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Ashes To Ashes

Chelsea La Rue in a can. That's what we got when we picked up Chelsea's ashes. I didn't pay for any fancy or any not so fancy box or urn for the girl. Her ashes will be scattered over Runyon Canyon where she and I enjoyed nearly every morning for five and a half years. So for the price of the cremation and no other frills she comes to me in a tin soup can that is covered by a small velvet bag embroidered with the sentiment "Until We Meet Again". Essentially she has become a maraca in a tin can.

I was speaking with a friend about the process of euthanasia as he had gone through this about two years ago with his much beloved Bull dog. He said he was too upset to talk about cremation or anything else so he left it to the hospital to do what ever they do. In my case I was too upset not to talk about it because my vet used the words, "Either the city takes them away or..." That just did not sound like an option at all. Hence the can. I look forward to blessing her ashes over the hills that she loved, though I do apologize for what may sound callous or morose, but in the paraphrased words of Paul Westerberg;

How Do You Say Its Okay To A Tin Soup Can
How Do You Say Goodnight To A Tin Soup Can
How Do You Say I Miss You To A Tin Soup Can
How Do You Say I'm Lonely To A Tin Soup Can
The Message Is Very Clean
I Hate Your Tin Soup Can

Moving Is Such Sweet Sorrow

This moving process is probably a very cathartic process for most people but I am not enjoying myself too much. I mentioned before that your life basically flashes before your eyes and over the past week it's flashed me like a trench coat about a thousand times. Instead of doing the sound thing and having a yard sale, I have bagged and boxed hundreds of items and dropped them off at Goodwill. Aside from the dying dog issue making me feel lethargic, who has the time or energy to categorize and haul things to and from and to and from your yard all before the actual move? Not to mention it has been raining here like mad. All very good excuses for me to throw shit out completely or give it to Goodwill. I've been accused of being a pack rat before and perhaps it is true. I like a good souvenir and I have gathered many only to box them away with hundreds of letters from long gone friends and several letters by me unsent to lovers gone but not forgotten. This time around I am pitching. Um, some of it.

This morning I tossed a few years worth of receipts and tax forms that have passed their statute of limitations. Having broken a shredder already, I hand ripped three years worth of my life into a cardboard box. Travel arrangements to New York, Hawaii and France and leases for apartments that crumbled during the earthquake and that housed me afterwards. The stacks of communications between me and FEMA for disaster relief. The several Workman's Comp files for the several injuries I had on the job at Neiman Marcus. (I used to say that for every five thousandth time I climbed a ladder, I would stumble, or every thousandth time I cut foamcore I'd cut myself.) In my formative eyes all these years were heady and now its like IÕm reliving them again, even if for two seconds per moment in time. It's depressing. Just what you don't need to come across is a "to do" list for your "career". Like the top ten things you need to accomplish in that particular year! How time flies! Among the better things found was a "Frankie Goes To Hollywood" "Relax Don't Do It" pin along with a "Do It!" pin! An ivory satin dress that your friend made you buy for 25 bucks fifteen years ago to be worn as your wedding gown. Which I've never needed. Yet another "Super Bowl Shuffle" tape - I swear I keep throwing those out and they just keep reappearing... An authentic Caterpillar trucker hat - as timely as today's hemlines... I've also whittled down my cassette tapes from about 150 to 25. The salt 'n pepper shaker collection is over but I'm still stickin' with anything "corn".

Okay, so maybe this has been somewhat of a purge. I feel like I'm going through a divorce from my own life. The bad movies I worked on, the bad art I made, the bad photos I took, the bad jobs I had, the relationships that didn't work. And above all - the bad hairdos. Not too concerned about those anymore. I've got the perfect bad hat! And I'm keepin' it.

Take Me Out To The Ball Flame

Read the LA TIMES story about the pending destruction of the little ball that could - or should I say couldn't and wouldn't. The ball that Steve Bartman caught during the National League Championship game that brought the Cubs to their knees, was bought by the Harry Caray's Bar owner on eBay in December. They will be destroying it on National TV tomorrow night during a street party in Chicago in hopes of lifting the decades-old curse. I think that if the Cubs had the money the Yankees have, the curse might lift itself. Nonetheless, if it makes a city feel better to blow up a little ball with Hollywood special effects, I'm in and I'll try to believe. I'll raise a beer to the ball, Harry.

