made me the Women's Editor. I'm sure Karyn would have read the paper, but she was probably still in kindergarten! Decades later, we meet, and the rest as they say, is history. Who would ever in a million years think I'd learn to write articles for the Weddings & Engagements section in the same town where the girl I would later marry lived?!? (OK, let's be honest, who on earth would have thought two girls could ever marry!)

But back to Bob. (Sorry, Bob, but hey--we have a love of girls and cars in common!) Bob is a very cool guy---No he's the epitome of cool, and his 10-car garage with nearly as many bikes and cars in various stages of ready are testaments to his talent. There's this one vintage '56 Mercedes....heh. 

OK, now for the story published this week.

By Eric Kurhi
The Daily Review
HAYWARD, CA

Bob Cecchini manipulates vintage Detroit steel the way a sculptor molds a lump of clay, working deftly to turn raw material into a work of art. This artist's tools are a bit different: a cutting torch and welder, a garage full of machinery and a full-size auto lift. It's in this workshop that old cars begin their metamorphosis and rejuvenation.

Tops are chopped. Frames are cut. Fenders and fins are tweaked and stretched, and the process usually involves an injection of youth serum in the form of a high-powered engine and state-of-the-art gauges, suspension and electronics.

Cecchini doesn't draw out elaborate plans. "You have to change things as you go along," he said.

Behold his latest creation: "Simply Red," a 1956 Lincoln Continental Mark II that first rolled off the production line when Cecchini, now 69, was a teenager.

A Mark II was always a dream machine. Only 3,000 were built, and the $10,000 coupe was the epitome of luxury, competing with top-of-the-line Cadillacs and even Rolls-Royces. It was far from an Everyman's car, unless that man was Elvis Presley or Frank Sinatra, both of whom owned a Mark II.

But with Cecchini's modifications, it's truly one of a kind. The low and long brandywine-red coupe has a classic yet modern look, but vintage car aficionados will instantly realize there's something missing: the signature spare-tire trunk hump that
has always been mandatory on a Lincoln Continental.

"Everyone said you can't take that off," said Cecchini, a Fairview resident. "I said that's the first thing that's got to go." That's the rebel in Bob. That's what got him into modifying cars in the first place.

He's been a hot rodder since his teen years, and participated in his first car show in 1962 with a supercharged convertible Chevy. He was doing a lot of work customizing motorcycles in the 1970s, even building a wild-looking ride for soul legend Isaac Hayes.

In 1979, one of his choppers was named the second-best custom vehicle in the nation. That designation included cars, which didn't sit so well with some of the four-wheel customizers.

"The guys were mad at me for winning with a motorcycle," he said. "One of them told me, 'Anyone can build a motorcycle.' I thought, well, what's the difference?

"I was fine building motorcycles until (car customizers) got funny with me," he said. "That made me think, 'Alright, I'll show you how to build a car!'"

He literally went for the gold with the "Golden Nugget," a '57 Chevy that was the reigning champ of the auto show circuit for years, winning 57 best-in-show titles and International Grand Champion honors across the nation.

He eventually sold the Nugget, which he estimates would be worth about $800,000 today.

Simply Red is more subdued, but since he finished it in July it has already won two awards — at last summer's Good Guys meet, in the "Coolest Custom" and "Slick and Smooth" categories. Cecchini is hoping for more wins at the San Francisco Rod, Custom and Motorcycle show at the Cow Palace in Daly City this weekend. But unlike the Nugget, which never put rubber on the road, he's been taking Simply Red out for trips near his house in Fairview, as well as his former San Leandro stomping grounds.

"It handles fantastic, like a sports car," he said. "I took it to my 50th class reunion. Everyone else was driving a Toyota."

See? I told you Bob was cool. Kudos to our brother-in-law!

Modified Time Lapse

Well, yes, it has become a bit dusty in here, I know. I'm busy putting the finishing touches on my bailout plan, i.e. writing, writing and more writing, on the book. I so want to be finished with this one and on to the sequel. 

In the meantime, these shots were impromptu iPhone wonders captured last week. I do believe Westlake Village is one of five spots in California with the most beautiful and dramatic sunsets. If you have to go to work, this is a pretty fabulous place to do it.

 

5:17 p.m. Westlake Village, California

5:22 p.m., Westlake Village, California

5:26 p.m. Westlake Village, California

Happy Birthday to Karyn

As usual, she didn't want any gifts, didn't want to go out, didn't want anything special. "The economy's bad," she said.  Exactly right! So, my love, it's not going to be last year's gift..heh, and it won't be next year's gift (for the big 5-0!), but it's your day, so you can have anything you want (within reason...bad economy and all that). But mostly, a wonderful birthday to the woman who keeps it all together for me and keeps me together in more ways than I can say without totally embarrassing myself. 

Joshua Tree

Santa's Secret Shopper

Christmas Table

We all agreed: No presents this year! And then, in a fit and flurry of festivity, someone went to Target and picked up a dozen "soft" gifts (jammies, t-shirts, socks, etc), figuring "they don't count."

OK, so, we gave that person a pass because she spent hours gift wrapping and placed the goodies under our actually very pretty little Christmas tree. She even wrapped the ones from me to her! It was enormously festive, I never set foot in a mall (or even a store), the "shopper" loves all her gifts (because she picked them out), and there are no returns. 'Twas a Night Before Christmas win/win!

Happy Holiday to all our friends and families!

Shakedown!

Hello, Olive

We lost a top branch of one of our beautiful Pepper trees by mid-morning, but they are (relatively) fast growers, and we were more concerned with our four olive trees, including, Olive, our first Olive tree, planted five years ago when we bought our new house. So far...all Olives are accounted for and surviving.

All my babies!

Just in time for SNOW DAY, I got a cold, Karyn had to try to save "the babies" (her trees and plants) in her snow suit while I played with the video camera from the safety and dryness of the garage. Isn't she cute! And Teddy! He's two on 12/25.

So Snow?

Last week it was 85 and sunny. Today? Even the old-timers say this is a record snowfall for the High Desert. Freeways closed, police escorts on the few open roads, officials asking for emergency vehicles only, telling people to stay home. Huh? I am so home!

Endeavour Has Landed in the High Desert!

I was about 75 miles from home, today, when a VERY LOUD BOOM rattled windows and nerves---we thought it was an earthquake, at first, and we were in a glass and steel building (far more glass than steel it always seems). So, I called home. For two days the land lines have been out, so when I call Karyn, I do it on her cell phone. I called: "Did you hear that?" I asked. She hadn't heard it...yet. But she did sound as though she were on the speaker phone in her car. She said she'd call me back as she was trying to snap a picture of the shuttle, but she neglected to say where she was (I'm thinking she's in the back yard). So she said she'd call me back in a few. Only after she quickly hung up did I wonder how she knew about the shuttle since she hadn't heard the boom!

Turns out she had just heard on the tv that the shuttle Endeavour was going to land At Edwards AFB, a half hour from where we live. The announcer said the shuttle would be visible from the corner of X and Z, so Karyn jumped in her clothers, grabbed her camera and drove out to the intersection of X and Z to snap a photo of Endeavour to surprise me with something to put on my blog! She met quite a few people with the same idea, and one of the men had a telephoto lens. For now, we just have the digital Canon, but, isn't it cool! This is almost as good as weather. As for the big Boom---Karyn did hear it about 30 seconds after she got off that phone call from me!

Thanksgiving, 2008 Western Sunset, Western Skies

Happy Thanksgiving to all our friends and family. Just another day in paradise. What a sky, huh?

Three Months Ago Today

Three months ago today (August 20,2008), it was the eve of our wedding. We forgot our first and second month anniversary and had to be reminded (thanks Azteclady!).

So for our third month wedding anniversary, I wanted to surprise my beloved, Karyn, (on the right, without sunglasses) with one of my favorite pictures from the actual day, August 21st.  On the eve of our wedding, we had our sisters at our home, and everyone was in such a state of excitement, I almost can't remember it. Just kidding---of course I remember! I think we did four or five dress rehearsals throughout the house. And then, the next day, when we went to the Beverly Hills courthouse, we got a very big surprise. The place was packed! We got a fabulous Judge who actually gave a 'sermon' of sorts. For a while I thought I was in a tent revival ("You will honor one another!). 

Why yes, yes, we will. Every day of our lives. 

Fire Report--All is well here.

Here's quick shot of the freeway this morning---dark smoke, sunshine and you can't see it, but huge flames behind that hill. The fire is 30 miles from us, so thanks to all who were concerned, including MzAzteclady. We are keeping a close eye on it.

Do you want to see our rain?

"Oh, honey, no one wants to look at our rain!"

But see, it's not just "looking at our rain." It's the before, during and after of a desert rain, a micro burst really, with the fresh, vibrant smell of wet grasses that smell like wet hay fields in the Midwest, and it's the "Hi! I'm happy living here" attitude of the flowers, the plants and the trees in our yard. It's me loving weather and recording it for all to see. 

It's...OK, I'll go with no one wants to look at our rain, but how 'bout that desert, that yard, those colors and those big as icicles raindrops! Well, those big raindrops don't really show through (sorry!), but if you double click on the slide show, you can see the colors that the rain brings out in the high desert. 

4,851,132 Thank Yous!

Thank you to every one of the 4,851,132 people who voted No on Proposition 8 (with 99% of precincts reporting). To our families, our friends, our neighbors: Your vote DID count! We appreciate your support---you'll never really know what a personal victory it has been for Karyn and me to have our families behind us. And to our friends...well, you're the best!

There is more work to be done and more friends to make...I'm sure we can find enough new friends among the 5,344.012 who voted Yes on Prop 8!!

It was very interesting to see how the actual votes played out. In some places, we fared better than anyone would have previously thought. In little Mono County, we only lost by 553 votes. In Karyn's family's home county, Lake County, we only lost by a little over 1000 votes! And in our county of Los Angeles, we lost by only 20,806 votes.

A lot of progress has been made in the past 10 years, even more in the past five. A lot of hearts and minds have been won, and we need to build on that very strong base. I think it's fair to intuit that no one who voted No on Prop 8 was ambivalent---but I know many people who voted yes who were ambivalent. The money spent by certain religious factions, (including the one I was raised in, the Catholic Church, via its Knights of Columbus group), brought in far more money earlier than the No on 8 people; we should have anticipated that, and the fervor that went with it, and met the opposition with a stronger campaign. The lies that were told in those Yes on 8 advertisements have to be met with truth and education. We have our work cut out for us.

We were disappointed, but not demoralized; we are eventually going to have the right to marry legalized for all gay people because I believe the fundamental issue is one of equal access to civil rights. There may be a few really bad hair days between now and then, but hey, we've got all the best stylists!

Thank you, everyone, and stay tuned!

Our Wedding Day, 21 August 2008

TOP LEFT: TT and Karyn
TOP CENTER: Karyn with impromptu flowergirls, Liza and Emma
TOP RIGHT: TT'S sister, Mary, Witness, Cheerleader, Celebrity Greeter
MIDDLE LEFT: Love...and Bling. Yes!
MIDDLE CENTER: If that's my driver, I've so got a ticket to ride!
MIDDLE RIGHT: The lovely wedding party, with half of TT
LOWER LEFT: TT and sister Mary...see the resemblance!
LOWER MIDDLE: The ever lovely Karyn
LOWER RIGHT: TT needs to sit down for a minute.
And, above, to the immediate left: Kimberly, Karyn's sister, witness, partaker, makeup artiste, wardrobe coordinator, too much fun!

Thought you might like to see some pictures from our special day. I believe if you double click on the collage, the pictures get bigger...or is that just my head? Thanks to everyone who was there and to all our families and friends who were there in spirit. We love you.

Mildred and Richard Loving: The History

Miscegenation: "The mixing or interbreeding of (people of) different races or ethnic groups, esp. the interbreeding or sexual union of whites and non-whites..." From the Oxford English Dictionary

Mildred Loving was 67 years old when she wrote the statement below. She died, a year later, on May2, 2008.

Ironically, Mildred Jeter Loving was part Rappahannock Indian and part Cherokee as well as Black. Her husband, Richard Loving, died when his car was hit by a drunk driver in 1975; in that same accident, Mrs. Loving lost the sight in one eye. The Lovings had three children, one of whom died in 2000.

Maryland had the first antimiscegenation statutes, in 1661, and a year later, Virginia passed similarlaws banning interracial marriage. At various times in our history, 38 states had miscegenation laws.

In 1948 the California Supreme Court overturned California’s law, although prior to that, in all states that had such laws, the State and Federal courts consistently upheld the miscegenation prohibitions. Anti-Miscegenation laws, which prevent interracial marriage, have an even more profound effect than any other segregation laws because they make the marriage void from its inception. Consequently, children from such marriages were considered illegitimate, spouses had no inheritance rights, and heirs could not receive death benefits.

Loving for All

By Mildred Loving

Prepared for Delivery on June 12, 2007,The 40th Anniversary of the Loving vs. Virginia Announcement



When my late husband, Richard, and I got married in Washington, DC in 1958, it wasn't to make a political statement or start a fight. We were in love, and we wanted to be married.



We didn't get married in Washington because we wanted to marry there. We did it there because the government wouldn't allow us to marry back home in Virginia where we grew up, where we met, where we fell in love, and where we wanted to be together and build our family. You see, I am a woman of color and Richard was white, and at that time people believed it was okay to keep us from marrying because of their ideas of who should marry whom.



When Richard and I came back to our home in Virginia, happily married, we had no intention of battling over the law. We made a commitment to each other in our love and lives, and now had the legal commitment, called marriage, to match. Isn't that what marriage is?



