ADVENTURES IN UNCERTAINTY

EARLY WINTER

The throw of the dice this week lands on adventures in uncertainty. I’m about to have a meltdown, and I’m not afraid. This is for all of you, who like me, are trying to adapt, change, make up your mind, or waiting for a miracle.

The last time I had no direction home was in 1994. I was living in San Diego and was the on-site manager of a townhouse project in the process of condo-conversion.

The phone rang in my apartment, breaking the silence.

“Turn on the A & E channel.” Rudy said.

“What’s on?” I asked.  

“Bugsy Siegel.”

“Are you watching it?”

“Yea! I’ll call you afterward.”

I knew the photographs of Ben slumped on that sofa, eyes bleeding down his face, was what my dad witnessed, from the same sofa. That’s about all my father told me, that he was sitting next to Ben, and that he was his best friend. He told me to honor Ben’s memory for life, and that I should never call him Bugsy. I believed what my father told me because he was always right. What I didn’t know is if my mother knew Ben, and if she loved him as my father did. It was our family secret, his name was not mentioned, but his sister was my Aunt Bess whom I loved. I met Millicent and Barbara, Ben’s daughters, and when we were together, Ben never came up in conversation.  

 When the reporter made the statement that my father was the point man, who conveniently disappeared into the kitchen during the time of the shooting, I was enraged. I wanted to strangle her. But it was when the photograph of my dad appeared on the screen, a man with thick graying hair, that I noticed an expression I’d never seen on his face-fear.

After the show ended, the phone rang.

“Did you see it?” Rudy asked.

“Yea.”

“Your Dad looked so young. Can you even imagine what he went through? Those guys were tough, they fought the entire government. I wish I knew how to do that; you know? Hello, are you there?”

“I’m here. I can’t believe they said he set it up. Dad was forty, the same age as I am now. Should I believe what they said? It’s shameful, it’s worse than what I imagined. He was a  man who murdered. I can’t talk about it anymore. If anyone in the office watched the show they might ask me if I’m related. What would I say? I feel like quitting, and going into hiding.” 

“You shouldn’t be ashamed. They were the original rebels. They made their own rules.”

“I gotta go now, this program gave me some things to think about. I’m learning about my father from television, because he didn’t want me to know anything about his life. What was he hiding?” 

The next day, when I was in my office, the guys were talking over coffee. One of them asked me if I was related to Allen Smiley, and I said, why. He told me he’d seen the documentary and wondered if I was related. I stood there, staring back at him, and intuitively knew I had to admit I was. ‘Don’t have me rubbed out,’ he told his group of agents. They all laughed. I wondered what my father would tell me to say.  “Well, don’t piss me off and I won’t.”  That’s what he’d want me to say, but the formidable shame that exploded was over powering.

By the end of the day, everyone in the office knew who I was, and most of them approached me, with their own censorious commentary about Bugsy, and the Mob. It made me defensive and obstinate. This wouldn’t go away; the office joke would be, Luellen is going to shoot you if you cross her.  

Once my father told me there was no such thing as the Mafia, he was shouting it, his face red as beets, his veins enflamed. I was thirteen at the time, just after my mother died, and it was the first time I was afraid my father would smash my head against a wall. I’d made the mistake of asking him what the Mafia was, after reading about it in The Green Felt Jungle, a book one of my girlfriends had seen. I read my father was a hoodlum, and an associate of Bugsy Siegel.

That night I paced the apartment, giving in to my imagination, and the allegations against Ben. I cursed my father, for dying without giving me answers, and my mother for keeping his secret safe. What I needed was someone to talk to about them, but their friends vanished after they died. I wondered if Millicent was still in Los Angeles and if she’d talk to me. I called information but she wasn’t listed. None of Dad’s friends were ever listed.

When I told Rudy I was leaving my job, he argued with my reasoning. But it wasn’t a shame he could understand, and eventually he agreed. Rudy was an ex-boyfriend, the best type of friend to have, and he was a rebel. My job was ending in a few months any way, when the condos went up for sale.

“ What are you going to do? Where are you going to go?

“One at a time. I don’t know, and I don’t have a clue.”

“Why don’t you go to Florence’s. She’s always asking you to come stay, and I’m sure she’d love your company, especially after the earthquake. You weren’t really happy in San Diego and you’re always talking about going back to Los Angeles.” 

“ Los Angeles is a collision of childhood bliss and death. I feel like a bird whose been thrown from the nest. 

“ Just try it out. If you don’t like it you can stay in the studio until you figure things out.”

I moved to Florence’s because she knew me for many years, and she understood me more than anyone else. I settled upstairs in the extra room, on a convertible sofa. My room looked out to Westwood Boulevard, where I used to transfer buses before going back to my dad’s Hollywood apartment. Where ever I went, something reminded me of the past I tried to forget.

Florence sat me down at the dining room table with a cup of coffee and asked me questions, one after the other, and I had no answers, or I didn’t want to talk about it.

“Why should that program on TV bother you? You knew your father was doing business with these guys.”

“I don’t know anything about Ben! I learned about my Dad from television Florence, okay, it’s a shock. People ask me about it, and I don’t know what to say. Oh yea, my dad was a gangster too.  What do you know about Bugsy?”

“Well, just what I’ve heard. He made Las Vegas, and he was in the Mob.”

“I saw Godfather, I know there is a Mafia but my father wasn’t in it; I know that for certain.”

“Darling, your father was connected, that’s all.”

“To what was he connected, gambling, prostitution, what?”

“Oh stop it! That was not your life anyway. Now just calm down  and we’ll have a good time tonight. You want to rent a movie tonight?”

I hoped she wouldn’t rent a romantic drama because I had none in my life. I was unattached, separated by distrust, and aching to be part of a group. Trust was another boundary; I was taught not to trust anyone.

We lived like two unsteady nervous women do; checking on each other, making lists, and trying to get organized. When Passover arrived, the house overflowed with her children, grandchildren, and chicken matzo ball soup.