Franklin Ave., February 24

Not 7:15 AM. Not 7:02 AM. 7:00 AM on the dot. Who needs an alarm clock when you have demolition next door to you? I imagine the vermin scurrying everywhere, running for and from the bushes that divide our properties. I imagine - no I don't have to imagine - the dust cloud this has created around my building. I imagine the demolition guys are having a great time - hell, they waved at me as I took pictures. I imagine the pain these beautiful two craftsman homes are feeling as they are knocked down by corporate developers. I imagine my slumlord sleeping soundly in Beverly Hills dreaming of her bank account. I imagine me calling her at 7:05 AM and thanking her for the call that never came informing her tenants of the pending construction. I imagine calling her and holding the phone outside so she can join in the fun. I imagine my moving truck that I won't be able to get till next Monday, vying for alley space with tractors and dump trucks. Our move date couldn't come soon enough. Literally.

Her Glimmer, His Shudder

This emailed thought from a friend on recent events in San Fran:

For years I've thought the San Francisco I experienced in my youth was long gone. I longed for the idealism, the multi-culturalism, and the acceptance of "alternative" lifestyles that seemed to disappear in the mid-90's. Whenever people asked me if I missed San Francisco I would quickly dismiss the thought with,"It's not the same city I grew up in..." As I read the paper this week, the sweetest nostalgia has crept in accompanied by a small glimmer of hope that the tides are changing in our repressive (Republican) society.
It's nice to be homesick.

Hold that thought, Valerie. The Govanator has something to say about it. Apparently he has TOTALLY forgotten about his days on Muscle Beach:

Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger waded deeper into the debate over same-sex marriages, directing the state attorney general to take immediate legal steps to stop San Francisco from granting marriage licenses to gay couples. Schwarzenegger told a cheering crowd at the state GOP convention that "in San Francisco, the courts are dropping the ball." "It's time for the city to stop traveling down this dangerous path of ignoring the rule of law. That's my message to San Francisco," he said Friday night.

How To Have A Nervous Breakdown

Put your dog to sleep on Saturday
Avoid grieving till Tuesday after out-of-town guest leaves
Have construction start on lot next door on Monday morning
Go by soon-to-be new apartment on Thursday and notice the lack of storage
But be relieved that there is a garage
Drive by garages and notice that there is still a lock on every one
Think that either the previous tenant left without emptying it
Or you are up shit creek
Look at new lease and notice that it says "street" parking
Remember that this was not mentioned when going over lease
Leave a message with new landlady about garage concern
Realize you don't have a copy of the listing anymore but
Are sure it said parking
But did it
Write email to friend who also looked at the listing and apartment
She says she was sure it said parking
Know in your gut that you've screwed up and you are going to be screwed

Aside - its not about the parking, its about storage

Get the call back from new landlady who says you don't get a garage
Says it was never a mentioned benefit
Says she's sorry. Says if someone moves out, it's yours
You get emotional and tell her this upsets you on top of which your dog died
She says she understands
Tells you she broke up with her boyfriend the night before
You don't know what to say
What goes through your head is
Yeah, and you have a huge house in Sherman Oaks
That you are adding on to
And you have two healthy dogs
Up yours
She says at least the place has lots of storage
You say uh not for two people
Not for an artist with a ton of shit

This is deja vu all over again
You've been fighting with your current landlady
About parking situation for years
Not to mention her other lies and manipulations

You fall apart
Your boss tells you you can take his ill-mannered dog
Then he tells you he loves you and you should go home
When you get home you get the bill for your dog's cremation
Which was expected but they've charged you for a large dog
Which she was not
You proceed to pack
You go through your art/photo archives to throw shit out
Doing so you basically relive the last twenty years
You wonder what the hell, where the hell

All for another shitty Hollywood apartment for which
You have to answer to another damn landlord

Addendum
So the last twenty years haven't been all peachy.
I've got a boss who reminds me this is just a bump and the master plan will work itself out
I've got a boyfriend who doesn't care if he's living on top of all my art supplies and twenty years worth of work,
We will make it work and the worst that can happen is we move again in a year
I woke up this morning to the sounds of construction five feet from my window
Reminding me the number 1 out 89 reasons why I'm moving
I called the Pet Crematory and they kindly adjusted the bill
Peachy

