Signing autographs after 1 of last Summer's Monkees concerts!: Signing autographs after 1 of last Summer's Monkees concerts!
Strangely, while perusing some YouTube videos yesterday, I came across one of Davy Jones singing "Daydream Believer"in a concert he gave recently. I thought how paunchy and old he looked. His voice, not really there but his puckish attitude still convinced me I was watching the Davy Jones I crushed on so many years ago. I hadn't stopped humming it for hours, until my phone rang this afternoon and a friend, who happens to be a music critic, asked if I had heard the news about Davy Jones.
"Please don't tell me he died," said I. "OK" said my buddy, "I won't tell you that then. But put it this way, there will never be a full Monkees reunion in the future."
Well, to all those daydream believers and homecoming queens out there, I'm with you!
RIP Davy Jones.
VOTE for MY Blog Please!
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Friday, February 24, 2012
Personhood Bill Killed But They Missed the Real Weapon: the Penis
Virginia's Republicans are out to vilify women who dare to seek abortions. In fact, by outlawing abortions and criminalizing mothers who abort, those guys overlooked something: the men who helped create the "persons" they claim are human at the time of inception. I would go as far to say that if mothers who abort are criminals, the PENIS IS A WEAPON OF MASS DESTRUCTION for it is the penis that actively starts the process to begin with. Without it, there'd be no need for abortions, would there? Let's face it: the real culprit is the penis. Logically then, it's the men who would need to be criminalized along with those demented mothers.
Don't men say it has a mind of its own? Doesn't it spring to action by its own volition? So if it has its own cognitive nature, shouldn't we be regulating its use? What about rapes? Unwanted entry? A night of foolish boffery? Why should women bear the brunt of all the consequences?
I propose that next year, when Virginia Republicans re-introduce the bill, they ought to consider the "Penis License" as a complement to the "Personhood" Bill. Everyone with a penis should have a license to fire it. No more willy-nilly shootings. No explosions without permission and a permit. I say any man without a license should have his lopped off. Off with their heads, I say!
Don't men say it has a mind of its own? Doesn't it spring to action by its own volition? So if it has its own cognitive nature, shouldn't we be regulating its use? What about rapes? Unwanted entry? A night of foolish boffery? Why should women bear the brunt of all the consequences?
I propose that next year, when Virginia Republicans re-introduce the bill, they ought to consider the "Penis License" as a complement to the "Personhood" Bill. Everyone with a penis should have a license to fire it. No more willy-nilly shootings. No explosions without permission and a permit. I say any man without a license should have his lopped off. Off with their heads, I say!
Thursday, February 9, 2012
On the Move...
The thing that is implicit about being an Urban Nomad is being "on the move."
Since arriving in Los Angeles in October 2006, we have managed to inhabit three separate homes. The first was at "The Palazzo", where transient actors, preening models and would-be celebutantes are put up when they are on probation, on location or simply on vacation. It's a temporary landing point to acclimate to new surroundings. (You know, blue skies, palm trees, long drives, Sierra mountains and Hollywood all take their collective toll and must be gotten used to properly.) There, we were surrounded by people like the British executive producer of the TV show "SuperNanny" and his family. Jon Cryer and I shared treadmill time together, while he was shooting "Two and a Half Men." That was way before his on-screen partner (does Sheen ring a bell?) imploded. The newly appointed head of the TV Guide channel, originally from New York, moved in next door. We anchored there for three months, while searching for both a more permanent home and a job. The complex had a dog park, pool, exquisite spa and gym, pilates, yoga, ballet for kids. The concierge was not on duty 24/7. It was a hardship, for sure.