During Seder, I had to excuse myself before everyone before they finished because family gatherings splinter me, I fall backwards into my own history and ache for relatives. The unpolished conversations, and mocking, the jokes and communal laughter, it hits me like a tidal wave in the face. Family gatherings were abandoned by the time I was twelve. Florence pleaded for me to stay, but I said I had to write so she let me go.

After I left Florence’s I drove undirected around Los Angeles, like a reporter, stopping and making notes and then continuing on. I drove to Linden Drive, and looked at the house where Ben was murdered.  Then I went to a phone booth, and called UCLA Counseling Center. I didn’t know if I’d hang up, or make an appointment, but I knew the scratch for help was rising up and I could not control it any longer. I was sick of shame and secrecy. To be continued. Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol.com   

The throw of the dice this week lands on adventures in uncertainty. I’m about to have a meltdown, and I’m not afraid. This is for all of you, who like me, are trying to adapt, change, make up your mind, or waiting for a miracle.

The last time I had no direction home was in 1994. I was living in San Diego and was the on-site manager of a townhouse project in the process of condo-conversion.

The phone rang in my apartment, breaking the silence.

“Turn on the A & E channel.” Rudy said.

“What’s on?” I asked.  

“Bugsy Siegel.”

“Are you watching it?”

“Yea! I’ll call you afterward.”

I knew the photographs of Ben slumped on that sofa, eyes bleeding down his face, was what my dad witnessed, from the same sofa. That’s about all my father told me, that he was sitting next to Ben, and that he was his best friend. He told me to honor Ben’s memory for life, and that I should never call him Bugsy. I believed what my father told me because he was always right. What I didn’t know is if my mother knew Ben, and if she loved him as my father did. It was our family secret, his name was not mentioned, but his sister was my Aunt Bess whom I loved. I met Millicent and Barbara, Ben’s daughters, and when we were together, Ben never came up in conversation.  

 When the reporter made the statement that my father was the point man, who conveniently disappeared into the kitchen during the time of the shooting, I was enraged. I wanted to strangle her. But it was when the photograph of my dad appeared on the screen, a man with thick graying hair, that I noticed an expression I’d never seen on his face-fear.

After the show ended, the phone rang.

“Did you see it?” Rudy asked.

“Yea.”

“Your Dad looked so young. Can you even imagine what he went through? Those guys were tough, they fought the entire government. I wish I knew how to do that; you know? Hello, are you there?”

“I’m here. I can’t believe they said he set it up. Dad was forty, the same age as I am now. Should I believe what they said? It’s shameful, it’s worse than what I imagined. He was a  man who murdered. I can’t talk about it anymore. If anyone in the office watched the show they might ask me if I’m related. What would I say? I feel like quitting, and going into hiding.” 

“You shouldn’t be ashamed. They were the original rebels. They made their own rules.”

“I gotta go now, this program gave me some things to think about. I’m learning about my father from television, because he didn’t want me to know anything about his life. What was he hiding?” 

The next day, when I was in my office, the guys were talking over coffee. One of them asked me if I was related to Allen Smiley, and I said, why. He told me he’d seen the documentary and wondered if I was related. I stood there, staring back at him, and intuitively knew I had to admit I was. ‘Don’t have me rubbed out,’ he told his group of agents. They all laughed. I wondered what my father would tell me to say.  “Well, don’t piss me off and I won’t.”  That’s what he’d want me to say, but the formidable shame that exploded was over powering.

By the end of the day, everyone in the office knew who I was, and most of them approached me, with their own censorious commentary about Bugsy, and the Mob. It made me defensive and obstinate. This wouldn’t go away; the office joke would be, Luellen is going to shoot you if you cross her.  

Once my father told me there was no such thing as the Mafia, he was shouting it, his face red as beets, his veins enflamed. I was thirteen at the time, just after my mother died, and it was the first time I was afraid my father would smash my head against a wall. I’d made the mistake of asking him what the Mafia was, after reading about it in The Green Felt Jungle, a book one of my girlfriends had seen. I read my father was a hoodlum, and an associate of Bugsy Siegel.

That night I paced the apartment, giving in to my imagination, and the allegations against Ben. I cursed my father, for dying without giving me answers, and my mother for keeping his secret safe. What I needed was someone to talk to about them, but their friends vanished after they died. I wondered if Millicent was still in Los Angeles and if she’d talk to me. I called information but she wasn’t listed. None of Dad’s friends were ever listed.

When I told Rudy I was leaving my job, he argued with my reasoning. But it wasn’t a shame he could understand, and eventually he agreed. Rudy was an ex-boyfriend, the best type of friend to have, and he was a rebel. My job was ending in a few months any way, when the condos went up for sale.

“ What are you going to do? Where are you going to go?

“One at a time. I don’t know, and I don’t have a clue.”

“Why don’t you go to Florence’s. She’s always asking you to come stay, and I’m sure she’d love your company, especially after the earthquake. You weren’t really happy in San Diego and you’re always talking about going back to Los Angeles.” 

“ Los Angeles is a collision of childhood bliss and death. I feel like a bird whose been thrown from the nest. 

“ Just try it out. If you don’t like it you can stay in the studio until you figure things out.”

I moved to Florence’s because she knew me for many years, and she understood me more than anyone else. I settled upstairs in the extra room, on a convertible sofa. My room looked out to Westwood Boulevard, where I used to transfer buses before going back to my dad’s Hollywood apartment. Where ever I went, something reminded me of the past I tried to forget.

Florence sat me down at the dining room table with a cup of coffee and asked me questions, one after the other, and I had no answers, or I didn’t want to talk about it.

“Why should that program on TV bother you? You knew your father was doing business with these guys.”

“I don’t know anything about Ben! I learned about my Dad from television Florence, okay, it’s a shock. People ask me about it, and I don’t know what to say. Oh yea, my dad was a gangster too.  What do you know about Bugsy?”

“Well, just what I’ve heard. He made Las Vegas, and he was in the Mob.”