I GOT SUNSHINE ON A CLOUDY DAY

It is with deep sadness that I report that my greatest inspiration, Chelsea La Rue has died this past weekend. Our little ragamut, who I rescued five and a half years ago, was very sick over the last month and especially the last week. I guess the signs were there even nine months ago, but we tell ourselves that they are just getting old. We had no idea how old Chelsea actually was. The adoption agency where I found her told me she was three at the time. My vet upped it at least four years. I put her at 13 this past year but maybe she was actually even older! She often still had the look of a puppy and people in the park would comment as such. In reality she was much like an old grandmother who really didn't have much use for pleasantries or affection. She gave us affection in her own pensive ways but none more valiant than in her last days when she knew she was ill. It was almost as if she didn't want to bother us with it and tried the best she could to be normal.

Chelsea had been to the vet twice in the last two months and I took her to the vet on Friday the 13th just as the clues were at the utmost dismal. The vet wanted to run every test in the book but she admitted that it was obvious that Chelsea was incredibly sick. I let her run the blood panel. It was nonspecific. When the vet asked if I was thinking about euthanasia, I knew that it was inevitable. She told me she could give her drugs to make her comfortable over the weekend if we wanted to wait. I couldn't imagine Chelsea being comfortable at all at this point.

I made the arrangements for the next morning with the desk assistant who told me it was the right thing and adamantly added that we should have the ability to do it for humans. It was the first of many of the same sentiments I heard over the weekend. The dictionary describes "humane" in consideration of humans or animals, but there are so few instances that we apply it to humans.

As soon as I took Chelsea home Friday, I went to the airport to pick up my niece who was spending the weekend with us, getting out of the Chicago cold for a few days only to arrive for a memorial. Can you imagine? As bad it sounds, it was actually a Godsend for us. She is a wonderfully sweet person and was a much needed distraction and we filled the remainder of the weekend with fun and memories. Our friend Mary Jane called it "church". When someone in need is provided solace by someone else, they are their church.

David and I arose Saturday morning, Valentine's Day, and wrapped our girl up and took her to the vet where she was injected with a pretty pink liquid not unlike the color of a cosmopolitan cocktail. As extraordinarily sad as it was, I was glad that she was now at peace and no longer in pain. I don't know what kind of life she had before me but I suspect it was not good. The latter part of her life was filled with romps in Runyon Canyon, trips to the beach, a bed in every room, and lots of dog treats. What she gave us was much much more. Indelible as her baying yelp that amused us all whenever we needed a little church.

Hollywood Slumlord

When I moved into my current apartment six years ago, I didn't know the extent to which the landlord did not care about her building or her tenants. She had lied to me from the get go. She told me I had a parking space. She didn't tell me it was a tandem space with another tenant. In six years I've shared the space with four different people. All of which I shared keys with and up till the latest tenant, it went without incedent. This last one pulled my car out and scraped my back hubcap up on the curb. He offered to get me a new one but I blew it off because he probably makes just as much money as I do if not less. The back of the building has six single spaces. I live in the back of the building. Each time someone who had a back space moved out I asked the landlord for the space. She blew ME off each time. Two months ago, TWO people with back spaces moved out and I approached her AGAIN! She told me I didn't pay enough rent, I'd have to pay more to get a back space. She said longevity doesn't matter even though she had given a couple who's been there for ten years an ADDITIONAL space.

She's been trying to rent the empty apartments for a price that would normally get you a secure building with secure mail boxes, a private parking space if not a garage, and probably a gym and a jacuzzi. They remain empty and I've been using one of the spaces in the back. The OTHER thing that's going on is, the house next door to us is about to be demolished and in its place is going to be a large "luxury" apartment building which will leave my building dwarfed in between two concrete walls. She has failed to mention this to us nor does she tell this to the potential new tenants but we do.