Not long after our wedding, we were awakened in the middle of the night in our own bedroom by deputy sheriffs and actually arrested for the "crime" of marrying the wrong kind of person. Our marriage certificate was hanging on the wall above the bed.



The state prosecuted Richard and me, and after we were found guilty, the judge declared: "Almighty God created the races white, black, yellow, malay and red, and he placed them on separate continents. And but for the interference with his arrangement there would be no cause for such marriages. The fact that he separated the races shows that he did not intend for the races to mix."



He sentenced us to a year in prison, but offered to suspend the sentence if we left our home in Virginia for 25 years exile. We left, and got a lawyer. Richard and I had to fight, but still were not fighting for a cause. We were fighting for our love.



Though it turned out we had to fight, happily Richard and I didn't have to fight alone.Thanks to groups like the ACLU and the NAACP Legal Defense & Education Fund, and so many good people around the country willing to speak up, we took our case for the freedom to marry all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court.



And on June 12, 1967, the Supreme Court ruled unanimously that, "The freedom to marry has long been recognized as one of the vital personal rights essential to the orderly pursuit of happiness by free men," a "basic civil right."



My generation was bitterly divided over something that should have been so clear and right. The majority believed that what the judge said, that it was God's plan to keep people apart, and that government should discriminate against people in love. But I have lived long enough now to see big changes. The older generation's fears and prejudices have given way, and today's young people realize that if someone loves someone they have a right to marry.



Surrounded as I am now by wonderful children and grandchildren, not a day goes by that I don't think of Richard and our love, our right to marry, and how much it meant to me to have that freedom to marry the person precious to me, even if others thought he was the "wrong kind of person" for me to marry.



I believe all Americans, no matter their race, no matter their sex, no matter their sexual orientation, should have that same freedom to marry. Government has no business imposing some people’s religious beliefs over others. Especially if it denies people’s civil rights.



I am still not a political person, but I am proud that Richard's and my name is on a court case that can help reinforce the love, the commitment, the fairness, and the family that so many people, black or white, young or old, gay or straight seek in life. I support the freedom to marry for all. That's what Loving, and loving, are all about.



GO CALIFORNIA For TT, Karyn & Many More! VOTE NO ON PROPOSITION 8...

Thank you, we'd love to stay married!

Desert Weenie's 1:00 a.m. Guest(s)

Why am I sitting here, in the library, with both pugs, at one in the morning? Because Karyn is outside in the backyard with Animal Control looking for a very long, thick rattlesnake with a bunch of rattles on his (or her) tail about 4 inches long. Two years ago, almost to the day, we lost our CharlieGirl pug, 13 years old, pretty deaf and not seeing so good, to a rattlesnake in the same backyard.


Tonight, Karyn let Teddy Valentine, our young pug, out the sliding glass door for his evening romp in the grass and, oh, while you're out there, do your business. The pug takes off like a shot, out the door, scaring the snake into a rattling, hissing meanie with a bad attitude. Karyn is standing at the door and thinks she hears the sprinklers coming on...uh no, they came on at 8:30, just like they're programmed to do. She looks out across the spa and pool area, and out of the corner of her eye, she sees Mr. Slither's big bunch of rattles making a beeline for the side of the house.


Karyn, who is not a desert weenie, lets out a guttural-sounding howl, (OK, that's what it sounded like from my safe position in the library on the other side of the house surfing the web for something interesting---it's always right in front of your eyes, isn't it?). Actually, she was calling Teddy's name. He was so shocked that he ran back across the length of the backyard and into her arms, whereupon both of them hopped over the threshold, shut the slider and started shaking. By now, I've run to the family room, where the slider leading to the backyard is. Although my doggy's mama and my doggy play exuberantly, as a matter of course, this time I heard the roar of alarm in her voice when she called for the dog. She was afraid he'd run back toward the house, see the snake and try to make a new friend.

As Teddy was shaking (they both were), we checked him thoroughly for a snake bite and were grateful beyond saying that we found none. We had just scared the dog so much, he was a nervous wreck. As was I. Karyn remained fairly calm, but I believe I did notice a tremor in her voice. We had dodged a bullet, and we knew it. But...wither had gone Mr. Slither?


It turns out that the Animal Control guy doesn't come on duty until midnight, and our encounter with the snake happened around 11 p.m. So we waited, and called back at the stroke of midnight. He was on his way. But entering our property is no small feat because earlier this year, thinking we'd ensure our privacy, keep wild critters out of our yard, and not have to worry when the dogs were in the front yard and side courtyard, we fenced the property in. The fence is block walls on the sides and in the front, with wrought iron fencing across the driveway and across the entire width of the backyard. We put up netting across the lower two feet of the fencing in the backyard, but there's not much we could do about the small space between the driveway and the bottom of the electronic gate that stretches to nearly 40 feet. It was part of a major real estate face lift, a real curb appeal gesture to offset the steadily declining house values in Southern California. Botox for dirt, if you will. Lap band for berms.


Well, clearly, we have curb appeal because earlier in the evening, Karyn was sitting in the three-car garage, in the section devoted to sitting, looking out at the mountains, having some iced tea, giving the dogs some outdoor time before closing up for the night and talking to her sister Kimberly on the phone while waiting for me to get home from work. While sitting there, several events occurred that gave her a vague presentment of..."something." The only way I can explain it is to reference earthquakes. Some people claim their animals alerted them the day of or even moments before the earth began rumbling. As my dogs tend to sleep through all but the most remarkable of quakes, say, 6.0 or above, I cannot say the household pets have any such built-in alarm system for natural disasters, or other threats.



First, Pierre came back. Pierre is a frog who has lived in the pipe at the curb where our sprinkler system drains. Every summer, Pierre hangs out at our house. But last year, he took up with Pauline, and he hasn't been seen since. Until tonight. Karyn's chatting with Kim, and Pierre walks across the driveway as plump as you please, although sans Pauline. Later, Karyn said that now that she thought back, maybe Pierre was walking the perimeter, like a guard frog. Sort of.


Then the baby cottontail rabbits, the young, juicy ones and the wizened older (and faster) jack rabbits were hanging around the green grassy area near the fire hydrant across the street, and they all seemed especially skittish. Well, Dopey, Sleepy and Weepy were skittish; Jack was hyper-vigilant. But then, we have coyotes that have built various homes in the nearby hills under the scrub brush, about 200 feet from our fence, so, if you're a cottontail, especially a young one, you're skittish or you never grow old. Even a Senior jack rabbit, not as tasty to a coyote, but a decent meal for a rattler or a Mohave Green, can have the evening desert blues.


Then Karyn saw two preying mantis kids, one on the screen door that leads from the garage to the side yard, and one in the front courtyard. We haven't seen a preying mantis all year, and believe me, we've been praying for some as they like to dine on some of the less endearing spiders that live here.


Then, Richard, resident lizard, and Lord of the West Wall Manor, moved in bad stealth across the entire width of the three-car garage driveway looking for all the world like a Gila monster. You have to understand: Richard rarely leaves his West Wall Manor, unless his lizard wife, Liz, sends him to the pool for some deli. Dick does not go out for evening strolls. Something was up.


Earlier in the day, even Karyn was feeling a bit unsettled while sweeping out the garage. She picked up Teddy's toys and other garage decor that has a way of building up into small and meaningless piles. She said she did it because she had seen three black widows over the past week hanging out just outside the garage and near the front porch. And a tarantula on the warm wall (excuse me, Richard's West Wall Manor) in the zen garden, another area of the outdoors made pretty last year by Karyn with beautiful pepper trees, for abundant shade, Mexican river rock, for cool texture, and some potted Hollywoods, for the proverbial celebrity factor. I'm telling ya, this place so has curb appeal.


I got home, about 10 p.m., we sat in the garage having a glass of iced tea because it was very hot, and I was off the next day so had the luxury of staying up late. Suddenly Karyn jumped up and said, "Wow! Did you see that?" No, I hadn't. She described "it" as a round light that moved across the desert sky just above the mountaintop horizon and disappeared into the dessert. It wasn't an airplane. It wasn't a shooting star. It was...the light. Karyn said if I talk about this part everyone will think I'm nuts, but that's exactly what happened. It was eerie. Even though I didn't see it, the air had a feel about it that felt heavy with...'it.' Well, OK, that does sound nuts.


Naturally, in between spotting Mr. Slither and Animal Control arriving, Karyn wanted to go outside with a broom and "scare" the snake out of our yard. I had to refuse. She was clearly disappointed. She negotiated a compromise. If she put on her thick-soled hiking boots, carried the strongest flashlight and a long stick, I agreed to let her walk the yard with Animal Control, if, and only if, he looked like he knew what he was doing.


OK, enough background. You get the picture. So anyway----------yikes!


BREAKING NEWS: A guy just walked past the window in the library with a four-foot long rattlesnake with four inches of rattles!!! Well, first I saw Karyn run past the window---that was to open the gate. Wow...Animal Control is so cool! He had this long stick with some kind of prong and the snake was, willingly it seemed, wrapped around the prong.


I got used to mosquitoes and bumblebees and wasps in the Midwest; I got used to seeing rats in the ever-damp Northwest; I even got used to cockroaches in New York City (well, 'got used to' might be an exaggeration); but you know, I can't quite get that warm cozy feeling about rattlesnakes in the backyard.


In case you hadn't guessed by now, I am the desert weenie that my beloved refers to when she endearingly says, "Margaret, snake charmer. Not!"


KARYN'S SIDE OF THE STORY: She waited in the garage, grateful that it was only about 92F this evening. ::eye roll:: She waited alone, with the garage door closed, waiting for AC so she could open the gates. She heard his truck pull up, so she opened the gate from inside the garage, then opened the garage door when he got out of his truck. He walked toward her, and said "Yep, that a rattler, all right."

She looked at him, stunned. "How could he get out of the back yard so quickly," she asked. Then she saw what he was referring to---and it wasn't Mr. Slither. Nuh huh. It was Mr. Slither's younger brother, resting in the gutter. Oh my. Chris, the AC guy, a wonderful young man, very cute with spiky hair, thick boots and a sweet smile, walked toward Slither Jr. with his prong. (NOTE: Despite what you've read from an earlier contributor, there is no rattlesnake that "willingly" wraps itself around the prong. The prong is a gripper contraption that Chris used to grab the snake around it's neck, close to its head. So, literary license and romanticism notwithstanding, Slither Jr. was not a happy camper when put into the bucket with the lid on it).


She told Chris she really didn't think that was the snake in our backyard, and he agreed to check the place out. They walked through the yard with flashlights. Nothing. They checked behind every pot, and there are about 20 of them. They checked behind the palm trees, the olive tree and even the Dracena that was originally an indoor plant we moved from Studio City, and which has grown to seven times it's original height since coming to the desert. We checked behind all the gorgeous grasses she planted this past spring. She began to wonder if that had been such a good idea as she looked around the yard and patio and pool and saw no less than 45 good places to hide, if you're a snake. She told Chris to please check behind the pool equipment (that had been Margaret snake charmer's best guess as to where the snake probably went after having been scared scaleless by Teddy).


Chris walked carefully back behind the cement walls that enclose the pool equipment. "Wow, you were right," he called out. "He's right here." (Please give Margaret a round of applause as she's feeling a bit queasy right about now).


Chris found our guy, and he was even bigger, thicker and meaner-looking than she originally thought. But he's not mean. They don't want anything to do with us, really, and they do send out a memorable warning with that rattle/hiss sound they make. Apparently, it's the cottontails that draw them. And the water in the pool on a hot August night.


Chris said it really looked as though we'd done everything to our yard that could be done to protect ourselves and the dogs. The only thing left was to close up one small space near the Dracena that might have been Mr. Slither's front door to our back yard. Also, stay alert, listen, and don't feed the jacks and the bunnies no matter how badly you feel for them. Karyn did not admit feeding wildlife on any kind of regular basis....but she has been known to take the old lettuce, apples, carrots, Brussels sprouts, and dead boxes of cereal up the hill and spread out a little buffet for the critters.


Those, most likely, were the good old days. Mr. Slither was...memorable!

(NOTE: All Efforts have been made to represent Karyn's side of the story accurately and judiciously. This may or may not have actually been achieved).

MARGARET'S SIDE OF THE STORY (Ending): I am not feeling queasy. I am feeling vigilant, alert, and scared to death. But not queasy. Additionally, I believe I bring up an important issue when I put this question to my seven readers: Should people (no names mentioned) give proper names to critters that they don't actually own? I'm just saying...

Desert Sage in Brilliant Bloom

This one's for our friend AZTECLADY....desert sage in the best bloom we've had in five years. What is Karyn doing to these plants to make them so happy?!? Lots of love! Happy summer to everyone.

Rome Wasn't Built in a Day--The Slideshow

This is probably way too long to work properly. Cannes Film Festival it's not. It's not Rome, either. And the yard took 15 days to finish. It's gorgeous. I'm happy with it. Maybe you'll see it!

Because Rome Wasn't Built in a Day: The Story

It all started with "Let's go to Home Depot and get a couple plants."

If you hear this sentence at any time in the next four months: run. Run very fast. Run until you get a headache. And then, with complete truthfulness, you can say, "Not today, dear, I have a headache.

Do I say, not as I did.

So we throw on our jeans, our baseball caps and our "Vote for Hillary," and "I'm Your Girl," (another Hillary design) t-shirts, and head off in the German SUV we call "Buttah," which is Butter for all you who don't name your cars. Buttah is a most unbuttery Obsidian Black with a gorgeous buttery tan/gold leather interior. While Buttah is a lovely, sophisticated sled in which to go get "a couple plants," it's also the kind of luxury vehicle one doesn't want to get too dirty. Well, I don't. Karyn thinks of it as her own uber-stylish 'work truck.' You'll understand in a moment.