“I saw Godfather, I know there is a Mafia but my father wasn’t in it; I know that for certain.”

“Darling, your father was connected, that’s all.”

“To what was he connected, gambling, prostitution, what?”

“Oh stop it! That was not your life anyway. Now just calm down  and we’ll have a good time tonight. You want to rent a movie tonight?”

I hoped she wouldn’t rent a romantic drama because I had none in my life. I was unattached, separated by distrust, and aching to be part of a group. Trust was another boundary; I was taught not to trust anyone.

We lived like two unsteady nervous women do; checking on each other, making lists, and trying to get organized. When Passover arrived, the house overflowed with her children, grandchildren, and chicken matzo ball soup.

During Seder, I had to excuse myself before everyone before they finished because family gatherings splinter me, I fall backwards into my own history and ache for relatives. The unpolished conversations, and mocking, the jokes and communal laughter, it hits me like a tidal wave in the face. Family gatherings were abandoned by the time I was twelve. Florence pleaded for me to stay, but I said I had to write so she let me go.

After I left Florence’s I drove undirected around Los Angeles, like a reporter, stopping and making notes and then continuing on. I drove to Linden Drive, and looked at the house where Ben was murdered.  Then I went to a phone booth, and called UCLA Counseling Center. I didn’t know if I’d hang up, or make an appointment, but I knew the scratch for help was rising up and I could not control it any longer. I was sick of shame and secrecy. To be continued. Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol.com   

 

 

SMILEY’S DICE ON UNCERTAINTY

The throw of the dice this week lands on adventures in uncertainty. I’m about to have a meltdown, and I’m not afraid. This is for all of you, who like me, are trying to adapt, change, make up your mind, or waiting for a miracle.

The last time I had no direction home was in 1994. I was living in San Diego and was the on-site manager of a townhouse project in the process of condo-conversion.

The phone rang in my apartment, breaking the silence.

“Turn on the A & E channel.” Rudy said.

“What’s on?” I asked.  

“Bugsy Siegel.”

“Are you watching it?”

“Yea! I’ll call you afterward.”

I knew the photographs of Ben slumped on that sofa, eyes bleeding down his face, was what my dad witnessed, from the same sofa. That’s about all my father told me, that he was sitting next to Ben, and that he was his best friend. He told me to honor Ben’s memory for life, and that I should never call him Bugsy. I believed what my father told me because he was always right. What I didn’t know is if my mother knew Ben, and if she loved him as my father did. It was our family secret, his name was not mentioned, but his sister was my Aunt Bess whom I loved. I met Millicent and Barbara, Ben’s daughters, and when we were together, Ben never came up in conversation.  

 When the reporter made the statement that my father was the point man, who conveniently disappeared into the kitchen during the time of the shooting, I was enraged. I wanted to strangle her. But it was when the photograph of my dad appeared on the screen, a man with thick graying hair, that I noticed an expression I’d never seen on his face-fear.

After the show ended, the phone rang.

“Did you see it?” Rudy asked.

“Yea.”

“Your Dad looked so young. Can you even imagine what he went through? Those guys were tough, they fought the entire government. I wish I knew how to do that; you know? Hello, are you there?”

“I’m here. I can’t believe they said he set it up. Dad was forty, the same age as I am now. Should I believe what they said? It’s shameful, it’s worse than what I imagined. He was a man who murdered. I can’t talk about it anymore. If anyone in the office watched the show they might ask me if I’m related. What would I say? I feel like quitting, and going into hiding.” 

“You shouldn’t be ashamed. They were the original rebels. They made their own rules.”

“I gotta go now, this program gave me some things to think about. I’m learning about my father from television, because he didn’t want me to know anything about his life. What was he hiding?” 

The next day, when I was in my office, the guys were talking over coffee. One of them asked me if I was related to Allen Smiley, and I said, why. He told me he’d seen the documentary and wondered if I was related. I stood there, staring back at him, and intuitively knew I had to admit I was. ‘Don’t have me rubbed out,’ he told his group of agents. They all laughed. I wondered what my father would tell me to say.  “Well, don’t piss me off and I won’t.”  That’s what he’d want me to say, but the formidable shame that exploded was over powering.

By the end of the day, everyone in the office knew who I was, and most of them approached me, with their own censorious commentary about Bugsy, and the Mob. It made me defensive and obstinate. This wouldn’t go away; the office joke would be, Luellen is going to shoot you if you cross her.  

Once my father told me there was no such thing as the Mafia, he was shouting it, his face red as beets, his veins enflamed. I was thirteen at the time, just after my mother died, and it was the first time I was afraid my father would smash my head against a wall. I’d made the mistake of asking him what the Mafia was, after reading about it in The Green Felt Jungle, a book one of my girlfriends had seen. I read my father was a hoodlum, and an associate of Bugsy Siegel.

That night I paced the apartment, giving in to my imagination, and the allegations against Ben. I cursed my father, for dying without giving me answers, and my mother for keeping his secret safe. What I needed was someone to talk to about them, but their friends vanished after they died. I wondered if Millicent was still in Los Angeles and if she’d talk to me. I called information but she wasn’t listed. None of Dad’s friends were ever listed.

When I told Rudy I was leaving my job, he argued with my reasoning. But it wasn’t a shame he could understand, and eventually he agreed. Rudy was an ex-boyfriend, the best type of friend to have, and he was a rebel. My job was ending in a few months any way, when the condos went up for sale.

“ What are you going to do? Where are you going to go?

“One at a time. I don’t know, and I don’t have a clue.”

“Why don’t you go to Florence’s. She’s always asking you to come stay, and I’m sure she’d love your company, especially after the earthquake. You weren’t really happy in San Diego and you’re always talking about going back to Los Angeles.” 

“ Los Angeles is a collision of childhood bliss and death. I feel like a bird whose been thrown from the nest. 

“ Just try it out. If you don’t like it you can stay in the studio until you figure things out.”

