musings

April 23, 1979

April 23, 1979

 I remember this well – my excitement was so intense it’s still indescribable. All of those times I came so close to my goal and missed taught me to lower my expectations. I didn’t let myself hope for more than another meeting. To learn my spec script had been optioned by a real producer for real money (not a lot, but more than I’d ever made writing before) seemed surreal.

Writing - the dreamPart of me always believed I’d make it as a writer, otherwise I wouldn’t have pursued it – but another part saw a screenwriting career as a dream, out of reach.  One of my high school teachers told me I wouldn’t be a real writer until someone paid me to write and I believed her – so, Steve Friedman optioning the script was validation.

Writing - looks like a vacuum cleaner sitting unattended in the messy background.In my dizzy euphoria, I assumed everything would be different now – my career would come easily. That proved overly optimistic. Steve didn’t make the movie and the option lapsed. The same script would be optioned twice more, by two different producers, and it attracted some top-tier female directors and talent, but as of today it remains unproduced.

Page 1 - 17_edited-1Doesn’t matter. It’s still one of the top ten days of my life.

 

April 21, 2007

April 21, 2007

The Pantages Theater
The Pantages Theater

“Wicked” is the perfect play for female friends (or sisters) to see together. I hadn’t read the novel the first time I saw it, so I knew nothing about the plot. If anything, I didn’t expect to enjoy it because it was a musical and songs rarely grab me the first time I hear them.  

Wicked - 2

What an amazing surprise! It hooked me from the first number, “No One Mourns the Wicked.” I’m not an Oz freak – haven’t read any of the books – but the humor, the sly references to the film, and the complex relationship between the female leads had me spellbound. It features one of the most spectacular act breaks I’ve ever seen. I wish I’d written it.

The spectacular act break.
The spectacular act break.

The Pantages – built in 1929 and art deco to the max – is the perfect venue. No matter what is playing there, its ambience feels primed for “Wicked.” Lori was a relatively new friend; Gail and I go back 48 years. Like any friendship of that duration, we’ve had our ups and downs. No wonder I’m always crying by the time they get to these lyrics from “For Good.”

Gail and I goofing off when we were (relatively) young.
Gail and I goofing off when we were (relatively) young.
Gail and I as somewhat older friends.
Gail and I as somewhat older friends.

And just to clear the air, I ask forgiveness
For the things I’ve done, you blame me for

But then, I guess we know there’s blame to share

And none of it seems to matter anymore

And none of it seems to matter anymore

 

 

March 30, 1986

March 30, 1986

With my always above and beyond the call of duty parents
With my always above and beyond the call of duty parents

“I feel a little guilty – like I manipulated her” – seriously? Is there a manipulative tactic I didn’t employ? Easter was my father’s favorite holiday and one of the busiest days of his year.  Monday was his day off and I stole this one without a second thought.

Two arms full of love
Two arms full of love

That said, part of me doesn’t feel guilty – because every minute my children spent with their grandparents was blessed – and I’m pretty sure my parents treasured those times too. They were young grandparents, age. I’m not sure I was ready to be a grandparent when I was their age.

Special moments with their grandchildren
Special moments with their grandchildren

However, more than a decade later, I am so ready I have baby fever. Facebook friends post adorable pictures of their grandchildren and I ache and think, “I want that!” I see cute babies in restaurants and think, “I want that!” I have quite the opposite reaction on airplanes, when an infant breaks the sound barrier for the entire flight. When that happens, I shudder and think, “Thank God that’s not my problem.”

At the end of the day
At the end of the day

But I kind of secretly wish it was.

So nice having a baby
How nice it would be!

March 25, 1996


March 25, 1996

 

Jack Denove, Bob Tessler, Oscar, Bill Atherton, John Rowell, Rob Huddy
Jack Denove, Bob Tessler, Oscar, Bill Atherton, John Rowell, Rob Huddy

“Braveheart” won Best Picture in 1996 and Mel Gibson was named Best Director. Nicolas Cage (Leaving Las Vegas) and Susan Sarandon (Dead Man Walking) took top acting honors, Kevin Spacey (Usual Suspects) and Mira Sorvino (Mighty Aphrodite) won Supporting Honors. I was pleased Christopher McQuarrie (Usual Suspects) won for Best Original Screenplay and Emma Thompson (Sense and Sensibility won Best Adapted screenplay).

Ed Cutter, Mary Kennedy, Terry McDonnell, Judith Russell, Joyce, Roberta Gundersen, foreground Anne Kurrasch
Ed Cutter, Mary Kennedy, Terry McDonnell, Judith Russell, Joyce, Roberta Gundersen, foreground Anne Kurrasch

Due to subsequent events and political correctness, at least two of the 1996 winners probably wouldn’t take home Oscars if the vote was cast today. For me, this raises the complicated issue of how to separate art from the artist. Does a performance become unworthy, is a painting flawed, if the performer or painter is somebody I deem immoral? On the other hand, should we – as a society – elevate and reward criminals?