We arrive at the local Home Desperate, and we're barely through the gates to the garden section when, somehow, Karyn gets ahead of me. It's absolutely not because I'm dragging my feet. I stop to look at a very pretty Dorotheanthus bellidiformis, named after my dear friend Dorothy, I think. Of course you may know this plant by its popular name, Mezoo Livinstone Daisy or Mezoo Trailing Red. Dorothy has another name, too, but I forget, right now, what it is. I'm pretty sure it's not Daisy, but...no, no. Definitely not Daisy...Mezoo would be catchy, though.

Anyway, as I'm serenely perusing Mezoo, the scent of a popular teen aftershave (Axe?) wafts across my scent-sensitive olfactory space and blends awkwardly with night-blooming sweet Jasmine just before it smacks my whole face with a tidal wave of overwhelm. I turn to my left and I see a 50-something person with a razor haircut, a plaid Pendalton-like, and yet, not, shirt, sleeves rolled up, in a pair of slightly baggy meant to be very baggy jeans. If she'd have had a Marlboro behind her ear, I would have thought: the spitting image of James Dean! She didn't see me, because she was making a beeline in the direction of Karyn. Trust me, Home Desperate does not usually have this level of customer service. I didn't see the crooked smile on her face or have a full-on appreciation of her soave bolla manner, but the sotto voco "Hi, there, can I help ya, young lady," told me this was going to be no ordinary trip through the tulips.

I gave her just enough time to exchange pleasantries, and then I ambled up to Karyn, who introduced me as her partner. James Dean stuck her big paw out to shake mine. "Dottie, but my friends all call me Dot."

Wow. She was so not a 'Dottie.' At some point Dot got called away by the PA System for some very important administrative issue on Aisle 9, and we wandered through the garden section. We headed toward Trees, but the pickings were slim, so we ended up in ground covers and climbing vines.

We had begun the morning outing with a single shopping cart, but thinking trees, we quickly switched to a giant flatbed on wheels. As mentioned, there were no trees to be had, but those flat-beds can easily hold $400 worth of things I could probably go through my entire life not knowing the names of...except I was about to own several dozen of these things, and they come with name tags, so, go ahead, ask me anything.

Euonymus Japonica!! No, I don't have botanical Tourette's---I told you: They have name tags.

As we headed tantalizingly close to the check-out counter, of which there are always two and one is always closed, Dot springs up out of nowhere with the crooked smile and a completely hyper- friendly "Didjafin'everythin'?"

Why no, no we didn't. Trees...you're low on trees, Dot.

"Lucy's," she says. "Gotta go to Lucy's if you want really good trees." She looks in both directions and leans in toward us, her voice becoming a whisper. "Better trees and cheaper too, than here," she says.

She offers directions. I say, "Nah, that's OK, we'll go some other time." Dot's face falls, although her sideburns remain intact.

She looks at Karyn with something resembling sympathy, as if to say, 'Oh, young lady, here you are all ready to give love and life and warmth to some tree, and this non-tree hugger you're with isn't interested. Don't'cha jus' hate that?'

OK, then, for future reference, where, exactly, is Lucy's? I could tell by the number of times she said 'just across from,' 'just down from' and 'about a half mile east of,' that Dot was no TomTom Navigation system, however much she might...nevermind.

With Buttah loaded to the tailgate with flats of groundcover and a couple dozen blooming plants, we drive to Lucy's in our own personal greenhouse. We miss it, we double back, and we see why we missed it. No signage and no sign of human life. Unless your line of sight took a sharp right at the non-existent signage, you'd have missed about two acres of all kinds of trees.

But wait! What is that little shadow holding a garden hose? That, my friends, is Maria. Although Maria spoke no English, she was a whiz at Arabic numbers. Every time I'd ask "How much?" Maria would pick up a small stick or a nail or just use her finger to write $350 in the dirt. Everything was $350, except for a couple of things that were $50. But they were dead or dying. So, OK then, $350 it is!

In fairness, I have to acknowledge that Lucy's had the best selection of healthy trees I've seen anywhere in the Antelope Valley. We found two olive trees, in 48-inch boxes, that stood easily 12 feet high and were only half grown, if that. In West Hollywood or Malibu or Pasadena where there are some darn good nurseries, those two olive trees would have been $600-700 each, or more. I got 'em for, you guessed it, $300 each, including delivery. What happened to $350? Uh, excuse me, I never, nevah, pay retail. My best friend Mezoo taught me that.

A white pickup pulled into the tree lot, and a very small man with a great big cowboy hat walked up to the make-shift table where I was writing directions to the house. He introduced himself as Jesus. Maria talked to Jesus, they nodded, and the next thing I knew, he was taking my six hundred dollar bills. As they walk us out of the tree lot (it was closing time), Karyn was talking and pointing excitedly at some very large rock. Jesus was nodding. We waved goodbye, see ya tomorrow morning at 9 a.m., thank you, have a good evening, take care of the the Benjamin Franklins!

We got in the car, and I said, "I didn't get a receipt."

"Oh, it's fine," said Ms. Congeniality, "I have a good feeling about them, and besides, he's going to bring those five rocks over too, for free!"

That's nice, I thought to myself, trying not to focus on the thought that the rocks are free if he shows up; if he doesn't, we just bought a half ton of air and two fantasy fruitless olive trees for six hundred bucks. For the sake of my own serentiy, I decided to go with her "good feeling about them."

On the way home, the plans for our new front yard were chattering away next to me, and my own personal earth architect and exterior decorator had some very nice plans, indeed, all involving trees, ("...oh, more than just the two olives..."), plants, "...oh more than just the boatload (my word) we got today..." and some real boulders ("...oh those were mere rocks we got today..."). Karyn's father was an agricultural biologist in northern California, but the real love of his work life was planting, landscaping, designing, growing, and nurturing little seedlings and snippets of things to full life. His daughter was so much like him, not counting starting with 5-year old olive trees instead of one little olive pit.

I smiled, encouragingly, because this makes her happy, and that makes me happy. Happiness notwithstanding, a wayward thought bounced across my consciousness, knocked up against the walls of resistance and came to rest beside a deliciously evil thought: Dot is so damn dead.

(TO BE CONTINUED, With Visuals)

A Book Review

Phyllida and the

Brotherhood of Philander,

A Novel

By Ann Herendeen

Publisher: HarperPaperbacks
HarperCollinsPublishers

(Release Date: April 29, 2008)





It's London, it's 1812, and on page one of this outstanding novel, we meet Andrew Carrington, a rory-tory, hunky-dory heir to a fortune, who is gay. And that's only the beginning set of circumstances that launch this debut novel by Ann Herendeen who writes about romance and history with comedic timing and the kind of dialog that makes you feel you are in the room with the characters. It's a bonus beyond hoping for that Herendeen also has a writer's sense of what makes a great love story, which she unfailingly gives to her readers throughout this entire book.

And that's what I liked most about this book: It's a great love story, beautifully written, with a sense of life and a sense of comedy that is at once exhilarating and impassioned.

Tired of the endless Regency nights of gambling and debauchery, Andrew Carrington decides he needs to find a wife who will give him an heir and thus fulfill his legacy responsibilities. Finding a wife, he discovers, is far easier than actually having a wife. The situation is ripe for a comedy of errors, combined with a faux tragedy of (too many) manners, when the prospective wife learns she must share Andrew with his boyfriend. For most, that would be a deal-breaker; not our group!

Phyllida Lewis is the spirited, pretty, talented and very poor author of romantic novels. She loves to write, and that's all she really wants to do: write. Although every mother in England is frothing at the prospect of her daughter marrying Andrew Carrington, he sees life a bit differently than most. He prefers men, and he prefers everything about them: their company, their interests, their looks, their sex appeal...all of it. Still he does not take his privileged status lightly. He feels he has a duty to produce an heir. That, typically, would involve taking a wife. Carrington figures to find a woman who needs a husband, advise her of the situation and then proceed to live his life as he wishes, not counting the baby-making process.

Phyllida has her own agenda, though, not the least of which is that she doesn't need to get married. She could spend her entire life in her ratty old robe writing pages of Gothic romance, ink-stained fingers and all. Regrettably, her mother disagrees and does all she can to pander her daughter off to anyone who will have her. That Andrew Carrington might want her silly daughter is more than Phyllida's mother could have hoped for. As readers, though, we're thrilled! This is getting delicious.

For her part, Phyllida, contemplating this most unusual marriage proposal, reviews her options. She really is fine with the boyfriend aspect of Carrington's proposal, much to his surprise, (and perhaps her own) but her single condition is that she must be allowed to continue writing---not exactly the approved pastime for the wife of an Earl.

Immediately, Carrington disabuses her of any notion that his marriage to her is to be a democracy. But, Phyllida, sensing the delicate public position a gay Earl might find himself in, proceeds to hold firm until and unless her one condition is met. Reason (and a bit of expediency) wins the day, and Andrew Carrington, reluctantly gives his permission for Phyllida to continue her writing. And then, the real fun begins!

Matthew Thornby is the boyfriend, the honorable and handsome son of a Baronet. It takes Matthew to create a bridge of understanding between Carrington and his bride. It's also Matthew who comes to the rescue, along with Carrington, in the secondary story involving the blackmail of the Brotherhood of Philander, a high-end private club for gay men in London, modeled after several clubs known to exist during this era.

Herendeen's immanently readable and rewarding writing style takes an unorthodox, romantic relationship set among three people two hundred years ago and brings the spirit of the story and the people right into one's most contemporary world. Although Andrew Carrington gets to have his wife and his boyfriend, one senses that Phyllida and Matthew are getting no less a good deal in this comically triangulated romance.

I highly recommend this book to anyone who likes a good love story. The male/male/female configuration is not my personal cup of tea, but Herendeen and her story have transcended the usual squiggly wigglies regarding genders and gender preferences with this endearing, engaging and elegantly witty romp through the lives of three people who stumble, falter and throw themselves into the mix that is Herendeen's unequalled specialty. That alone is quite a feat!
I found myself rooting for our heroes, and heroine, to get to the Happily Ever After...and I was not disappointed.

So if you're not sure if you're reading a Regency romance, a Bi-sexual Romance, a Comedy or a Novel, allow me to help you out here: Call it all of that or none of it: It's a great read!

With a debut novel this good, I do imagine we could well see "based on the book by" coming to a movie screen in your neighborhood....conjure up, if you will, a young group of actors and actresses sharing a film with the comedic elements of Shakespeare In Love meets A Fish Named Wanda meets Victor/Victoria meets What's Up Doc? meets one funeral and several weddings! Trust me, this book is tons of fun, with tons of engaging characters and tons of Ton.

t.t.thomas

Quick!

Wish Opinionhead a Happy Birthday before she deletes this post.

Snow and Sunset in the High Desert

Filmmaker practise session #2.

This Is Dedicated to the Ones We Love!

Happy Valentine's Day

Happy Birthday Karyn!

Crowds Gather to Watch Karyn Celebrate;

Authorities Find Crowd Control of No Use At All

On February 4, 2008

I asked Karyn what she wanted for her 48th birthday, and she said, "A love letter." So I wrote one, but I didn't just write it.

No. It's a long, long letter that I've been writing for seven years, and I add a little bit every day. The individual words, the fragments of phrases, and the full sentences seem more like a streaming video in front of my eyes than a collection of words in my head. It happens throughout each and every day, and it's a 'letter' I never get tired of writing, feeling, seeing, thinking, being a part of. It's very visual and tactile, this letter, because Karyn is a world-renown space invader. She'll hug ya and kiss ya and hold ya just because you're in front of her, and once she's done it, you realize you didn't even know you needed it. You can be a lady at the market who can't reach the Ovaltine on the top shelf, an old geezer at Trader Joe's who says he likes her cowboy boots (yeah, right), or an actor past his prime and public recognition who gets recognized by her at the car wash. It doesn't matter who you are: You're a happier person when Karyn smiles, makes eye contact and says something sweet by way of acknowledging you as a unique individual. Your day is made, there's hope in the world again, and I'm pretty sure that whoever meets Karyn goes home and says, "I met the most wonderful person at the car wash!"

How'd it happen? How did she get like that? I have to believe it was the wonderful parents who raised her and the siblings who love her. Her dad's gone, but she's got his sense of adventure and a healthy amount of the Irish DNA. Her mom has the same dazzling smile, the pretty blue eyes and the warmest of hearts. Her brothers, Tom and Chuck, and her sister Kimberly are proud of her, protective of their baby sister and they seem genuinely happy that Karyn and I have the kind of love you'd want someone like her to have in her life.

So while I certainly hope you weren't expecting to read the love letter....I'm OK with you having a general idea of what's in it and why. The pictures above were taken during our trip to Europe last February...I took the one of her on the Bridge Sant' Angelo in Rome, and Kimberly took the portrait photo in the lobby of our hotel, The Beau Rivage Palace in Lausanne. It was truly a Trip of a Lifetime, with stops in Germany, Switzerland, Italy and England, and though we have Paris and Prague on our agenda for the next trip, the Trip of a Lifetime will always be special because it was our first.

And that's the way it is with Karyn....even the familiar comfort and ease of living together is always new, always holds treasures, always repeats and reaffirms itself the way love was designed to do. She is my love and my life. No letter could ever capture the mysterious wonder of that, but I think what I've written here gives you an idea of what approximates the miracle of Karyn.

There's That Rainbow!

Super Bowl Sunday 3 February 2008

Do You See It Now?

Life Among the Elephants...or
Living in a Red Section of a
Blue State With Rainbows

The mountains you see in the pictures, the snow covered mountains, is what I woke up to this morning. So beautiful. This is my view from the back of our home, and with both the family room and master located at opposite areas at the rear of the house, it truly is a million dollar view not only from the back yard and pool area, but from within the house itself.