I moved to Florence’s because she knew me for many years, and she understood me more than anyone else. I settled upstairs in the extra room, on a convertible sofa. My room looked out to Westwood Boulevard, where I used to transfer buses before going back to my dad’s Hollywood apartment. Where ever I went, something reminded me of the past I tried to forget.

Florence sat me down at the dining room table with a cup of coffee and asked me questions, one after the other, and I had no answers, or I didn’t want to talk about it.

“Why should that program on TV bother you? You knew your father was doing business with these guys.”

“I don’t know anything about Ben! I learned about my Dad from television Florence, okay, it’s a shock. People ask me about it, and I don’t know what to say. Oh yea, my dad was a gangster too.  What do you know about Bugsy?”

“Well, just what I’ve heard. He made Las Vegas, and he was in the Mob.”

“I saw Godfather, I know there is a Mafia but my father wasn’t in it; I know that for certain.”

“Darling, your father was connected, that’s all.”

“To what was he connected, gambling, prostitution, what?”

“Oh stop it! That was not your life anyway. Now just calm down  and we’ll have a good time tonight. You want to rent a movie tonight?”

I hoped she wouldn’t rent a romantic drama because I had none in my life. I was unattached, separated by distrust, and aching to be part of a group. Trust was another boundary; I was taught not to trust anyone.

We lived like two unsteady nervous women do; checking on each other, making lists, and trying to get organized. When Passover arrived, the house overflowed with her children, grandchildren, and chicken matzo ball soup.

During Seder, I had to excuse myself before everyone  finished because family gatherings splinter me, I fall backwards into my own history and ache for relatives. The unpolished conversations, and mocking, the jokes and communal laughter, it hits me like a tidal wave in the face. Family gatherings were abandoned by the time I was twelve. Florence pleaded for me to stay, but I said I had to write so she let me go.

After I left Florence’s I drove undirected around Los Angeles, like a reporter, stopping and making notes and then continuing on. I drove to Linden Drive, and looked at the house where Ben was murdered.  Then I went to a phone booth, and called UCLA Counseling Center. I didn’t know if I’d hang up, or make an appointment, but I knew the scratch for help was rising up and I could not control it any longer. I was sick of shame and secrecy. To be continued. Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol.com   

 

 

 

 

 

SMILEY’S DICE ON THE JAMMERS

 

 

 

PIPER JO AT ROCERS

 

 Free your

 

 

mind and the rest will follow; the words from EnVogue’s latest release played all day on the radio. Every time I got in the car to hunt up listings, I heard that song.       

PIPER JO AT ROCKERS

  

  I worked in an industrial building along an industrial highway in San Diego. I shared a warehouse with twelve men, eleven of them tall, weight trained football on Sunday guys, who ate at expensive restaurants amongst a club of commercial real estate agents. They were pretty decent guys, except the partners who each had a severe case of ego malnutrition and competed for attention like two tottlers. Greg was the only short one in the bunch, and he wore a rug, manicured his nails, and surfed on the weekends. He was always talking about his Karate black belt, and how he knocked guys out. He rarely laughed and when he did he sounded like a chirping bird. Greg used to give me his wife’s unworn clothes and waited in my living room while I tried them on. It was sort of strange, but he never played the trump card and asked for anything in return.

One day in the summer of 1992 I called the office secretary.

“Gail, I’m not coming in for awhile. Will you forward my calls to my home?”

     “Are you all-right?”

     “Oh yea. I’m fine.”

“What should I tell them?”

“Tell them I’m on leave of absence.”

I lived in a little cottage house in North Park. It was all white with a picket fence and a squared grass yard where my dog played. The front room was small but the carpeting was new, so I could curl up on the rug and watch the clouds from the windows.

  

I threw my nylons and navy pumps in the garbage, and folded the business suits into boxes. I knew I wasn’t going back, but where I was headed was a throw of the dice. Mornings I ran through Balboa Park before the crowds arrived, and got to see the zoo keepers feeding the animals, and the actors going into The Old Globe Theater. I filled my senses with virgin light and morning silence; unfamiliar sensations to office workers living with florescent lighting and partition walls.  In the afternoon I lounged around in sweats watching music videos, reading magazines and dancing. A few days later, I watched some new music videos, maybe EnVogue or Bobby Brown, and tried to imitate the hip-hop moves on the carpet. It was like watching a cat in the snow. I called all the dance schools, and no one was teaching hip-hop. I didn’t know back then my mother was dancer; so this impulsive and implausible scheme to start a dance troupe startled me as much as everyone I told.

  

The last lease deal I closed was for a group of soccer players from Jamaica. They needed a space to open a reggae dance club. I found a disheveled warehouse and struck a deal for them. They fixed up the place themselves; with colored lights, and some tables, but Rockers was really about the dancing. I walked into the club one night, and they were all doing their part; greeting customers, spinning vinyl, and serving drinks. I danced with Leroy, the leader of the group, and watched him unfold from the waist down. He danced so low to the floor, he appeared boneless.        

 “Leroy, I’m going to start a dance troupe. You guys inspired me.”

     “What kind of dance?’

     “Hip-Hop and jazz funk.”

Leroy covered his mouth with one hand and laughed.

     “What’s so funny?”

     “You’re a business woman; I didn’t know you was a dancer.”

     “Well, I took lessons a long time ago.”

     “Hip Hop?”

     “No, Jazz. I’m going to find the dancers to teach. I know they’re out there.”

     “Yea, they out there all right; lots of them.”

     “We’ll see! I’d like to use your space, pay rent of course, when you’re not open.” 

     “Well that’s all right. You don’t need to pay me.”

     I hugged him, and he shook his head. “I don’t think there’s much money in teaching hip-hop.”   

  

 At the community college I posted a sign for dancers, and observed some classes.   When I got the call from Piper, he asked me to come see him teach at the Church. I drove over  and found Piper in a little room upstairs, teaching Jazz-funk to one woman. He was tall and lanky with a smile that creased his whole jaw. He came over, shook my hand, and said, ‘How you doing?  I’m Piper.’ He wore an immaculate shield of confidence that defied his nineteen years. He moved at the intersection of Michael Jackson and James Brown. The groove spiraled through his body.