Stephanie, Joyce, Mary Bennett Denove
Stephanie, Joyce, Mary Bennett Denove

Do we need to reevaluate and possibly demote great artists of the past? Wasn’t Edgar Allen Poe a drug addict and possible pederast? I doubt he’s the only legend with skeletons in his closet.

Bobbi Goldin, Bill Atherton, me
Bobbi Goldin, Bill Atherton, me

I don’t have an answer; just posing the question.

Oscar Party 1996 - 2

Best Oscar Party Hostess & Host 1996
Best Oscar Party Hostess & Host 1996

 

 

March 11, 1966

 

March 11, 1966 The unfortunate armless Cindy vanished in the mists of time but I vividly recall the doll I dubbed Beckie. I don’t know what her manufacturer called her. I fell in love with her photo in a Sears (or something similar?) Christmas catalog and wanted her so much I could taste it. That year, I snuck a peek at my presents before Christmas Eve – the suspense of whether or not she was under the tree was unbearable. She was. Bliss.

Am I holding Cindy? Maybe. This doll appears in several very young photos. With my mother and Janet.
Am I holding Cindy? Maybe. This doll appears in several very young photos. With my mother and Janet.

When I left for college, my parents asked what to do with my dolls. Desperate to appear sophisticated, I said, “I don’t care. Give them away.”

So, they did.

I regret that. In later life, I collected dolls to recapture the childhood I treated so carelessly. Twinning my #5 Titian ponytail Barbie was a cinch. I still have Fuddy.

FUDDY
FUDDY

However, Beckie is MIA. I’ve scanned vintage Sears catalogs, doll collector reference books, eBay listings. I haven’t even figured out what her name was or who manufactured her.

Fuddy and I hanging out together a few years ago.
Fuddy and I hanging out together a few years ago.

My Missing Doll poster might be my last chance.

Hence, my poster.  So, here’s my Missing Doll description. She was (I presume still is) a vinyl baby-toddler doll. Her rooted black hair sports a Pebbles Flintstone style topknot. I think she was a sitting doll and wore a red and white checked outfit. I think she had a happy, smiling expression.

Missing Doll Poster

Has anybody seen my doll?

 

 

 

February 28, 1972

February 28, 1972

The late sixties and early seventies were fertile hunting ground for cults. Hare Krishna’s invaded airports and the streets of Westwood swarmed with friendly Scientologists offering students a “free” personality test. My night with the Moonies was my closest encounter with a genuine cult. At least twenty devoted disciples shared sleeping-bag space in a large room. I’ve repressed specifics about the bathroom facilities, but it’s a safe bet personal privacy wasn’t top priority.

Krishna girl selling book at LAX
Krishna girl selling book at LAX

I must have completely forgotten who I was, when I accepted the invitation. Growing up PK meant growing up in the heart of my father’s congregation, fine people I can’t complain about. Still, as kind and generous as they were, I felt itchy and uncomfortable much of the time.  It’s not religion that bothers me – I’m pro-religion – the trouble is that it’s frequently packaged with a group.

Joyce and Eric Onstad in a skit at Clairemont Lutheran in San Diego - Joyce was always much better in groups than me.
Joyce and Eric Onstad in a skit at Clairemont Lutheran in San Diego – Joyce was always much better in groups than me.

I prefer people in small doses. One or two at a time, maybe as many as half a dozen. Ten, twenty, forty, a hundred? Get me out of here, I can’t breathe.  I feel more alone in groups than I ever have when I’m alone.

Alone - the way I like it.
Alone – the way I like it.

All that said, I still plan to brave my Wilcox reunion this fall.

 

February 26, 1971

February 26, 1971

Project One Films

The first time I saw a commercial for a phone that shot photos, it looked absurd. Cameras were for taking pictures, phones were for talking. The combination could only weaken them both.

As close as I can come to a photo of a vintage Vivitar Super-8.
As close as I can come to a photo of a vintage Vivitar Super-8.

Obviously, I was wrong – so very wrong. Today, even though I have a good digital camera, I shoot photos with my phone.  However, this brave new world was far in the future when I unwrapped my second-hand Vivitar. To me, it was state of the art; I couldn’t imagine asking more of any device.

In San Diego with the family around '71.
In San Diego with the family around ’71.

As it turns out, there’s no end to things I couldn’t imagine then but take for granted today. Remote controls. Microwaves. Cheap calculators. Smart phones. Cars that come with screens and GPS. Watches that keep track of my steps, my heartbeat, my minutes of REM sleep.

And, of course, the unsettling reality that unknown corporations, foreign and domestic, know more about me than the people in my life. The amount of data that potentially could be harvested from this blog is scary. Why keep doing it?