We live in the Las Pelonas foothills across the valley floor from the range you see, known as the Tehachapi Mountains, home of the famous Grapevine (Interstate 5) that closes for hours and hours at a time when the snow falls hard. So, anyway, that light dusting of snow that I (and, apparently, only I) saw the other day was part of the decidedly heavier snowfall in the mountains you see in these pictures. Most of the snow from the recent storms only fell to about 3500 feet. We live at about 3400 feet above sea level and about 25 miles from the Tehachapi range, as the crows fly.

This is one of two areas in Southern California known as the High Desert. The other area is in the San Gabriel Mountains, specifically the towns of Victorville and Hesperia that one passes on the way to Las Vegas. The most famous Low Desert area would be Palm Springs, although it is usually called, simply, "the desert," because people who live there are under the sad illusion that it is the only desert. They do have better restaurants, the scenery in Palm Springs is gorgeous, and the place is a part-time favorite of snowbird retirees from places in the Midwest. The High Desert area grows Joshua trees, fields of wild poppies, the yucca, a fierce desert wind, and a fairly rabid, vocal, but small, group of racist and homophobic uber Conservatives. Palm Springs, on the other hand, grows Date Palms, golf courses, perpetual tans and...a stylish and eclectic group of residents and vacationers. So why live here? Because the makeup of this area is changing rapidly...and has changed for the better in the five years we've been here. More tolerance, more diversity. Things take time. And you have to agree, the views from our little slice of heaven are great.

The High Desert can be a tough place to assimilate, but we do smile at the frequent and gigantic rainbows that cross from one mountain range to the other after, and sometimes during, our desert storms and microbursts. Nature, it seems, not only abhors a vacuum but is also a big fan of symbolism. So you see, "Someone" is doing something about the weather.

Weather Captain,
Geography General and
Political Opinionhead Margaret, over and out.

Seriously Seeking Susan Brown

When Is Something Not a Mixture?


There was a time in my life when I was free to write to my heart's content---no job to go to (I was seriously unemployed), no kids to take care of (unless you count my cat Rewrite), no place to go, really (the first Volvo was reliable but ugly), and no one to answer to (unless you count my Mother, who did occasionally wonder aloud about my getting a "real" job).

By virtue of my most recent job, I had met a film director who was impossible to work for and yet desperate to find a secretary/assistant who wouldn't walk off the job after three weeks as my predecessors had. The alliance with him lasted seven months, but I knew if I could stick it out, something good would come of it. It was not, however, going to be friendship: He loathed me and I despised him; only in that regard were we a good match. I believe he did fire me about five times, but as I kept showing up for work each day, each successive firing was laid aside never to be mentioned again. Later I realized he was happy to see me because he got to look forward, once again, to firing me.

One day, six of his very big-shot Hollywood Agents came in for a meeting, or as we say here, 'took a meeting.' They were from a really big talent agency in Hollywood, and the meeting was important. I was to deliver tea and coffee to the upstairs loft where the director had his office. Oh, and answer the phones, which rang off the hook with people wanting their scripts read. One of the agents, named Mike, came down the stairs just before the meeting began and asked if I could do him a favor. If his wife called, would I let him know right away---but I was to do it by slipping him a note when I came to refill the coffee. Mike was very nice, and so of course when his wife did call, I assured her he'd have the message in 10 seconds. I wrote him a small note on a very small Sticky: "Call your wife." I delivered it to his tea cup saucer as I went from person to person refilling coffee. When he came downstairs a few minutes later to call home, he thanked me and said he loved the way I stealth dropped the note on his plate, as it were.

As the agents were leaving, several hours later, this same agent was the only one to purposefully walk into my section of the office to say goodbye. I knew I only had one shot, so I took it. I told him I was a writer, and that I was writing a book and wondered if I might call him sometime to get some direction on who to talk to for a literary agent. As he was a talent agent, I knew he would not feel pressured to look at anything I wrote. He was completely at ease with my request and actually named the day in the following week that I should call him. I did call him, and he gave me the name of a literary agent in his office that he felt I would work well with---and he offered to give her a heads up that I'd be calling. Huh? An agent I could work with? Oh my G-d!

With a great deal of trepidation, I made the call to the agent Mike suggested. Her name was Cheryl, and although it was pretty obvious that she was taking the call more as a favor to Mike than because of any real interest in me, I just kept talking and ended by saying that I wrote much like I spoke. As I had made her laugh a couple times, she figured that was worth seeing. She said, "OK, send the book over tomorrow."

Oh dear. Thinking quickly, I told her that the book was only three quarters done, and that three quarters was "at the typist." I promised to get her the first five or six chapters the following week, and the rest sometime soon after that if she liked it well enough to read on. Of course I was playing for time, and if she knew, she never said. It took me another ten months to get the full manuscript to her, and when I did, it was 650 typed pages.

The truth: I had written about 100 pages of what was to be a 350-page novel. I was unemployed, so there was no "sending things out to the typist." The typist lived with me and I lived alone, not counting Rewrite. Rewrite? Oh hell, this 100 pages needs a serious rewrite, or if not that, then a good edit. I had to get Cheryl hooked on that first 100 pages. I had to do it.

I went down my short list of friends, and although all of them were intelligent, not all of them read much. They weren't literary. But one had a degree in English Literature. I dialed Susan Brown and told her my good news. She didn't even know I was writing a book. Naturally, I asked her if she'd like to read it. She'd love to. How about that evening? Perfect.

Susan Brown was someone whose first name was never said without also saying her last name. It was never "I saw Susan," but rather, "I saw Susan Brown." Susan was very educated, very well spoken and very savvy about how the world works. She also had a great big heart. "Can I bring you anything," she asked, after accepting my invitation. "How about some diet 7-Up and a pint of vanilla Hagan Daz," I said. After a notable pause, she said, "Sure, why not?"

Skipping ahead to the good part, I cajoled Susan Brown into being my "editor," for that first 100 pages, and she later assured me that she was only staying on the job for the entire 650 pages because she wanted to know how the story ended. It was a lie, and I was grateful. Although her editing skills would come in handy, we both knew I needed a deadline that incorporated just the right amount of comfort, trust and inspiration to get the book finished. We set up a daily schedule: I would write during the day, and in the evening, Susan Brown would come over to my apartment in Studio City to read and edit the previous day's pages. And to celebrate that day's literary output, we'd share the 7-Up poured over a huge dollop of vanilla ice cream in a big, tall, wide-mouthed tumbler. It is believed by people who know about such things that this period in my life was the beginning of the high cholesterol count which I'd have to work on years down the line. At the time, though, it was a delicious way to finish off an evening.

One Sunday afternoon, Susan Brown called and said she wasn't sure she could make it because her car wasn't running very well. Was it running at all? Well, yes, but it was making funny sounds. Having had a particularly satisfying day in front of the IBM Selectric (yes, this was that long ago!) I was far too selfish to let a little car noise get in the way of what I felt would be a most productive editing session. At some point, Susan Brown decided it would be easier to deal with her car than deal with my disappointment, so she agreed to keep our editing date, and yes, she would pick up the ice cream and 7-Up.

About two hours later, I began to look out my window and wonder what happened to my editor. I no sooner pulled the curtain aside when I saw and heard a red Ford turning onto my street in a gigantically wide arc, wheels squealing, motor sputtering and Susan Brown's hair blowing across her face and pretty much blinding her to oncoming traffic. As I started to laugh at the sight, one of Susan Brown's tires and wheel came right off her car, bounced up on the curb and went flying across the neighbor's yard straight at my kitchen window and me. As I ducked, I heard the tire hit the side of my building, right beneath my kitchen window, and I heard but did not see Susan Brown's red Ford screech to a stop as it fruitlessly tried not to jump the curb, where it landed perilously close to my ugly Volvo.

I ran downstairs and outside to see about Susan. She climbed out of her soon-to-be red-tagged sled, raised a grocery bag above her head and said, "I think the ice cream's melting." We knew the car was going to need some pricey work, if it were not a complete lost cause, but as it was Sunday, we couldn't really call the local fix-it guy until Monday morning.

We decided to have the 7-Up and ice cream while Susan read the pages, which she would always do once before getting out the editing pencil. As I was slurping away enjoying my slivers of ice cream iced into small sheets of tasty, crunchy deliciousness, Susan Brown laughed out loud. I saw that she was only on the second page of that day's work in review, and I knew there was nothing funny in that section of prose.

"What? What's so funny?" I said.

"This passage," she answered, handing
me the page.

I read it. I could see absolutely nothing wrong with the
section. In fact, it was one of my favorites. But it certainly wasn't meant to be funny.

"I don't see anything wrong," I sniffed.

"OK," she said, laughing, "let me read it aloud."

"Fine, go ahead." Slurp. Crunch. Smack lips.

Holding the page in one hand and her glass of vanilla float in the other, she read:

"He looked at her with a mixture of bug-eyed silence."

She laughed again. I did not.

"What's missing?" she asked.

"Nothing," I said. "Sounds just like I
meant it to sound."

"Really?" she answered, "Let me read it aloud
again."

She read it. I starred at her. She laughed. I didn't. She
laughed some more.

I finally said, "OK, smartypants, tell me what's missing?"

She looked at the page and read:

'He looked at her with a mixture of
bug-eyed silence,' and?" she said.

"And nothing," said I. "That's what he looked at her with."

Susan Brown was seriously beginning to annoy me.

"Bug-eyed silence," she repeated "and what was it mixed with?"

"Nothing!" I answered righteously,

"It wasn't mixed with anything---should it be?"

"I think," she said, trying really hard not to spew her
ice cream all over my bug-eyed silence, "that you've mistaken a hyphenated word
for two words. A "mixture of" bug-eyed silence? No such animal."

I don't think I've ever felt quite so dumb. I had that deer-in-the-headlights look, and then I sprayed her with the big spoonful of 7-Up and ice cream that I had just put in my mouth. I laughed so hard, I fell over. I laughed so much, I...had to cross my legs. Then Susan Brown started laughing as hard. Then for some reason, the vision of Susan Brown sailing around that street corner with her tire and wheel flying off sent me into paroxysms of laughter and glee, and I felt the need to do a re-enactment. I had her on the floor, laughing, and by the end of the evening we both agreed her broken car was worth the price of admission, not to mention the utter embarrassment it saved me when I turned the manuscript in.

That novel was shopped around by my agent Cheryl to some New York literary agents, but the general consensus was:brilliant but flawed. Several years later I realized just how kind everyone had been to call it that. I re-read it, and I saw that it was entirely more flawed than brilliant. That agency never made a dime off me, nor did I by having signed with them. We let my contract expire, and I went out to get "a real job." How I got to be signed with a major Hollywood agency, how my book got shopped around to major agents in New York, and how the whole experience blew me away is the stuff, one hopes, of legends. It took me years to get over the notion that I had wasted my big chance.

I never realized how hurt my feelings had been that nothing ever became of that book, but not writing for a dozen more years would have been a clue to most people. Not surprisingly, it was Susan Brown who told me that I was a good writer, I just needed to practise my craft more and get great. That was so Susan.

The thing about writing fiction is that, at the beginning at least, your novel is your whole show. There's no additional fancy dance steps, no prettying up of one's outfit and no showing of one's sizzling personality(if one even has all that to add to the mix) to help your story and quality of writing. And if my experience is any indication, it's not, strictly speaking, even who you know. I didn't even know Mike, who gave me my first big break. No, it's all in the story and all in the way you tell that story. I basically decided that I had ended up a telling a pretty half-baked story in a decently skilled way, but that wasn't enough, I realized. Now, I think I have a wonderful story, and let's see if I can get it written well. I believe I can and will.

I lost track of Susan when she moved to San Francisco, but maybe the Internet gods will send this blog post to her or one of her friends. It's a long shot, but so was my getting back to writing, which I've done over the past few years. I do have a new book I'm working on, and I do have a new editor, who seems to have got as wise to me and my tricks as Susan Brown was. Fear of rejection is a terrible thing, especially when one thinks one is oh so very brave. ::shrug::

But I was onto something in asking Susan Brown to edit my work. Some people have critique partners, official ones, and that works great for them. I need a little more one-on-one attention, encouragement and...oh yeah, editing.

Karyn, my beloved, and, I think, my biggest fan, reads and loves everything I show her. If I ask her to, she'll even edit a bit, leaving me a few very soft, light pencil marks where something needs fixing. And she's always right---it might be a typo, it might be clarity needed, it might be one of my famous run-on sentences. But I'll tell you this: By the time Robin (known on this blog as Occasional Guest Blogger) gets it, there's not a single mixture of bug-eyed silence anywhere to be found. And that's a good thing 'cause there's no soft, little, gentle marks on the page when Robin gets done with it! I write and she edits in MS Word, and if part of being a good writer means never having to see another red cartoon balloon with the words "What the heck does this mean?" from Robin, then I'll not only be a good writer, I might just be an author! It could happen.

Thank you Susan Brown!

Snow and Sun...in the High Desert

Antelope Valley, Southern California -- No, it doesn't happen often, but it happened this morning: A lovely, light dusting of the white powdery stuff greeted me and my coffee cup. I can't exactly say that I "love" snow (and maybe that's because I trudged through mountains of it growing up in Illinois), but I can say I love the look of it. More snow is expected over the next couple days, and overnight temperatures are in the low thirties. If the days keep warming up like today, though, I'll have to snap the next batch of pictures at dawn because by 8 a.m. this picture was gone, and the melt off trickled down the foothills and onto our street throughout the day.

Ad Lucem! Semper Ad Lucem!