My neighbor and I have been threatening to call the city building inspectors on her for years but we didn't want her to be even less helpful or hateful toward us. My landlord has only responded to needs if they are emergencies. I have sent her letters with lists of problems and she does not even acknowledge them. Twice in my six years my bathroom wall disintegrated and grew MUSHROOMS! She has patched the wall four times but has never done it in a professional way as for it to be permanent. My screen door was badly mangled so I aked her for a new one. She dropped off a roll of screening and wanted me to basically rebuild the door myself! My bathroom window is broken so it is STUCK OPEN so people next door and Peeping Toms could potentially get a look. I have had homeless people squating in the empty apartment next to me. I have had filthy water GUSHING through the ceiling from the upstairs apartment onto my sofa and she fought me on the cleaning bill. My list could go on, but you get the idea.

Last week, the day I signed a lease which will start next month elsewhere, a sign was posted that the building inspector will arrive on Tuesday the 10th!! Well, guess who has been calling all week and trying to set up appointments with handymen and plumbers, etc., trying to fix stuff that has been our lists? I have avoided her as much as possible but I did let the guy in to change out a smoke detector that hasn't worked in five years. Amazing how she expects cooperation after years of getting none from her.

Rumors have been going around that she's (A) giving rent discounts to people who will stay during the construction (she's denied that one) and (B) she's sold the building to the people who are constructing. Whatever, I will avail myself for the inspectors and delight in sending her my notice to vacate her slum. I don't understand why she didn't sell the building years ago instead of having to put up with the shit it takes to be a landlord. I guess some people just need the power of screwing people to make them feel like something.

I'll Never Look At A Train The Same Way Again

I think I got hit by a locomotive. Yesterday I told my boss what I was doing that night and he said there is absolutely no reason in the world to be seeing "Starlight Express". And, he added, that it was his Hell, his Eternity! I'm afraid he was right. The reason I went to see Starlight Express was that my dear friend Joanna is in it and has been touring with the company for many months. It came to the wonderful Pantages Theater after Branson and Tampa and Phoenix etc. Why Why Why did they do it?

Oh, right - thirteen year old girls. I'd say the crowd was half pre-teen, a quarter their moms and a quarter I-don't-get-it. All I can say is Thank God! the Frolic Room is next door to the Pantages. We hooked up there before the show and Rhonda and I RAN there during intermission.

A couple martinis weren't enough to numb the shock and awe I had sitting in the orchestra section with the smoke oozing out over the audience listening to the updated (hip-hop) music of Andrew LLoyd Webber about the love between train cars from the wrong side of the tracks!

Rhonda kept saying. "THIS is what he followed up Jesus Christ Superstar with?" Oh my oh my.

More power to Joanna for doing her job night after night, town after town and keeping the youth of tomorrow looking at love through 3-D colored glasses.

Rockin' Rodney

This past Saturday I went down to Aaron Brothers Art Mart to get in on their last days of the one cent frame sale. The main thing I wanted to frame was the movie poster for Mayor Of The Sunset Strip which I got at the LA Film Festival screening of the documentary about Rodney Bingenheimer. I headed to the back aisle where the larger frames are and who is standing there but the Mayor himself. Rodney On The Rock in full Rodney regalia, which of course is basically the tiny little person that he is with an eight inch high sweep of hairsprayed hair. I couldn't help myself - I said, "Wow, this is great. I'm here to get a frame for the poster of your movie and here you are." He looked at me and giggled that tiny giggle and nervously looked away. I said, "There's a word for this but I can't think of what it is right now. Oh well." He giggled again and shuffled. "Well", I followed up, "I enjoyed the movie a lot". He giggled and shuffled some more then he eventually left the aisle empty handed. I'm sure I scared him off - by the time I found the frames I wanted he was nowhere to be seen.

The movie was somewhat sad - Rodney hasn't had it easy and he is a character among characters, but he sure has made it work for him. He loves Rock 'n Roll more than anything in the world and Rock 'n Roll in turn, loves him. That makes it an inspirational story. Word has it the movie will get distribution this spring, but probably in limited release. Look for it -it also has a great soundtrack. After all - he is practically the sole reason some of the greatest artists in Rock ever got heard in the first place!

I went home and framed the 27 X 41 "Mayor", brought him to work and hung him in the office and now I don't have to go to Canter's or Denny's at 3AM to see him- I see him every day.