Piper Jo at Rockers.

  

“I’ll help you get it started; if you’re not a trained dancer you need help.” So Piper and I met every week and finally landed on a group that incorporated Jazz-funk, Hip-hop and Afro-Cuban. I named it United Steps Dance Productions, and the Jammers.

  

I’ll never forget the look on the partner’s faces when I told them I was starting a multicultural dance troupe. They just stared at me blankly.  Then within weeks all five of my unclosed lease deals were signed at the same time.  I walked out with enough money to live three months. That was real security in my mind. 

  

Piper and I held our first audition at Rockers.  When I opened the doors that morning, dancers were already lined up outside. They came dressed in street clothes;  wearing scarves, baseball caps, loose pants, and tank tops.  I watched them leap, kick, split, and turn inside out for the job. I knew that I was in the right spot. One dancer walked out, stood still for a moment, and then leaped into a break-dance pop-lock routine that silenced the crowd.

     “Him Piper, definitely him.” 

     ”He’s bad, yea he’s real bad.”  At the end of the auditions, Piper mocked me.  

“Lue, we can’t sign every dancer just cause they hip-hop. Anyone can do that.”

I can’t hip hop and it’s my company.”

“Yea, and you’re crazy. I swear, Lue you’re crazy.”

We agreed on pop-locker Vince-MasterJam, and Monique, a young Afro-Cuban dancer. That was the beginning. 

 

When Vince and I met, he told me he lived in Escondido.

“But that’s an hour away.”

“It’s cool, I’ll be here. Just give me the chance.”

Vince showed up twice a week at night for his class. Many times, we sat in the cold damp club, listening to music and Vince tried to teach me to pop-lock. I apologized for not having students and he looked at me, and said, “ Don’t worry Lue, will get it going on.”

  

 Our first performance was at the Red Lion Hotel. I hired a video tech to record the performance. We got a free dinner and a hundred dollars. We had a good crowd, and everyone loved them.  Afterwards in the dining room, they were talking, laughing and elbowing each other. Piper was ranting about Monique taking too much time, and Vince was telling Piper to chill because she was so talented. I sat there just listening, with a big smile on my face.

  

 The Jammers belonged to the no smoking, no drinking, no drugs group.  For the first few months, they taught on tiled floors under a leaky roof, without any heat.  But they kept coming back to teach and their dedication moved me to find a better location.  We relocated to a well-heeled Health Club downtown San Diego and the classes filled up with students, dancers, and office workers searching for a new lunch.  They came from all different races and ages. I danced with the classes and promoted our troupe. The Jammers laughed at my attempt to be a soul sister, and I laughed with them.  We were reviewed by KPBS magazine, and a photographer took pictures of us and featured us in the magazine.

  

Searching for gigs proved to be an exasperating struggle. I called department stores, festival producers, shopping centers, nightclubs, hotels and everyone had the same line, “I don’t think hip-hop is right for our clientele.”

  

When I ran out of money I took a job managing a condominium project, where I lived rent free. After a time of observing the Jammers self expression, I asked myself, what is mine?  I still refused to get on stage.  Vince used to bawl me out because I made Piper introduce the group.

 

After two years Piper moved to Los Angeles to launch his dancing career, and I let Vince take the troupe where he wanted it to go. He turned it around, adding twelve dancers and broke more ground in San Diego. Monique developed into a serious stage actress and  we all lost touch. They were the sparklers in my life; like that star you think you’ll never hold.  I left the Jammers a different woman. They put the rhythm back in my spirit and soul.  

  

 When I recently located Vincent on an Actors website, I called him right away. He is a missing link in the chain of my life. Without that adventure, I might still be imitating the kind of business woman I wasn’t. We met in Los Angeles, and watched Vince perform in a club. He kept his vision and now acts on television and video. “ Lue, now you have to find Piper.”     

It was Piper, who said to me one day after reading some of my poetry, “ Lue, you’re not a dancer. You’re a writer.”  

Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ADVENTURES IN LOS ANGELES

  Luellen Smiley   

The throw of the dice this week lands on livingness of Los Angeles.

Standing on the curb of SWA Ticket counter in Los Angeles, waiting for John to pick me up. The caustic culture shock from Santa Fe is still feeling like I’m the dart board, and they are all throwing darts at me.

“Can’t stand there, get up on the curb.” I thought the Police Officer was joking, but he looked like he was ready to aim and shoot. 

John scoops me up before we get one-sided by much bigger and more important limousines.

“You want to have lunch first?”  

“I’m starved, How about that Deli, Jerry’s, it’s close by isn’t it?”  

“Right down the street.”

I knew John wouldn’t argue. He’s the most agreeable man I’ve met. John is a screenwriter; a dinosaur from the forties, when writers loved their subjects, and courted them while they inhaled all the tidbits that would fit into the story. I came to John by way of a childhood family member, not the biological family but the other one that Dad belonged to. I still don’t know what to call it. It’s not the Mafia, and organized crime is a government term, and the thing is a Hollywood stunt, and what the guys on the inside call it, is family.

John was writing a script for JF and got half way into the script and JF backed out. It was about a famous Mafioso, his Uncle Johnny. I trusted John when he said he liked my story enough to start a script and asked me to write it with him. That’s why he was picking me up in LA, so we could meet.

We sat in a vinyl booth and our waiter, a part-time performer in a gay club, lips still red from last night’s make-up, saunters up, “ You know what you want sweetheart?”

“Tuna Melt and fries.”

“Perfect, and what about you?”

“I’ll have the Cobb salad.”

I was home, I could feel it in the thickly tempered air, and in the light, the rush of traffic penetrating through the windows, and the other customers, talking and eating without time to do either one, because the phone rings, or someone walks in, or there is a news flash on the television.