PART II: The Ethics of Authorship

"Toward the Light, Always Toward the Light"

The Romance fiction genre's recent crisis of spirit, occasioned earlier in the week by the discovery that Romance writer Cassie Edwards has been plagiarizing other writers for decades, was ameliorated and considerably lifted yesterday. Popular top-selling author Nora Roberts pledged to match up to $5000 in donations to the Defense of Wildlife Fund, a group dedicated to saving seriously endangered species, including the imperiled black-footed ferret around which controversy swelled when it was discovered that a prominent nature writer, Paul Tolme, had parts of his article on ferrets lifted by Edwards for passages in her book called Shadow Bear.

Tolme wrote a delightful piece this week in Newsweek about his experience of seeing his words about ferrets copied in a "bodice-ripper." Although Romance authors and fans hope to reinvigorate and change Tolme's reference to "standard romance novel schlock," one other line of his article caught the eyes and interest of the thousands of loyal members and hundreds of new readers who read the blog Smart Bitches Who Love Trashy Books.

Although he said he is no longer angry at Cassie Edwards for stealing his words, Tolme added: "Ignorance of law and ethics is no excuse, however. Plagiarism victimizes writers. It betrays the trust of readers. It tarnishes the craft of writing. But there is another victim here that has been lost in the discussion: the ferrets."

Oh brother! Watch out, news media. Watch out, nay-sayers who think there's no such thing as viral networking with quantifiable, verifiable results. One cannot buy this kind of public relations and publicity. All hail the ferrets!

With that line, Mr. Tolme has probably saved a lot of ferrets because it wasn't long before the Bitchery group practically adopted the black-footed ferret as its mascot. One member put up ferret-oriented anti-plagiarism t-shirts on Cafe Press, and Nora Roberts posted that she would match donations to the Defense of Wildlife Fund. Within hours the Bitchery had tallied nearly $3000 in donations that came from its readers. Some commenters seemed more interested in adopting Mr. Tolme, although it is not known if he is available for same.

As of this writing, Candy Tan and Sarah Wendell, the two women who run Smart Bitches Who Love Trashy Books, who initially alerted the world to the Cassie Edwards books that contain wholesale passages and paragraphs taken, without authorization, or credit, from other authors, have discovered dozens of examples of this plagiarism in a goodly number of Edwards' nearly 100 books. But it took another best-selling author, Nora Roberts, to help bring more attention to a discovery, originally made by poster Nikki, that Edwards had also stolen from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Without a doubt, Edwards steals from some of the best!

Comparing these two excerpts, one can easily see why Edwards is being accused of plagiarism:

SAVAGE OBSESSION, by Cassie Edwards, 1983, Page 284:
"The odors of the forest, the dew and damp meadow, and the curling smoke from the wigwams were left behind as Lorinda [...]"

SONG OF HIAWATHA by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1855: Lines 3-5 of the Introduction: "With the odors of the forest, With the dew and damp of meadows, With the curling smoke of wigwams..."

Earlier in a thread of the comments sections about the Edwards situation, a poster who has his own website jokingly wondered if Ms. Edwards had ever taken credit for the famous verse in Longfellow's Song of Hiawatha that begins, "From the shores of Gitche Gumee....[...]" The popular poster, TeddyPig, was astounded when he realized another had found alarming substance in the answer to Mr. Pig's lighthearted question.

Indeed, with this discovery at the top of a heap of discoveries of apparent plagiarism in various Cassie Edwards' books, discoveries made by both the head Bitches and a volunteer platoon of Bitchery readers (including Opinionhead), the list of original research from which Edwards lifted almost word-for-word, and sometimes, precisely word-for-word, sections, include Encyclopadia Britannica, National Geographic magazine and Pulitzer-prize winning author Oliver La Farge, awarded a Pulitzer Prize for Laughing Boy, which was written in 1929 and for which a valid copyright is still held. If you want to see some very good detective work, see page 34 in the Bitches PDF file (called a Centralized Document of the Cassie Edwards Texts), referenced in my blogpost of day before yesterday. These women have documented the comparisons between what La Farge wrote in 1929 and what Casssie Edwards wrote in 1990.

As well as Roberts, several other Romance authors have posted their impressions and opinions, including Victoria Dahl, J.C. Wilder (who also writes as Dominque Adair), indy writer Silapa Jurun, Arlene C. Harris and Laura Vivanco. Another posster on the Smart Bitches site, Lisa, who links to a blog signed by Elle, provided sufficient genealogy material to cause even the most casual observer to question the authenticity of Cassie Edwards' claims that her grandmother was a full-blooded Cheyenne. You can read her article here.

Edwards apparently later corrected this to be her paternal great-great grandmother, but the blogger Elle, who (like this writer) has more than a passing familiarity with genealogy, did some basic research and could find nothing linking Edwards to the Cheyenne nation via bloodlines. While Elle, at this point, merely questions Edwards authenticity and veracity on this subject, my reading of even cursory research efforts occasions me to strongly doubt that Edwards has 1/16th Indian blood, if she has any at all.

There were many very feisty Romantic genre readers who weighed in on the subject of Edwards---far too many to mention in one blogpost. Many of the posters are authors whose blogs and websites you might enjoy visiting. They include: SusanWilbanks; S. Andrew Swann (who also writes as Steven Krane and S. A. Swiniarski), Jennifer Armintrout, Kay Hooper, and Theresa Meyers. Other writers who have weighed in on the Cassie Edwards situation over at the Bitches site include E. Ann Bardawill, Australian writer Bronwyn Parry whose first of two books will be puslished this year by Hachette Livre Australia, author Diane Castilleja, Katrina Strauss and Ciar Cullen.

And the reason I mention any names at all is because I've really had my eyes opened in the past few days by what I've read in the Bitchery posts and comments sections (you must read the Comments section after the main posts to get the full flavor, and fury). The insight I've gleaned goes way beyond the subject of plagiarism (and even ferrets!) because these women are passionate about what they write, what they read, what they feel about the genre of Romance fiction, specifically, and writing generally. This is my way of acknowledging them.

You can tell from the Comments sections that the writers are good and the readers are sophisticated, intelligent, savvy, funny-as-hell big mouths with equally great big hearts. They're real people; I like that. The forums themselves can get introspective or crazy wild, but, amazingly, most seem to "course correct," as one poster put it, after some of the passion spends itself into a sigh, and the quieter minds come out of the shadows with reason and logic draped in soothing words and calming tones.

I've also been linked, via the Bitchery, to a couple other sites that I found very informative. One, Dear Author, is written by six devoted readers who specialize in reviewing books from the Romance, Fantasy and Manga genres and dish up some very tasty commentary on issues affecting authors and the publishing industry. Again, the Dear Author blogposts are nicely enhanced with Comments from readers of that blog. An especially moving blogpost titled The Many Faces of Plagiarism provided brief biographical notes on the Edwards' victims. In the case of the deceased victims (about a half-dozen that we know), there's something deeply upsetting about seeing names, faces and bits about the plagiarized authors' lives. I think another writer, author of the Mind Meanderings in a blogpost titled "Silence is the Voice of Complicity," put it best with these words: "It was bad enough that she did this while giving neither credit not attribution to the true authors, most of them deceased writers whose works had fallen out of copyright — which, to me, reeks of grave-robbing." Indeed.

A third site to which I have been introduced through my new associations with the prior two is Teach Me Tonight, Musings on Romance Fiction from an Academic Perspective. This blog, written by Sarah S.G. Franz, Gwendolyn D. Pough, Pamela Regis, Sandra Schwab, E.M. Selinger and the above-mentioned Laura Vivanco, serves up a delightfully insightful, thought-provoking and well-written buffet of bon mots ranging from the deliciously esoteric through the abundantly fruitful to the frequently fecund---essays that reveal a depth of thought and the academics' eyes for detail and logic on a variety of subjects of interest to anyone who seriously intends to write Romance fiction and for anyone who enjoys reading good to great Romance fiction.

Oh, and don't forget the ferrets. If you go here, take a screenshot of your receipt and send it here---that way, Nora Roberts will have to cough up five grand in matching monies, and see, everyone will live happily ever after, unless of course you're a ferret-word ripper-offer.

To paraphrase a poster whose name I swear I cannot remember, you can't make this stuff up!

The Ethics of Authorship

I received a couple letters, yesterday, from The Romance Writers of America (RWA) that led me to find out about quite a furor and a half going on over at Smart Bitches Who Love Trashy Books, a very popular website of readers and writers of various Romance genre books. The Bitches have led many of their readers (including the wildly popular and successful Nora Roberts, herself a victim of plagiarism) to agree there really seems to be something to the allegations of abundant plagiarism in various works of Cassie Edwards, a writer of so-called "noble savage" type Romance books, whose 100th book will be published soon. She has written for Signet, Penguin and Dorchester, among others, and while the first response from one of the book publishers indicated the imprint felt Ms. Edwards "had done nothing wrong," a later statement by the same corporate entity indicated the publisher will be looking into the allegations.

(Update: Today, January 12, 2008, a day after I wrote the bulk of this blogpost, The New York Times covered the story in its Arts Section.)

When you go to the Smart Bitches web site, you'll see a listing on the right-hand side of the current blogpost called "Looking For the Cassie Edwards Articles?" I suggest you read the articles in order as it makes for a fascinating read. As well, it's a truly impromptu version of what crowd sourcing can do.

The Smart Bitches have done a rather masterful job of tracking down a large number of passages from Ms. Edwards' books, and in a PDF file worthy of academic research standards, the passages in Ms. Edwards' books are placed side-by-side with original source material, much of it out of copyright, which reveals, as The Bitches put it, "an eerie" similarity. They put it mildly at that point; later in their blog, it's clear that passages in the Edwards' books were lifted almost word-for-word from the original source material.

I suggest everyone who writes take a look at the PDF file, and report back to me! It's an amazing document.

Comment of my own: I don't need to know if something is copyright infringement, a legal designation, to know that it's plagiarism, an issue of theft, and thus ethics; however, if you read through all the comments over at the Bitches' site, you'll see a few people have allowed as how plagiarism might happen once or twice, by accident, but not a lot of times. I'm not sure I buy this. I know as a researcher, I read tons of material, and then I sit down to write a story using the information I have read, but not the words, not even a so-called paraphrasing of the words. The benefit-of-the-doubt people say that after of hours of research, it's hard to separate what you read from what you're going to write, that we're sponges, that we genuinely think what we've written is our own. I just wonder: How many of you have heard of a shoplifter who didn't know he was shoplifting? Probably no one.

Bay By Day, Bay By Night

Christmas Day, 2007.....A view of the San Francisco Bay. If you look closely, a third of the way up on the right side of the photo, you can see a length of the San Mateo Bridge, which connects the East Bay with the Peninsula. The day was truly glorious, warm, sunny and sparkling...and matched beautifully by the sunset, pictured below. A California Christmas from the bounty of the Bay, surrounded by family and friends...in person, on the phone and via the internet.

In Honor of the Writers & Bloggers of NaNoWriMo & NaBloPoMo

Tomorrow (or today, depending on when you read this), 30 November 2007 is the official end of NaNoWriMo and NaBloPoMo 2007. Although I did not participate in this year's event, I want to congratulate all the writers and bloggers who completed their commitment to write a novel in a month or blog every day for a month---and even those who tried but dropped out at various points during the month, for as many reasons as there are people.

It seems to me that these two events (and the wonderful Young Writers Program) is, at its most basic, a vehicle for writers to prove to themselves that they can make a commitment, fulfill it and share the joys, pains and fruits of their labor with a large community of fellow writers, cheerleaders and even detractors.

Beyond that, though, or perhaps before that, the people who participate in events like this possess something very special. It's more than a trait, more than a habit, even more than a virtue. It's a belief that something about life can be good, can be accomplished, and can be achieved by any person.

You might be a runner in a marathon, a person who gets a 3o-day achievement chip for staying clean and sober for thirty days, a person who cares for a sick, elderly or disadvantaged person or pet for a month, a kid who shows up for school when it seems like bullies and math are everywhere and friends are hard to find, or just someone who gets up in the morning and puts one foot in front of the other for another month of days when depression, anxiety, panic and fear are so compelling that staying in bed seems preferable to another day of pursuing some vague, distant, amorphous sliver of hope that there is a purpose to all of this, and more specifically, a personal purpose---to everyone who does anything for a month that celebrates their efficacious relationship with the world, whether or not they feel it or know it, I say: I admire you, I celebrate your achievement, I am inspired by you, and I wish you the best.

From my own experiences, I know that if one can do something for 30 days, one can do many, many things for far longer. This post is just a little applause we give you, and applause you ought to give yourself. We've been watching you, we know what you've done. It's as magnificent as the sunset in the high desert this evening, to which no photo can ever quite do justice.

Still, as these events draw to a close, this celebratory picture is offered to all of you who finished the month-long commitment. And to all who started but didn't finish, and to all who never started for fear of not finishing, and to all who could not fathom a reason to start or finish...it's never too late to reconsider, regroup, rededicate and realize the dreams some dared to desire....and I'm not just talking about NaBloPoMo or NaNoWriMo. But you knew that.

Happy Birthday MaryBelles!!!

Laguna Beach, CA---Nov. 13, 2007

According to reliable, unnamed sources, today is the 59th birthday of Mary Todd (pictured on the right), seen elsewhere on this blog signing off as Belles. On at least two occasions, she has posted a Blog post when she meant to post a Comment. Inasmuch as she, at that time, didn't know the difference between a Blog and a Post, never mind a blog post and a Comment, it was decided to leave her blog posts intact as they were most amusing!

Although Miss Todd joined her sister, T.T. Thomas and sister-in-law Karyn Pierce in the high desert for high dessert over this past weekend, she is apparently joining her friend Cathy for lunch in Laguna Beach today as it is their mutual birthday week, although that could be just an excuse for more cake. Mary's other sister, Elizabeth, and her niece Danielle, are no doubt calling to wish her a Happy Birthday as we post.