By December, after spending much time getting to know the city through its real estate listings, we found our perfect home. It was a 1924 Craftsman-like home in Hancock Park. Actually, as our neighbors always pointed out, Windsor Square. It had a more"prestigious" ring as it was the first of the truly "posh" neighborhoods, and in fact the largest upper-class sub-division ever marketed in Los Angeles, when it was conceived. Those were the days when "Hispanics" were known as "Spaniards" and when Jews, Blacks, Greeks and anyone not listed in the Social Register were sent on their way to establish other neighborhoods, like Beverly Hills. Lucky for us, turns out that those standards are long a thing of the past and those old founders are rolling in their graves. We rented the house from a lovely Greek family. Two houses down was a Black lawyer and her husband. Down the other way was a Jewish family, a Latino family and a mixed race family, with two children adopted from Asia. Diversity personified. The neighborhood always smelled of a mixture of jasmine, pine and eucalyptus. Cottage after cottage. Yards blooming with roses, gardenias, lilies. One garden was nicer than the next and children could easily run from one house to another. Besides some feral cats and the constant sound of LAPD helicopters overhead every evening, it was a perfect fit for us in every way.
Until the landlord got divorced and needed her home back. Sadly we needed to seek another refuge before we became homeless.
South Pasadena is known for having top schools, kinder through high school. Our son was about to enter Kindergarten. Off we went. We secured a faux-Spanish like home, built in the last ten years by a Korean businessman who populated a new street with spec McMansions that looked regal but had plastic piping, shoddy construction, cheap windows. Our new landlady was a widow whose husband's family owned one of the largest publishing firms in Southeast Asia. Her children now grown, she lived alone in a 4000 square foot home nearby and purchased this home when it was in foreclosure just months before we moved in. Her reason? She loved the closets in the master bedroom. That was why she purchased the home.
We spent three lovely years there. Mornings were fresh and in winter we had a clear view of snow-capped mountains and palm trees in the foothills.
When my husband's company planned to re-locate us to Prague in 2011, we gave our landlady notice that we would be leaving at the end of our lease. All was well. Then, a few weeks later, just after she left for a trip to Korea, we received notice that our move was being cancelled. Frantic to reach her, we emailed, left messages, texted, and got no reply. We didn't really think staying would be an issue, as she had indicated she hated the house and wouldn't ever really want to move in; it was simply an investment. Two months later, she returned and unexpectedly said "Oh I am so sorry but I am so depressed and need a project so I must move into the house. Really sorry."
"But you have a lovely home just around the corner. And you've said you really don't even like this house."
"Yes I know. It's true. But I am depressed."
"Listen honey, fixing this house is not going to cure your depression. I can guarantee you that!," said I to no avail.
We had three weeks before school started to find a home and re-locate. We had hoped to find a place in the same school district, so as to mitigate the damage. Sadly, that didn't happen and the home we found was in a totally new area, way west of Pasadena.
Sherman Oaks spreads over a wide variety of terrain, but mainly it is still considered part of the San Fernando Valley. The "Valley" has a reputation for suburban sprawl and lots of strip malls. "Valley girls" were once the emblem for ditzy, vapid, gum chewing, big hair, teen model wannabes of the 80s and 90s. The pocket neighborhood we found is high on the hill, which in Angeleno speak, places it higher on the "class" scale than being in the "flats." The house is a beautiful one-level ranch cottage, with a shingled roof tiles, a serene yard, pool, tall fragrant pines and is wrapped in roses. The school, not so serene. Our normally optimistic, outgoing child has come home numerous times saying he feels unsafe there. Seems children are "mean" which (amazingly so) we had not experienced in any other school and had given me hope that this generation was simply kinder and gentler, for whatever reason.
Those thoughts have been dashed by Sherman Oaks. Sadly, I fear another move is on the horizon.
This time, we want to buy. And not be at the whim of a divorce or a depressed, economically independent dowager who doesn't care about displacing us. So, onward, we begin the process, again.
Stay tuned.
Since arriving in Los Angeles in October 2006, we have managed to inhabit three separate homes. The first was at "The Palazzo", where transient actors, preening models and would-be celebutantes are put up when they are on probation, on location or simply on vacation. It's a temporary landing point to acclimate to new surroundings. (You know, blue skies, palm trees, long drives, Sierra mountains and Hollywood all take their collective toll and must be gotten used to properly.) There, we were surrounded by people like the British executive producer of the TV show "SuperNanny" and his family. Jon Cryer and I shared treadmill time together, while he was shooting "Two and a Half Men." That was way before his on-screen partner (does Sheen ring a bell?) imploded. The newly appointed head of the TV Guide channel, originally from New York, moved in next door. We anchored there for three months, while searching for both a more permanent home and a job. The complex had a dog park, pool, exquisite spa and gym, pilates, yoga, ballet for kids. The concierge was not on duty 24/7. It was a hardship, for sure.