We drove to the hotel, and I unpacked, and then John and I talked in the alcove, while Yogi’s tiptoed past us, and bowed or prayed silently.  I was home; across the street was Santa Monica Hospital where my Aunt worked for years on the switchboard, and on the other corner, the Funeral parlor where mother lay before the funeral.  I had already booked the three nights so I opened the refrigerator and a bottle of wine. Then I called my therapist, Ann. I hadn’t spoken to her since 1999. The phone was disconnected.

I remembered Ann, her voice, and watery blue eyes, the way she tilted her head when I cried, and the impending but softly stroked, “I’m afraid our time is up”, and how she led me back to my childhood and into the vacuums I had plugged up. Ann appeared after a desperate attempt to find help, she was practicing at the Emergency Physiological guidance center at UCLA.

Every week for five years I went to Ann, and we unwrapped all the knots I’d been tightening for years. When I left, I was not all healed and ready to beat the world, but I wasn’t tied so tightly. Just after leaving her, is when I decided to write my way home. 

In the morning, I walked along Wilshire Boulevard and almost drown in memories, of high school, and later when I was a young adult, and then later when I was an adult working in commercial real estate. I walked knowing where I was going without even looking at signs. John and I met up later and strolled along Ocean Avenue, and talked about writing a script. It was more than irony that fourteen years ago, this is where I broke down, and knew I needed help. At the corner of Barrington and Wilshire is where I made the call to UCLA admitting I needed help right that minute. I wasn’t suicidal, and I didn’t want to get there, but the aroma was drifting dangerously close.  I was at a public phone booth, and there was a man next to me shouting into the receiver, “ I have the script, it’s finished.” Something along that line, and I’m shouting, “I think I should be committed.”  

So when the next morning the window filled with those old memories, me and Lizzie cruising down Wilshire singing ‘Hey Jude’ on the way to the beach, the face of home was right there, and I loved everyone, even the unconscious people made me chuckle.

That afternoon I met my distant cousin Paula,for the first time. We exchanged a familiarity, and instant trust and awareness. She is related to my father’s side of the family.

“Did you know about my father?”

“My mother told me in clipped unfinished anecdotes; we have a gangster in the family.”

I chuckled, because now I can, it doesn’t make me bow my head in shame. Outside on the Venice Boardwalk, a passing stranger noticed John’s gold guitar medallion around his neck.

“Are you a musician?”

“Well, yes, I am. Not famous, but I sing and record.”

She told us she was one too, and asked for his card, and seeing her embellished in joy at being noticed, I could have applauded right then. More was to come that night. John, Rudy and I were on our way to see Master Jam, one of the original Jammers, of my dance troupe. I hadn’t seen Vince in fourteen years. To be continued..

THE HURT LOCKER

For all of us that claim we honor support and appreciate the troops, take a look at what your supporting. For someone like me, who has never experienced combat, and known very few who did, I bow my head. This film is a book, a documentary, a closeup photograph and everything that it takes to get the point across. 

Katherine Bigalow is right-on.

The

THE UNDERWORLD STORY

MYRON & ME

The throw of the dice this week lands on adventures in livingness.  There were two more evenings that rekindled my roots in New Jersey. One was Sabbath at Myron’s. We gathered around a table, cluttered with exotic kosher food that Myron’s wife Clara had prepared. We prayed, ate, laughed, and listened to Myron’s stories. There were no phones ringing, television or music.

Arthur, Callahan, Paul, and another gentlemen visiting from Germany sat at the table. Myron told us about the time he went to Nigeria. He was thirty seven years old and was in charge of slot machines business. I looked at him now and then through the dinner, and imagined him at that age, a young fearless student. Myron’s life has never been about just livingness. He lives differently than anyone I’ve ever met. He treats people differently, and he is certainly a person who you cannot BS. After I left New York, he went to Russia to do business. He sent photographs of Moscow, and told stories in his emails about Russia. I learn from him, but it’s not the same as living the experience. The only way to learn from Myron is to sit beside him and shut-up.  

On the country drive out to the suburbs to visit a friend of his, Myron gave me a history lesson of the Jewish religion. He passed on the simple version; he called it Judaism 101, because I cannot fool Uncle Myron. What I learned in Synagogue has not been exercised in many years. I recorded his lesson on my pocket recorder. What happened next was more about universal religion;  friendship without judgment and criticism.  

“This is a good friend of mine. He just got out of the joint. He was a boss of one of the families in New Jersey.”

When we reached Tack’s neighborhood, I noticed the other homes had a similar design and color like custom homes in a development usually do. All the lawns were manicured and the neighborhood appeared pressed with the same iron of income level and values. We parked on the street and walked up the driveway. A woman with penetrating brown eyes and short cropped hair waved at us.  Myron turned to me, “Tack’s in shackles. He can’t go further than the garage.”   Myron introduced me to Tack’s wife, and we gathered around the center island of the kitchen.

“Where’s Tack?” Myron asked.

“He’s in the house, I’ll get him.”  

Myron whispered, “He’s got another case coming up, he appealed but odds are he won’t win.”

Tack entered the kitchen, and we were introduced.

“What can I get you Luellen? A glass of wine, something to eat?’

He looked healthy and fit; a man of strength but a worn voice like someone with laryngitis. 

“No thanks.”

“ Tack, you know who this is?”

“No, who?”

“Al Smiley’s daughter. You remember, Benny Siegel’s partner.”

“No kidding.” He said.

Tack’s wife, peered at me through her glasses.  I smiled, unashamed, and relieved I didn’t have to explain everything.

Tack had a stack of papers to show Myron. They walked into the living room and started to talk.

“Mrs. Tack, can I see your garden? It looks beautiful from here.” I asked.

“Sure.” I followed her outside to the wooden deck overlooking a lovely green patch of grass and flower beds. We sat down and I told her I was a writer, and how I met Uncle Myron. She told me she was a High School teacher.