For her birthday, Mary insisted on "something practical" if anyone insisted on a gift. After a celebratory dinner at one of the local gourmet seafood establishments, located about 75 miles from the nearest ocean, reports are that Mary and her two hostesses whipped through Gottchalks Department Store like three small tornadoes, 10 minutes before closing time, which the women had originally and erroneously estimated to be an hour later. Mary wanted pillows. Two down-topped feather pillows and one feather bed later, the three women were escorted out of the department store by a man holding a big key, and possibly a weapon. He was not laughing, but Mary was.

Back at her home-away-from home, her high-desert casita, as it were, Mary settled in for a good movie and a lovely chocolate caked baked for her by Karyn. From scratch. Oh wait, scratch that---from the ever-lovely Betty Crocker, another family friend.

Now, early indications are that Miss Todd had a lovely weekend, and forgot all about getting older. Indeed, we believe she may have had a jolly good time. In short, she got to have her cake and eat it too! Happy Birthday, Mary, and may you have many, many more!

Finding Brenda Sue

It happened, more or less, like this: I left California and moved to New York, for the second time. I had lived on lst and 53rd in 1968-70, but neither that move nor the husband who came with it worked out so good. But I loved New York, and I was young enough and nuts enough to feel that I wasn't quite done doing the City thing. So I talked the owners of the public relations company I worked for into opening a New York office to serve a couple clients I had acquired for them, and, oh by the way, I'll run that office for you!

It's important to know that I had no friends in New York. I knew a few people---is two a few?---who I'd met at trade conventions (in Chicago) when they were working for trade papers and I was trying to get them to cover my various clients' products. I was a pretty good match for the reporters because I, too, had been a reporter and editor for a few trade papers, mostly covering the consumer electronics industry. I can't remember how it all happened, but one of the two people with whom I had a passing acquaintance knew somebody who knew somebody who had a friend who was looking for a roommate. It sounded less than ideal for someone who hadn't seriously called anyone I lived with a "roommate" for nearly 15 years. But this was to be a real roommate. I vaguely remember procrastinating about calling her, and as the time for my departure neared, I was more concerned with how to get my brand new white Corvette to Manhattan since I was flying. I got that sorted out with a friend in California who needed a free ride to New York and a Corvette sounded more than OK. I did worry about what condition the car would arrive in, but as time would prove, I should have had my head examined for bringing such a vehicle into that city.

And then my phone rang. She spoke with a drawl, but it wasn't quite Southern. It was that familiar twang/drawl that my relatives on my father's side talked with. My mother usually called them "them." Actually, the whole scenario would go like this: "He" (my father) came from "them" and "you" (me) came from "him," and "...quite frankly, you're all alike." I could never be certain, but I'd be hesitant to call it a compliment.

Anyway, I loved that drawl, and it belonged to someone who introduced herself by two names. Two first names. Just like all my cousins...the ones from "them."

"Hi there, it's Brenda Sue, how the hell you doing? I've heard all about you, and it's all good!"

Clearly, she had not heard all about me or she wouldn't sound so cheery. But I liked her enthusiasm.

A week later, I took the cab into the City from JFK airport and felt the growing excitement as we neared Brenda Sue's brownstone. Well, it wasn't hers, but she had two floors of it, and it was in a "good" neighborhood on 76th Street near Riverside Drive. The first thing I noticed was that all the cars were double parked, and it didn't look like "for just a minute" while the driver ran into one of the buildings to pick something up. These cars were lights-out-doors-locked-honk-if- you-need-to-get-out parked. The front of the brownstone, which was actually a red stone brick I think, was gorgeous. The owners, a young upwardly mobile couple who lived on the first floor, had renovated the building beautifully. On the outside. I got out of the cab, looked up the stoop at the handsome front door, and was still staring at the door when I realized the cabbie had driven away. That's when I realized the First Law of New York: Do not tip until your bags are inside the door.

I rang the bell and Brenda Sue answered back through the intercom. "I'll be right down!" she drawled. About 10 minutes later, she threw open the front door, gave me a big hug and said "Welcome, home!"

Somewhere on the landing of the third floor, after I had said, "How many more flights?" about three times, she smiled and said, "We have the whole fourth and fifth floor!" I'm sure my gratitude was more muted than I intended as I lugged two huge suitcases up the stairs. Brenda Sue was a half flight ahead of me with two more.

It was a great apartment, and I have many, many happy memories from that period in my life. Brenda was a great roommate, a wonderful person and just the best person to know in New York. She was a tall, willowy blonde with a perpetual grin. We had a few escapades together in New York and tore that town up pretty good on more than one occasion. Not that anyone can remember the details, mind you. Oh well, there is one story that would probably be better left in the underground morass of memories that ought not to be let loose, but it shows who Brenda was...and is.

I got it into my head that I liked my neighbor across the street, an Israeli woman with a live-in girlfriend. I had met them within a few weeks after moving in because everyone socializes from a starting point on one's stoop. If you don't have a stoop, you don't let it stop you. People without a stoop just wander into the streets and come over to your stoop to get to know you. So, anyway, against all my better judgment, better judgment not always having been my strong point, I decided that since this heartthrob was taken, I'd at least send her a Valentine, just something nice.

I can't recall when the brilliant idea hit me, but at some point I thought maybe sending a Valentine card in the mail wouldn't be the most discreet thing to do, so I came up with something more original. I went home and told Brenda. She looked at me like I was crazy, but the next day she materialized with the reference books I needed.

We made the sign, in Hebrew, and the only thing left was to convince the brownstone owners to hang this big banner outside their front window because our fourth and fifth floor walk up was in the back of the building, and Dafna (that was her name) was in the lower front of the building across the street. Everyday Dafna sat at that window and had coffee---no way would she miss the sentiment. Brenda said she'd handle the details about hanging the sign with the owners.

We spent the evening painting "Happy Valentine's Day to Someone Special" in Hebrew. The banner was some kind of white cloth, and the printing was, naturally, bright red. We didn't exactly find that greeting in one reference book, but we found all the words individually and just strung them together. I was so excited to imagine Dafna's complete look of surprise when she had her coffee the next morning. As soon as the paint dried, I was ready to take the banner to the owner's apartment. Brenda Sue said, "Uh, why don't I go talk to them first, for a minute."

Turns out she forgot to ask them if we could hang this big honking Hebrew sign outside their front window, but she didn't want to spoil my evening, so she hadn't said anything. Somehow, though, she did talk the owners into hanging the sign, but it was very windy that evening, so they said they'd hang it first thing in the morning. Where were the hooks? Hooks? All we had was masking tape.

"Well I don't know what this thing says," said the husband, "but if it's important, you better have some way of hanging it out our window. It's not going to cause a riot is it?"

Brenda looked at my face and said, "I have just the thing, upstairs. I'll bring it back down. C'mon, let's go, T., and thanks you guys. Let's go T!"

I backed out the door assuring him there'd be no riot. Boy was I wrong.

The next morning the sun was shining and the wind was blowing 50 m.p.h. I couldn't wait to get dressed, get ready for work and go outside to walk up to West End Avenue to catch my cab. My plan was to just casually wave and smile at the person in the window across the street. As I opened the front door, a gust of wind took my neck scarf and wrapped it around my head about three times. I couldn't see a thing, but as I stepped out the front door, I heard the flapping overhead. I pulled down the scarf, and there, hanging perpendicular to the window, instead of horizontally across the front of the building was my Hebrew handwriting. Well, it wasn't quite the presentation I had hoped for, but it was still neat. I walked down the stairs of the stoop, and when I got to the bottom, I couldn't resist. I looked across the street and into the window. I believe my eyes crossed and my knees buckled because there, standing at the window, holding a cup of coffee and bending her head sideways as if to read upside down was Dafna's "friend," the live in. Unbeknownst to me, Dafna had come down with the sniffles and didn't want to sit too close to the window for fear of catching the draft. So the bent neck was reading the banner to her. How could she read it? Easy---also unbeknownst to me, she was taking Hebrew classes.

I heard later tha Dafna spilled her hot coffee all over her nice warm cuddly pajamas while she was trying to come up with some reason the neighbors would hang a sign to "someone special" out their front window. "I thought that couple was married with a baby," the bent neck said to Dafna. "Who's the special person?" Evidently Dafna shrugged and muttered something about the mother-in-law. Dafna and bent neck broke up a couple years later, and I'm pretty sure my slapstick comedy of errors had nothing whatsoever to do with it.

And then I moved back to California, and later Brenda Sue moved to San Diego, and we talked on the phone quite a bit but we could never pull off that free couple days to go visit one another. Then Brenda moved back east, and I got some emails and I sent some. One day I got an email telling me that somewhere in her Fifties, she had finally graduated from college and got her degree. She also sent out an email to me and a half dozen others asking us not to send her any downloads because her computer was made in Jurassic Park. And thank g-d she sent that email.

I can't even tell you what, besides the living of life, happened, but one day I sent Brenda Sue an email, and it came back Unknown Name. I tried to call the last phone number I had, and, nothing. I knew that I had moved, that all my phone numbers had changed, and that Brenda didn't know where I was either. I got busy again, and another couple years passed, when I had another of my brilliant ideas. Hire a plane to fly over West Virginia with a banner that said "Brenda Sue Call Me!" In English of course. Just kidding. I decided to send an email to all the people Brenda had asked not to send her downloads. I apologized for the imposition and asked if any of them knew where Brenda was and how I could find her. Three or four wrote back and said they were trying to find her, too. It was decided that whoever heard from her first, let the others know.

The thing about Brenda is that she has this great, big, huge heart. When those fires erupted a couple weeks ago, she left a message with an old friend of hers in San Diego. Last night, that friend wrote to me, saying, "Brenda has been found! Phew!" She gave me her number, and I called Brenda today.

The last year or so, Brenda Sue has seen her share of difficulties, with both her and her Mom suffering some debilitating effects of a couple bad falls. Brenda is not able to work, and she is the original worker bee, so not being able to has been depressing and demoralizing for her. "Let's put it this way," she said, when I agreed she's had a tough year, "the whole last decade has pretty much sucked."

I've been there, too. When Brenda lived in San Diego, the highlight of my day was going to the grocery store. I was depressed. I was demoralized. I was diminished, and I couldn't tell you why. Oh I could have done he said/she said....but it was all so much more than that, and so much less. For me the cure came in the form of a very willful Pug named Charlie Girl.

No, I probably won't be shipping a Pug to Brenda, but I just want her to know that I've always thought of her as a survivor, I've always loved her happy countenance, her wry sense of humor, and that dimpled grin. I promised to entertain her with some pages from the book I'm writing because she's always been a great big fan and supporter of mine. But until I get some time to choose what I want to send her, I thought I'd just send her this post.

Everyone: Say hi to Brenda Sue---I found her, and I intend to keep track of her.

Driving Through the Smoke

So far, everyone here is OK. We're staying alert, and Fire Marshall Margaret is on the job! Count on it!

Still, it's very unnerving to have this much land up in flames and smoke. We live in an area that is known for it's almost daily strong winds---the wind usually comes up in the afternoon and stays around for a couple hours. But the Santa Ana condition that is tearing down the mountain passes and canyons is a ferocious, erratic and hot wind. It can calm down to nothing in the wink of an eye, then stir itself up to 80 m.p.h. swirls in the next blink. My windshield cracked from the force of small road debris being hurled at 75 m.p.h down the canyon I was travelling up at 70 m.p.h.

Santa Clarita is about 32 miles and across some 3200-foot mountains from the Antelope Valley where we live. The area that burned today near Stevenson Ranch and Magic Mountain is only about 20 miles from us.

Mutts & Moms But No Moms with Kids Under 14: I'm So Mad About Iggy I Could Cry!

OK, I'll admit it right off the bat: I love dogs (and cats), I think Ellen DeGeneres is fabulous, and as Karyn and my sisters and some of my friends from 35 years ago can tell you, I am a MAJOR crybaby. I cry. I shed tears at the slightest thing, or, sometimes, it seems, for no reason at all. (Of course, there is, actually, always a reason.) ::shrug::

I saw the clip from Ellen's show today, Tuesday, 16 October. Then I did some more research on this Mutts & Moms group. Then I saw another clip with Ellen explaining how it all happened, and I got so mad I couldn't even cry, so I decided to write a letter to Mutts & Moms.

I don't know if the email address I have is correct. I certainly don't agree with anyone who makes death threats to anyone at Mutts & Moms, or does anything unlawful, or hurts their business, but I do think it's OK to express some absolute outrage. And OK, I did call them stupid. That wasn't nice. I'm sorry. Pretty much. So, here's my letter:

Hello, Mutts & Moms,

I wonder if you've considered the utter irony of a nonprofit organization called Mutts & Moms not allowing adoption by moms who have children under 14. Ellen DeGeneres acknowledged her mistake and apologized for it, on national TV, no less. And yet, Mutts & Moms, in a curiously astounding blast of poor judgment, really, really bad public relations and publicity, and a hard-line "following of policies" has (1) removed a well-taken care of puppy from a good home, (2) caused the children and parents in that family a great deal of grief, and (3) Mutts & Moms (its owner) has been unrelentingly unkind, inflexible and, may I say it, so stunningly righteous that you're going to show one of the most popular and beloved American icons, Ellen, that no good deed goes unpunished and no amount of her celebrity status is going to cause you to reverse your decision NO MATTER WHAT DOG IT SAVES!