By December, after spending much time getting to know the city through its real estate listings, we found our perfect home. It was a 1924 Craftsman-like home in Hancock Park. Actually, as our neighbors always pointed out, Windsor Square. It had a more"prestigious" ring as it was the first of the truly "posh" neighborhoods, and in fact the largest upper-class sub-division ever marketed in Los Angeles, when it was conceived. Those were the days when "Hispanics" were known as "Spaniards" and when Jews, Blacks, Greeks and anyone not listed in the Social Register were sent on their way to establish other neighborhoods, like Beverly Hills. Lucky for us, turns out that those standards are long a thing of the past and those old founders are rolling in their graves. We rented the house from a lovely Greek family. Two houses down was a Black lawyer and her husband. Down the other way was a Jewish family, a Latino family and a mixed race family, with two children adopted from Asia. Diversity personified. The neighborhood always smelled of a mixture of jasmine, pine and eucalyptus. Cottage after cottage. Yards blooming with roses, gardenias, lilies. One garden was nicer than the next and children could easily run from one house to another. Besides some feral cats and the constant sound of LAPD helicopters overhead every evening, it was a perfect fit for us in every way.
Until the landlord got divorced and needed her home back. Sadly we needed to seek another refuge before we became homeless.
South Pasadena is known for having top schools, kinder through high school. Our son was about to enter Kindergarten. Off we went. We secured a faux-Spanish like home, built in the last ten years by a Korean businessman who populated a new street with spec McMansions that looked regal but had plastic piping, shoddy construction, cheap windows. Our new landlady was a widow whose husband's family owned one of the largest publishing firms in Southeast Asia. Her children now grown, she lived alone in a 4000 square foot home nearby and purchased this home when it was in foreclosure just months before we moved in. Her reason? She loved the closets in the master bedroom. That was why she purchased the home.
We spent three lovely years there. Mornings were fresh and in winter we had a clear view of snow-capped mountains and palm trees in the foothills.
When my husband's company planned to re-locate us to Prague in 2011, we gave our landlady notice that we would be leaving at the end of our lease. All was well. Then, a few weeks later, just after she left for a trip to Korea, we received notice that our move was being cancelled. Frantic to reach her, we emailed, left messages, texted, and got no reply. We didn't really think staying would be an issue, as she had indicated she hated the house and wouldn't ever really want to move in; it was simply an investment. Two months later, she returned and unexpectedly said "Oh I am so sorry but I am so depressed and need a project so I must move into the house. Really sorry."
"But you have a lovely home just around the corner. And you've said you really don't even like this house."
"Yes I know. It's true. But I am depressed."
"Listen honey, fixing this house is not going to cure your depression. I can guarantee you that!," said I to no avail.
We had three weeks before school started to find a home and re-locate. We had hoped to find a place in the same school district, so as to mitigate the damage. Sadly, that didn't happen and the home we found was in a totally new area, way west of Pasadena.
Sherman Oaks spreads over a wide variety of terrain, but mainly it is still considered part of the San Fernando Valley. The "Valley" has a reputation for suburban sprawl and lots of strip malls. "Valley girls" were once the emblem for ditzy, vapid, gum chewing, big hair, teen model wannabes of the 80s and 90s. The pocket neighborhood we found is high on the hill, which in Angeleno speak, places it higher on the "class" scale than being in the "flats." The house is a beautiful one-level ranch cottage, with a shingled roof tiles, a serene yard, pool, tall fragrant pines and is wrapped in roses. The school, not so serene. Our normally optimistic, outgoing child has come home numerous times saying he feels unsafe there. Seems children are "mean" which (amazingly so) we had not experienced in any other school and had given me hope that this generation was simply kinder and gentler, for whatever reason.
Those thoughts have been dashed by Sherman Oaks. Sadly, I fear another move is on the horizon.
This time, we want to buy. And not be at the whim of a divorce or a depressed, economically independent dowager who doesn't care about displacing us. So, onward, we begin the process, again.
Stay tuned.
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