“I’d love to read your columns. Will you send them to me?” I agreed to, and then we talked about summer vacations, and she was looking forward to going to Los Angeles.

“I go every year with my sister. We stay in Santa Monica, and go to the beach every day. We don’t even talk that much, we just lie down; get out our books, and escape. I love Los Angeles.”

“I love it too.”

We sat out there, on a muggy warm Friday afternoon, just listening to birds, watching them feed from the little bird tray, and sewed a silent thread of understanding.

When Myron came out to fetch us, Tack looked more relaxed. He asked me to come back anytime for dinner, and have a real homemade Italian meal. I told him I’d like that. The thing was he really meant it. If I showed up one night, they would invite me in without any hesitancy. 

Afterwards in the car I told Myron I felt like I was in the Soprano’s home.”

“You were sweetheart. You were in the real thing.”

“Will he have to go back to prison?”

“I believe so. Mrs. Tack knows the score; she’s been with him since High School.” Myron said Tack was a stand up guy, and he liked the family and would do whatever he could to help.

The next night I spent with Arthur on Mulberry Street. He took me to Florio’s for dinner, and we sat with Butch Blasi, another Runyon character with a disarming manner and a face that made Sylvester Stallone seem ordinary. Arthur and Butch talked back and forth about different characters; guys from the Genovese family, and how this one ended up in the joint and the other one in a ditch, and then in the middle of a story, Butch tells me he likes my coat. Then they return to the quipping and stories and there were too many Horse Eddie names so I just sat back and absorbed all of it without needing to talk. It was drizzling outside and just a few people on the street. I could have sat there all night listening and drinking espresso.

I left New York with a sealed envelope of memories that included a walk on Riverside Drive. Morris Rosen lived on that street. I never met him, but I read about him. He orchestrated the battle against the government when they tried to deport my  father to Russia. He was also the man who took control of the Flamingo after Benny Siegel was murdered.  

A couple of weeks after I got home Myron sent me an email with a link to a newspaper article. Tack lost his case. He was sentenced to life in prison. I asked Myron if I could talk to Tack and hear his side of the story. Myron said, “ Sweetheart, it won’t help your career and it won’t help Tack.”  That’s the way things turn out in the underworld. No one will ever know the real story. Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol,com

JAMMERS PART TWO

ME AND MASTER JAM, AND RUDY IN LA

 San Diego was still into rage and rock and roll. The people I was calling for gigs didn’t know Hip-Hop yet.   That was too bad, because we were  having the greatest experience of our  life.  When I ran out of money I took a job managing a condominium project, where I lived rent free and had weekends and evenings for Jammers.  After a time of observing their self expression, I asked myself, where is mine?  I still refused to get on stage, Vince used to bawl me out because I made Piper introduce the group. We were good for each other, the three of us. After two years Piper moved to Los Angeles to launch his career, he had showmanship in the way he held his hands.  Vince took over the troupe and added twelve more dancers.  These two young men, they were the sparklers in my life, like that star you think you’ll never hold.  When I left the Jammers I was a different woman. They put the rhythm back in my spirit, and faith into my soul. I mean there are things a business career will never offer, you have to go into the arts for this kind of stuff.

THE JAMMERS LAUNCH

Free your mind and the rest will follow, the words from EnVogue’s latest release became a sort of mantra.

 It was a decision that came at a moment when everything else stopped making sense, except my happiness.  I tossed out the two-piece suits, and turned off the world outside. Insulated in my tiny North Park bungalow, I merged into  music and dance. During the hottest of summer days I was seated cross legged on the worn carpeting  watching MTV and flipping through magazines. 

       Imploded with music videos, magazines, and dancing;   Hip-Hop was the most exhilarating choreography around.  I watched the music videos over and over. When I searched the yellow pages for dance classes; no one was offering Hip-Hop.  With that, I thought why can’t I be the founder of a dance troupe?  

  I needed to find the  dancers to suit my concept of integrating  jazz funk, hip-hop, and Afro-Cuban  into a collage workshop.   

      Piper Jo was the first dancer to join. He came at me with everything he had; talent, faith, intelligence, and belief in this crazy white chick who wanted to hip-hop.  Piper played Miles Davis, emulated jazz-funk, and moved like Michael Jackson.  He was twenty years old and this was his first teaching job. When I asked him who taught him to dance he answered;

“Michael Jackson and James Brown. I danced in my living room every day. My mother couldn’t get me out of the house. God blessed me with this gift, and I want to share it. So if you put me in your dance troupe I guarantee, you won’t be sorry. NO, you won’t.”  

 At our first audition Piper said,  “How you expect to pick dancers, if you don’t know what to look for.  I swear Lue, you are crazy.  But don’t worry,  I’ll show you. And don’t be picking every guy out there cause he can Hip-Hop, there’s nothing to that. We want dancers with classical training.”  He was right.

“Vince Master Jam”  was a former break-dancer and studied classical dance. Vince was the coolest; he sat back and waited for his chance, unhurried, relaxed, but when the music came on, he flipped everyone out. He was thirty. Both of them belonged to the no smoking, no drinking, no drugs, group

At that first audition  I wanted to select half of the thirty some dancers that showed up.  They came dressed in street clothes, wearing scarves and bandannas.  I watched them leap, kick, split and turn inside out for the job.  I knew that I was in the right spot. Then we added Monique, a startling beauty with Afro-Cuban dance training, and a perpetual attitude of carefreeness. 

For the first few months, the Jammers taught classes under a leaky roof, on a tiled floor, without any heat.  Piper rode a bus from the other side of town to get to the building.  Vince drove an hour each way to teach one class at night. The first few months no one showed up for Vince’s Hip-Hop class.  But he kept coming back every week.  When I apologized, he said, “ That’s okay Lue. We get it going on,  they’ll show up soon– I’m sure.” 