So, yes, your policies are most curious, but your discriminatory double-standard is going to ensure that this State takes a much closer look at nonprofit organizations that claim humane treatment of animals while acting like blithering idiots to the very humans who were supporting your original cause. So she broke a part of the contract----can you not make an amendment, or make an exception, or better yet, review your policies about not letting families with children under 14 adopt a pet for which there previously HAD BEEN NO LOVING HOME! Is any of this getting through to you....anything at all? Or leave Ellen and her partner, Portia DeRossi, out of this completely (as they suggested), and re-give Iggy to Ruby and her family because they love that dog!

I'm afraid it's starting to sound as though you can't leave Ellen and her partner out of it, that your objections regarding Iggy are more personal, more related to other objections, but, really, I hope not. Let me say it differently: Given that you surely must know that thousands of dogs are dumped on roads, left in deserts, mistreated with neglect and indifference, unloved and abandoned to sickness, disease and usually death, then one has to ask: Based on what possible standard of ethics, humane treatment of animals and compassion, nevermind logic, could you possibly justify your actions?

I really want to know.

Checking in...

to say that I have been sooooo busy the past month, I've not blogged. My favorite real estate agent, excuse me, Realtor, has sent me five emails wailing and whining about nothing new to read on the blog. So now she's more addicted to me than Perez Hilton. (Did I win or lose?) Of course she could sign in under whatever name she wants (I'm thinking something like LocationLocationLocation). OK, well, maybe not.

I want to blog, really I do, but I'm writing an historical romance. Well, that's not exactly it, either. I mean I am writing a novel, but that's not really getting in the way of blogging. I just don't have the time to get into anything in depth...I mean if you want in depth, go to Robin's blog . Lately she's trying to drive me mad with a HUGE compilation of the stuff you need to know about what to do with a book when you finish writing it. Reading Robin, for me, is not unlike constantly chasing this great, big, orange carrot. I want Robin to be my agent...oh wait, I have to finish the book first. But really, if you're writing a book or know someone who is (besides me, I mean), send them to Robin's site for her 10-part series...maybe it's 12 parts. It's good. Right now Robin is serving as my all-volunteer editor. I got the newest version of MS Word, and I send her 75 pages and she sends them back all marked up in red and blue and green notations that say things like "I demand a rewrite," and "What, really, does this mean?" I cannot believe she makes me rewrite the passage until it sounds like the gorgeous thing I meant it to be. I'll tell ya, these volunteers are brutal. And commas....I am a comma addict, and Robin is allergic to them. I think they are elegant, she thinks they are preposterous dots with unseemly little tails. ::sigh:: I'm so lucky...and I love my life (and all the commas I can fit in it!)

Anyway, if things keep going as they are, I might even get a finished book out of this!

Testing 1, 2, 3...testing 1, 2, 3

BUT DID YOU EVER GET TO B&N?

I must say, I've lost my phone (usually out of my ever opened purse), I've left it behind (usually at one of my sister's) and once in an immature outburst of temper I broke one by deliberately throwing it on the floor)! But never, no, never, have I put it in my washer and/or dryer! I wish I'd been there to see the look on K's face!
As for your experience at AT&T, if I have to take up raising homing pigeons to reach out and touch someone, by God I'll do that before I ever enter an AT&T store again. It is the very definition of emotional trauma!!#&*@?!$ I don't think that's an actual website but isn't it precious how it came up in blue? So, I'm still somewhat confused (you doooo recall I'm the slow one) as to what "phone," if it can even be called that, you actually now possess and whether you can be reached at the same number -- or will I be greeted with music and movie download propositions which end with "To reach this party, YOU must use an iPhone too?!!!
So, my beloveds, there are untold numbers of topics I could write about today - Bush, health insurance, housing issues, the homeless, the helpless and Bush. But the digits on my upper extremities are reaching their limit, so instead I'll call you and give you all those numbers that were washed away in the rinse cycle!!!! You two are sooooooo darling.

Wells, Cargo, and Person Voted Least Likely to Get an iPhone

The day began innocently enough: I was to run to Wells Fargo, make a deposit, get some cash and hand it over to Ms Karyn so she could do the shopping errands. I shudda known, I shudda known! She was casually listing the stops she would make, none of which I wished to visit (TJ Maxx, Ross, Trader Joe's, and maybe Tuesday Morning). Each of those places exist to make me carsick, I'm sure of it. In a casual gesture of what I was later to call "brilliance," she threw out the hook. "And maybe Barnes & Nobles, if there's time."

I love book stores. She knows it. It was hardly an even match. Suddenly I was interested in the errands, figuring, wrongly, that we would zoom through the worst of the retail establishments in record time, ending on that Barnes and Noble note I so covet. I threw on my cargo shorts, a shirt and some comfortable shoes. Because we were going to be gone a while, I turned on my phone and put it into one of the 34 pockets most cargo pants have.

Four hours later, bedraggled and bereft of anything resembling energy, I stripped off my clothing and took a much needed nap. Karyn, mysteriously energized by her shopping, decided to forego the nap and do a a few loads of laundry. A couple hours later I awoke all refreshed and reached for my cargo shorts. Gone. Hmmm. They only had four hours of tread wear---why not get some more mileage out of them? I'm flexible, though, so I put on some tennis shorts and went in search of my cell phone to make a few calls. Gone. I called out for help."Have you seen those shorts I had on when we went out?"

"What's wrong with the ones you're wearing?" she asked. "Nothing," I explained, "but they don't have my cell phone in the pocket."

You know the look: startled dear in the headlights. She ran to the laundry room, well, we both did, but she actually moved knobs and dials to stop the washer. (Why? Because I don't actually know how; not surprisingly, we never have arguments about the universal TV remote, either, because she's the only one who knows how it works.) She reached in, pulled out the cargo shorts and kept repeating the mantra, "I checked the pockets, I'm sure of it."

In pocket number 27, the thoroughly washed cellphone materialized. It was very clean, and very dead. Now this exact thing happened to her own phone--the free phone we got with the expensive one--several months earlier. She pulled hers out of the dryer, though, and it worked just fine. No such luck with my phone. Maybe we should have put it through the dryer.

I traipsed down to the one store I hate more than all others: AT&T phone center. I see the pretty pictures all over the wall for the new iPhone. I make a snap decision: I'll take one. Fire it up for me. Uh, no, sorry ma'am, no can do. To use the phone, one must plug it into the computer, activate it though iTunes, sync it with all the music we never figured out how to put on the iPod, attach one's bookmarks, integrate one's email addresses, assign special ringtones to special names, etc., etc. It's important to remember here that I am the one who doesn't know how to turn off the clothes washer, doesn't know how to use the TV remote and failed miserably at my earlier attempt to upload a movie onto this blog.

We had no success trying to activate the phone on my PC, but, fortunately, Karyn has an iMac. It was a breeze. ("Gee," she said, "this would be a neat phone for me, since everything I have is Apple.") [Oh, I really don't think so.] Anyway, we're still working out the finer points of this remarkable piece of technology. They "gave" me (price: $15, what a rip!) a flash thing with all my phone numbers, supposedly taken off the SIM card in my clean, dead old phone. We'll soon find out if I still have your phone number.

I mention all this because during the activation process, I was assured that if I had any old voicemail, it would be history, irretrievable, kaput, dead as the old phone. So, if you called me, any time after Thursday, I don't know it. If you don't hear from me, the flash card didn't work, and I don't have your phone number. If a year passes without word from me, check out the AT&T store. I'm there, in a long line, buying a cheap phone with two buttons: dial and answer. No Internet, no photos, no bookmarks, no voicemail, no email, no music, no YouTube and...no problem.

OMG - THAT FIRE!

So my sister (aka OPINIONHEAD) always has remarked about my remarkable slowness of movement re: ... well, nearly everything. I was horrified to discover this morning (Friday, 9-7-07) just exactly how RIGHT the DIRECTOR is. Here I thought I was being smart and clever in posting to this blog (more like sending an e-mail through this blog) about THE FIRE IN ACTON, seriously believing I was totally CURRENT in my affairs - hahahaha. Well, so today I get back on this blog (aka Lola's Lounge) and really start reading all postings going back to early this summer and, lo and behold, I realize THE FIRE she was most recently referring to was, for all intents and purposes, in her own back yard!!!!!!!!!!!!

For all who don't know me yet, all seven of you, I truly am a turtle. I really, really believe I was a turtle in my past life, I'm merely a turtle living in human form in this life, and will most likely continue to be a turtle forever. But that I was so far behind that I didn't even know the beautiful desert hillside I once hiked (slooooooooooowly), looking for rocks (yes, rocks) for Ms. Pierce's garden had gone up in smoke -- well, it's so god-awful humiliating that I must lay myself down on the hopefully merciful pages of this fabulous blog and beg for forgiveness for my slooooooooowness.

Bless sweet Ruby for getting the Pugs out so fast - so very like her. But just a reminder, K, you have not been released for duty as volunteer firewoman yet, so take her easy, girl.

And as for D, hope that's anonymous enough, tell her I said hello, or I'll tell her hello myself if she checks into Opinionhead, and gently remind her that while she IS part of Lola's extended family (30 years, blah, blah, blah, yada, yada, yada), I WAS THERE FIRST!!!! Just kidding, D, I would not want you to put the safety of you and your family in the hands of anyone OTHER THAN MY WONDERFUL OPINIONHEAD.

So with all good intentions in mind, and realizing Robin probably has no clue what I'm talking about, I'll slooooooooooooooowly say good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, hugs and kisses, bye, see 'ya soon, I'll call, call, bouyi Ruby, miss you, bye, talk soon (er or later.) Bye.
TURTLE

Location, Location: My Real Estate Agent

A person who has been my friend for over 30 years recently sent me an email from her vacation quarters in Maui. The headline on the email was “Blog This.” She sent a picture of herself enjoying the tropical paradise and ended on a note that sounded alarmingly like “You have a blahhhhhg? Get a life!”

Anyway, I can’t mention her name ‘cause she’s this big deal real estate person in town (estates, celebrity properties and other hovels starting at about $2 Million, although, given the current state of real estate in Southern California, she’ll probably write and ask me to mention her name).

So, long story short, she wants a deal on a couple Mercedes. Regrettably, she realized that after she sent the ‘blog this’ missive, or was it dismissive? First thing she does upon returning to the Mainland is call and ask me for my blog link, which she ‘lost.’ (I wish to point out here that while I did come to this country on the grand ship Queen Mary, it was not yesterday). But I sent her the link, again, anyway. 30 years, yada, yada, yada.

I get another call. “You’re the funniest person in the world,” says she. Uh huh. Then the third call comes in. After blatantly using appeals to my ego and her grown son, his wife and even their new baby, Dylan, as bait (safety for the kids, safety for the grandkid, you’re the only one we trust, my god has it really been 30 years, how’s your Princess? Teddy the Pug is absolutely adorable, blah, blah, blah) she wants to know could she have the “family” deal on a couple a sleds. (Uh, it's called the Employee Program, but she knows the power of family in my world.) “We” wanna keep the payment low, “we” need extra miles on the lease, can “we” get in for less than zero, and oh by the way, what colors do you have for “us.”

I got your basic wee wee yellow and dog poo brown. Will that work?

HAHAHAHA…just kidding. 30 years, blah, blah, blah. I did, however, take a certain perverse satisfaction when Ms. BlogThis called me today and started talking tornados, fire, and wind storms. I’m telling you---you get people talking about the weather and next thing you know they’re driving a Mercedes!

My favorite Realtor, who happens to be one of my best friends, can have anything I'm selling, for below wholesale, and she knows it. 30 years is a long time---heck I remember when the 'kid' with her grandkid was in diapers. Or was that his sister who was in diapers? I loved Ms. BlogThis' parents, bless their souls, I know her brothers and their families, her partner and all her children. I love 'em all, and they are a big part of what makes up what I call my family. It's all good.

We're not in Peoria, anymore, Toto!

(Antelope Valley) 2 September 2007

According to the National Weather Service, two small tornadoes touched down briefly, yesterday, a few miles from this writer's residence. It was, however, old news to Karyn R. Pierce, Weather Deputy. (Although I am known by the earlier mentioned Fire Marshall Margaret [a rarely used first name], I am also known as Weather Commander Margaret; obviously I was required to deputize Ms. Pierce so that she could assume full responsibility for recording the changes in weather when I am not around). She fulfilled her duties admirably, yesterday, and tried to capture the events on the video herein. (Not herein)

As Ms. Pierce tells it, she was on her way to the screen room in our backyard with a big glass of iced tea and the portable telephone. Planning to cool off and call me at the same time, she reached up to unlock the screen room doors, when a sudden and powerful series of short gusts of wind blew the entire contents of the desert into her glass of iced tea, or so it seemed. The gusts ended as quickly as they had begun, Ms. Pierce fed her tea to the thirsty Lobelia, and turned to go back in the house to get a fresh glass of tea.

As she looked toward the east, she could see that a dark and threatening sky had materialized, a rainbow was lying sideways in the sky and two dark plumes of swirling clouds appeared on the horizon. Pierce grabbed her camera, shooed the dogs indoors, forgot about the tea and recorded about a minute and a half of what turned out to be two small tornadoes, that touched down about 5 miles from our home. Unfortunately, I'm unable to upload the video. When I get that figured out, you'll see a couple flashes of lightening and two down shafts of dark clouds. As Ms. Pierce had no script, and certainly didn't expect to see her efforts uploaded to the world-wide web (as if more than 7 people even read this blog!), she has requested that readers try to ignore her play-by-play during this dramatic event, which shouldn't be hard for you as you won't be seeing her movie.