A selfie taken with my phone today - unimaginable in 1971,
A selfie taken with my phone today – unimaginable in 1971,

Realistically, I can’t stuff the genie back in the battle. What hits the net, lives there forever. And I kind of love it that after I’m gone, bits of my life will live in cyberspace.

 

February 23, 1999

February 23, 1999

Citizen Kane

Growing up, there was one centrally located television set (without a remote) in our house and we watched TV as a family. “Leave it to Beaver” and “the Flintstones” were early favorites. My sisters and I weren’t allowed to watch the Three Stooges (my father disapproved of the cruelty in their humor) or cheap horror movies. (“If you want to see that kind of thing when you’re older, that’s your choice, but you will not be watching it here.”)

S'n'A around this time.
S’n’A around this time.

In my home today, there’s at least one TV (and remote!) for everybody, including the pets. Zelda barks her head off at any dog or four-legged creature who dares to make an appearance. J can watch football, S can watch anime and I can binge on a Netflix series simultaneously without crossing paths.

Zelda goes berserk at the sight of a dog on TV.
Zelda goes berserk at the sight of a dog on TV.And she watches carefully all the time.

For me, watching a program together is a far superior option but sometimes no one else is interested. That’s why I was so thrilled when S and A expressed interest in AFI’s list of the 100 greatest American films. (AFI’s 100 top films)

At fourteen, I knew nothing about classic films. If they screened in Santa Clara, no one told me. After UCLA opened my eyes to that world, I wanted to share it but some people just weren’t interested. (Their cultural loss, IMHO). I love sharing great entertainment with S and A even though some TV shows that looked hip and brilliant in the 80s (hello, Miami Vice) didn’t age gracefully.

The whole family, circa 1999.
The whole family, circa 1999.

Occasionally, J gives me a hard time about calling TV viewing “quality time” but I can’t think of a more pleasurable way to imbibe history, culture, art and the principles of storytelling than watching and discussing the boob tube.

 

February 21, 1965

Chad & Jeremy Clipping
February 21, 1965
A couple years ago, my sisters and I saw Chad and Jeremy at McCabe’s, a relatively small venue in Santa Monica. They signed autographs after the show so I got in line. As I inched forward, I overheard people in front of me – all of whom, to my biased eyes, looked decades older than I felt. (I’m sure they thought the same about me.)

Chad Stuart signing an autograph.
Chad Stuart signing an autograph.

In December, Joyce and I saw Jeremy Clyde at an even smaller venue, The Coffee Gallery Backstage in Altadena, CA. It poured on the drive over and Joyce ranted about how she hated to drive in hard rain. Everything changed when the show started.  Our seats were spectacular – literally, about two feet from Jeremy – who was charming, witty and self-deprecating.

Jeremy Clyde at The Coffee Gallery in December.
Jeremy Clyde at The Coffee Gallery in December.

He explained Chad stopped touring. He played Chad and Jeremy’s biggest hits – Yesterday’s Gone, Willow Weep for Me and Summer Song – and selections from his solo CD series, the Bottom Drawer Tapes. In a perfect world he would’ve played Distant Shores, too, but this was close enough for me.

Our seats were spectacular - literally, about two feet from Jeremy
Our seats were spectacular – literally, about two feet from Jeremy

On April 9, 2016 I wrote a precursor to this blog, thinking I had done everything in my power to see Chad and Jeremy, AGAIN, after 51 years (http://www.kathleenrowell.com/2016/04/09/51-years-between-chad-jeremy-concerts/) – little did I know I would experience this wonderful evening with Jeremy Clyde.  I hope new opportunities arise as I seem to be growing younger, at least with my music idols.

January 22, 1978

January 22, 1978

While combing my diaries for a suitable blog entry, if I find a snippet about CD, I usually send it to the adult CD just to give him some idea of his life as a two-year-old.  Since he has no conscious memories of his infancy, he can’t enlighten me about what actually ran through his mind.

CD at the park 1

A child psychiatrist might hazard an informed guess about which cognitive skills were in development but no one will ever know for sure. Odds are, my instincts were right and what amused him involved repetition.

CD at the park 2

As my diaries suggest, by nature I wrote down almost everything that happened, no matter how apparently trivial. I’m glad I did, now, since some of the things that seemed mundane – even then – acquired significance in the ensuing years. I forgot almost everything I failed to record for posterity.

CD at the park 3

As my firstborn, CD was the beneficiary – or the victim, depending on your point of view – of my meticulous record keeping. Sometimes, in bursts of energy, he’d run races with himself, up and down the family room, shouting “Go!”  a few seconds after he started. We could guarantee a smile by throwing a towel over his head, asking “Where’s CD?” and yanking it off. Hilarious! Two-year-old’s – the best audience ever.

J & CD at the park

 

 

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