Shortly after this film that you can't see was shot, Director Pierce noticed that the television had gone off, as had the air conditioner and all other appliances. She put the portable phone down, fired up her cell phone and called this writer to give her the official weather report. This is the director's first video, and she reluctantly allowed me to post it here, despite serious misgivings about its quality. What she ought to have had misgivings about was my inability to get the thing on the blog! Nevertheless, I applaud her effort and encourage Deputy Pierce to "keep up the good work" with her Brownie...er, Canon.

Although I grew up in Illinois...Peoria, actually, tornadoes were a seasonal fact of life on the prairies. But, regrettably, I never actually saw one as they were always landing in nearby places like Galesburg and Farmington and other towns where I had relatives I rarely saw either. Still, I envied them their weather experiences.

Meanwhile, as exciting as the tornadoes were yesterday, on a local basis, I read about an odd one recently. A tornedo-warmed, bat-eating supercell over an area in South Texas caught some free-tailed bats by surprise as they took their evening constitution, March 19, 2006. About a 100 million bats live in the limestone condo caves on the Edwards plateau. Every late afternoon and evening they swarm in the skies for a massive insect buffet.

On this particular evening, they apparently did not realize a severe thunderstorm had formed in Mexico, about 60 nautical miles to the Southwest. As the weather crossed the Rio Grande, it struck rich soil and instability and began to rotate. It then made a right turn and headed precisely toward the lower end of the bat swarm. Radar from Del Rio documented both the storm and the bat swirl. Bats on radar appear as expanding rings or donuts in the sky as the tiny mammals fly straight up and then outward from their caves.

As the NOAA Storm Prediction Center observed, it's hard to imagine many thousands of bats didn't fail to return home that night. For those that were lucky enough to escape the vortex of the storm, they probably went to bed car sick and hungry. But what a tale to tell the grandkids!See this neat radar image and more details of the story from the Storm Prediction Center .

Whether or not you enjoy weather stories, you have to admit, the weather is definitely changing on this planet. While many of us have experienced our own personal global warming, from time to time, the changes taking place on earth are clearly momentous and deserving of our attention and best efforts.

Oh, and we had an earthquake this morning. It was only a 4.7, and it was nearly 50 miles from where we live, but it does nothing to ameliorate my recently acquired case of "bridge anxiety,"--a hopefully temporary condition in which one is scared to death to cross bridges and go over or under freeway passes that rival the Micky D arches for vertigo-inspiring panic. Or is it panic-inspired vertigo?

And finally, tonight, the mountainous terrain in the Angeles National Forest, not far from the small ranch community of Acton, was up in flames again. This area is about 10 miles from us, but the smoke blew into our Valley with a vengeance. I could see 50-foot flames from the freeway. Nearby Soledad Canyon Road, at the bottom of the Soledad Canyon was the detour route a few weeks ago when the Agua Dulce Fire closed the Antelope Valley Freeway.

I have to ask my friend Robin about that videoblog stuff, and see if she notices how terribly calm I remained upon realizing that the video, for which this entire entry was written, then re-rewritten, then really re-written, was, at the end of a very long day, unseen by all who read here. I'd like to thank all seven of you for your patience. (*;#=+%$#&*).

Too Close for Comfort

QUICK WORK by Antelope Valley's Best


The photo on the left was published in yesterday's Antelope Valley News, and then Rancho Vista area homeowner, and my better half, Karyn Pierce got a shot of the cleanup crew, on the right. I was at work, so I missed the entire thing. Still, my frequent fire drill training (Karyn has been known to call me Fire Marshall Margaret, a rarely used first name) for my family, although ultimately not needed, was enacted with nearly 100% fulfillment. Karyn rushed both Pugs into her car (not an easy task), drove down the street a ways, and left the dogs in the car (with plenty of air) while she ran back to the house to see how she could help. Our garden hoses were not necessary, as the fire crew quickly got control of the 30-ft. high flames, which burned less than half an acre. What you can't see is that another 25 acres of the same terrain run up and across the hills next to our house, which is the last house before the desert. The wrought iron fence you see in the picture on the right separates our back yard from the neighbor's yard. Early reports indicate the cause was kids playing with matches. Ms. Pierce was in the house, on the phone with her Mother, when she saw the smoke wafting across our back yard. She had to get off the phone from Mom to call 911, throw on some clothes, and get the dogs and herself out of the house. Happily, no one was hurt, the wild desert animals appeared to have made it to higher ground, and the fire was kept small by an outstanding Fire Department.

Too Stupid: Putting Your New Shoes in Your Own Mouth (and later deciding they aren't very tasty: Update at the end)

The notion of murder and madness as entertainment and murder and madness in the name of religious furor, fever and foment is nothing new. So it should come as no surprise that this guy considers dog fighting to the death a sport and Michael Vick a victim...of running with the wrong crowd. Americans spend billions to watch millionaire sports figures pursue their fame and infamy on and off the courts, the fields, the tracks and the high seas. We watch them maim and kill one another, and some of them watch dogs maul each other to death. Does seeing horrific injuries and death as a sport depend on where one is, or thinks one is, on the food chain? This is not a new problem in the history of man. The Romans threw Christians to the lions, and thousands cheered. Was it sport or religion or both? A masked man in Iraq poured gasoline on a child, and created this in the name of religion.

As America continues to open the doors to a global economy, a global culture clash becomes more clear, and we are witness to the lines between good and evil and right and wrong becoming blurrier. Dog fighting in this country has been taking place "behind closed doors." The Taliban was terrorizing women behind closed doors, too. Our political leadership in this country has made some huge decisions, on our behalf, behind closed doors. It's not the closed doors that make something intrinsically good or evil, right or wrong; it is, in fact, the act itself that is taking place behind closed doors. Killing dogs, maiming children, dying from so-called friendly fire or perishing when your helicopter falls out of the sky from either enemy fire or electro-mechanical malfunctioning all have something in common: dead is dead and maiming is maiming. All are happening in the name of sport, entertainment, religion, power and money.

An athlete with everything to lose, who is out hawking his new line of sneakers, takes the side of the wrong crowd---the crowd that includes Michael Vick. What can we as individuals do? Boycott his sneakers? Shout out our indignation at his position? Call for his early retirement? He simply has a different opinion, right? Guess what: sometimes the other guy's opinion becomes morally and ethically reprehensible and unsupportable when he decides to put that new shoe in his own mouth.

A President, who barely edged out his competition (or not), spends his entire time in office forcing democracy (why yes, yes it is a contradiction in terms!) down other people's throats, while his country's bridges are falling, his highways are crumbling and his people are starving for health, education and safety from terrorists within and without. Am I talking about President George W. Bush or Prime Minister Nouri al-Maliki? You tell me.

UPDATE: And a little later in the day, Marbury starts to take it all back...almost.

Please pass the Spam

Don't blame me. Mike started this game:

Name four jobs you’ve had.

Name four favorite foods.

Name four places you’ve lived.

Name four places you’d rather be right now.

A Rousing Good Discussion

A good discussion on the subject of Compassion is taking place over on my friend Robin Mizell's blog, and I jumped right in. Go take a look. I think it's an important topic because somewhere between caring and caring and helping is a territory we suspect has landmines because we've all almost lost a foot going through the territory...except when the result was that we were able to lend a hand. Go take a look, post something, or just enjoy the read.

Vents, Fans and Hot Air Ducts

A place for my readers to express themselves on any subject not included in the semi-regular blogposts.

Desert Sage and Venus.
Photo by T.T. Thomas

Prince of Pugs

His name is Teddy Valentine, because February 14 was when he came to live with us. Born on Christmas, Teddy was a heartthrob the minute we laid eyes on him. Full of personality, a soft, cute muzzle, big, brown beautiful eyes and a, um, less than perfect pug tail, he came with a fully sharpened complement of baby teeth, an ability to sleep when everyone else does, and a deliciously sensuous languidness that makes you want to invade his space and hug and kiss him and cuddle coo him like the little prince he was born to be.......until, in a burst of energetic ha-ha-ha-HAH, he runs behind you, pell-mell, takes a flying leap and bites you in the a...ah, yes, there. He receives numerous timeouts toward the end of the day, as being overtired apparently causes his ungracious behavior. The timeouts seem not to work. Treats will assuage his rambunctiousness, but won't cure it. He does what he wants, this Prince of Pugs. It's a dog's life, as well it should be!

Photo By Karyn R. Pierce

Tangerine Sky in the High Desert...California

The Antelope Valley, about 60 miles north of Los Angeles has some of the most beautiful topography and skies in the West. A valley surrounded by two mountain ranges, The San Gabriels and The Tehachapi, the Antelope Valley has clear skies, warm winds and breathtaking vistas.

Although a politically uber-conservative enclave for many years, the two main cities of Palmdale and Lancaster are embracing diversity with both a yelp and a whimper. The bumper crop of savvy and sophisticated transplants from "down below" (the very smoggy Los Angeles basin) are doing their part to persuade by example, and the result is that Palmdale, especially, offers a growing upscale quality of life, recreation, jobs, and shopping---with all the freedom and privacy normally associated with a more rural locale.

A national publication recently named Palmdale the Top Place to Retire in the country. Homes and land are still affordable, the shuttle can land at nearby Edwards AFB, and word has it that Palmdale International Airport will ultimately become the favored alternative to the busy and overcrowded Los Angeles International Airport (LAX). Ok, so, with United Airlines currently the only airline (but, offering flights to many destinations) ...it could take a while for Palmdale to become the departures and arrivals airport of choice for the beautiful people. So? Even Paradise has its growth pains.

Photo By T.T. Thomas

Talk About Your Loose Canon (sic)!!!

I was amused to read that Cardinal Renato Martino, a kind of General Peter Pace of the Pope's Posse, has issued a 10 Commandments for Drivers, officially called "Guidelines for the Pastoral Care of the Road." Martino heads up the Vatican office of migrants and itinerants, most of whom, one could argue, probably don't drive much, so the Pastoral Care guidelines were...at the very least, a bit out of Martino's daily bailiwick. But those kinds of details never stopped The Church from issuing proclamations.

You can read the whole story here, but what caught my eye, immediately was Commandment Number 5.

"Cars shall not be used for an expression of power and domination, and an occasion of sin."

Obviously, there could be some muddling of the new and old Commandments. Number 5 of the original 10 Commandments for ye who have lapsed or otherwise forgot is "Thou Shalt Not Kill," for Catholics and Lutherans, although for Jews Number 5 is "Honor Thy Mother and Father," with murder being relegated to Number 6. Not surprisingly, Number 6 for Catholics is "Thou Shalt Not Commit Adultery"---but all that is no doubt another subject for another day.

Although I am a big fan of the original Commandment Number 5, I am thinking that it's far too late for me to adhere to the New Number 5, noted above. And the issuance of a whole new 10 Commandments for Driving may be just a bit disingenuous on the part of the Vatican---not, mind you, that this would ever preclude Vatican equivocation on any subject. I submit two facts of history to support my contention.

First, Pope John Paul's PopeMobile was a Mercedes ML, retrofitted a bit for the protective bubble, of course; I have a Mercedes too; I'm sure his was not meant to be an expression of power and domination, and, naturally, neither is mine. I drive my Turbo VW Bug for that. (::eyeroll:: as my niece says).

Secondly, if the automobile were not an historically significant "occasion of sin" none of us would know much about...sex. Certainly those of us who were raised Catholic, as I was, wouldn't know much. But...I do! First kiss? 1954 Mercury 2-door hardtop coupe in Parklane Green with Turquoise Blue/Arctic White interior. First, significant petting? 1962 Chevrolet Impala SS hardtop, burgundy. First, uh, advance party exploratory mission? 1963 Mustang, coupe, sunrise yellow with black interior. First Time in a car....I beg your pardon! I had a little more discretion than that when the big day arrived. By the way, does anyone remember: was it Howard Johnson's Motor Lodges that had the brown and orange color scheme, or was that....?

Martino also suggested prayer while driving and even pointed to the rosary as a good past time because its "rhythm and gentle repetition does not distract the driver's attention." I beg to differ! The Rosary, if said properly, is fifty, count 'em, Hail Marys and a few other prayers that will lead even the holiest among us to fall asleep at the droning "rhythm and gentle repetition," thus causing us to crash our cars and create all manner of havoc.

The thing is, if you grew up in the Midwest, in the '50's and '60's, as I did, you are going to be into and know your cars, generally speaking. Although your first driving experience may have been on your grandparent's farm, on a John Deere, your second driving experience was probably with your dad in the parking lot of the local high school on Sunday afternoon when no one was around. You had to pretend you hadn't already done the basics with your boyfriend two months earlier. The basics of driving , that is.

I think the Vatican needs to stay out of issuing edicts on driving, but, given the church's lingering presence in the bedroom, the car was inevitable, I suppose. Also, the PopeMobile link provides a fascinating historical overview of the relationship between the Vatican and Mercedes Benz. Disclosure: I happen to work for a Mercedes Benz dealer. I just know there's a Papal edict coming about blogging.

Well, actually, I did think there was one new Driving Commandment that had merit. I believe it's number 8, which states that those who are too young or too old should be charitably told not to drive.

So, when you charitably suggest that I give up my beloved wheels, and you will, be kind.

The Great Escape

Photo by T.T. Thomas, Venice 2006

Venice: The Bridge of Sighs, completed in 1602, was built to connect a new prison building to the Doge Palace. It was called the Bridge of Sighs because it afforded prisoners their last look at their beloved Venice, and that event caused some heavy sighing. But the actual name was attached by 19th-century Romantic writers long after the bridge was built. Although known more for his lusty romantic endeavors, Giacomo Casanova escaped from the prison on October 31, 1756. He wrote about his daring escape in a book that was read all over Europe. Perhaps...perhaps he was an early blogger, of sorts. He crossed the Bridge of Sighs, as do we all, metaphorically speaking, in our own way, sighing, and blogging, about our great escape.