They did show up and we moved into a well positioned Health Club downtown San Diego. The classes filled up with students, dancers, and working women looking for a new challenge. They came from all different races;  Asian, White, Hispanic and Black.  I danced with the classes and promoted our troupe. They laughed at my attempt to be a soul sister, and I laughed with them.  We were reviewed by KPBS magazine, and a photographer took photographs of us and featured the Jammers  in the magazine. People began to think I knew what I was doing. The Jammers thought I could take them places.  I pictured them on the front page of Variety, the problem was I was too early. 

MYRON -THE JEW OF JERSEY.

The throw of the dice this week lands on Part Three of Myron in New Jersey. We just left Frank’s office.  “ Okay boys; to the Chelsea.”   

“ I’ve been to a lot of wild parties in that hotel! Paul says, Callahan snubs his comment, “ Oh yea. You’re lucky you didn’t drop dead.

Inside the Chelsea, Myron takes a fast glance, and shakes his head. “ You like the artwork Myron?” I asked

“ Huh? Looks like crap to me.” Up on the third floor, Arthur comes out in the hall to greet us.  This is the first time we’ve met. Arthur found me by way of the Las Vegas Mob Museum, because he is one of the curators and has woven himself into the families of mob history.

“ Hello Hello–come in. Luellen, so nice to meet you. This must be Uncle Myron. Come in; it’s so small. I’m sorry, please sit down. Can I get you something to drink? Soda–Water?”

“Do you have wine?” I asked.     

“I have a bottle here somewhere. Taste it;I think it might be old.”

“Your right, it’s old.” Myron sat in the club chair, took off his glasses and let his eyes roam the collection of photographs.

Watching Arthur, he reminded me of one part Charles Boyer and the other part, street smart Sterling Hayden. Arthur grew up next door to a famous gangster, and his grandmother was a collector, so this history became his passion. He’s been collecting memorabilia fourteen years and studying the characters from his corner on Mulberry Street. He was much younger than I imagined, and he dressed vintage chic 1940’s.

No problem Luellen, I’ll order up.”

Arthur picked up the phone, “Yea, I want to order a few bottles of wine; I’m a desperate alcoholic so hurry it up.”

Myron was still looking at the walls. Then they began exchanging stories about the Mustache Petes, Crazy Joe Gallo, all the way up to present day.

“Do you know Abe X?” Myron asked.

“Yea, he comes over all the time.”

“Call him up. Tell him I’m here.”

“Are you sure? He’s sort of private, and he’s very temperamental. I’d rather not Myron.”

“Call him. Trust me.”

“He’s old; I don’t want to upset him.” He glanced at me.

“Arthur; Myron knows what he’s doing.” I interjected. 

He winked at me. “All right, I’ll call him.”

“Hello Abe? Yea it’s me-how you doing? Everything all right? Listen I got a friend over that wants to say hello. Myron—I said Myron! Yea, Myron Sugerman. Do you want to say hello? Yea, he’s here now. At the Chelsea. You’re coming over now? Okay. Yea, we’ll be here.”

Myron shrugged. “Haven’t seen that guy in twenty years.” Not more than ten minutes later, this large man carrying a worn brief case shuffles inside. He’s the Walter Matthau type who talks without waiting for a response, and moves like he just woke up.

“ Myron, for heaven’s sake.”  Myron and Abe do not shake hands, or embrace or anything.  They immediately start talking. 

Arthur smiled at me, and I played with his cat, Selleck.  

The two men flipped through their rolodex cards of thugs, gamblers, bosses, rats, and jailbirds. I heard a Myron and Abe mention a few names I recognized so I asked about a friend of Dad’s.

“ Abe, do you know Chuck Delmonico?”

“ Sure,” Abe said.

“ Is he still in Florida?”

“ Nope, he’s dead. Died a few months ago.”

“ That’s too bad. I was finally ready to call him. He was good  friends with Dad.”

“ His father was Jimmy the Blade.” Abe added.

“ Yes, I read that.” The delivery showed up and Arthur poured me a glass. I drank in bliss-this was about the closest I’d felt to being home; I mean amongst people that understand my background and love me for it.

 “Okay, time to go.” Myron stood up. He has a built in alarm that rings right before people begin to exaggerate or bore one another.

“ Arthur, we have Seder tomorrow night. You’re invited if you’d like to come.” Myron said as pulled on his overcoat.

“ Oh I’d love to. I have to figure out a ride to Jersey.”

“ It’s taken care of; Paul will pick you up at 6:OO.”  Myron said as he walked out the entry.

“ Bye Arthur, see you tomorrow night.” And I followed behind Myron.

As we walked down the hallway Myron took a deep breath.“What a joint, the whole place smells like marijuana. ”

Callahan and Paul were waiting on the sidewalk, looking more aggravated. “ Myron, for crying out loud! It’s raining.”

“So get in the car imbecile.”  Mocking Myron entitles Myron to mock back better so it’s an education for anyone listening.  They have their favorite subjects and one of them is poor Callahan’s love life, “ I went to London to see my girlfriend, I brought eight Viagra and only two worked. I thought she was in love with me, and she thought I had money.”

“Did you break up?” I asked.

Myron interjects, “ Yea, she broke his balls”  Laughter all around and then Paul says something sweet like, “Don’t talk like that in front of the lady.  Myron interjects, “ She’s more than a lady; she’s the real deal.” 

We are driving down one of the avenues and in the distance I  notice the steeple of a high rise wrapped in a cloud of wet fog. “Look! Isn’t that a beautiful sight?” I say. The men pay no attention and continue to bark and harangue one another, as the car crawls behind a thousand other cars.

We pull up and park across from the The 2^nd Street Deli.

“ You’ll get a real Kosher meal here. You like that?”

“ Wonderful,” I said.

There’s a bit of a wait, so Myron sits down. Then the host comes over and helps me find a seat between the narrow as nails aisles. He asked me what I do; if I model or something. I tell him I’m a food critic. The thin and newly immigrated man, shoots off and comes back with a winning smile. “ I have your table.”  First time that ever worked in my life. 

I ordered what Myron did, corn beef on rye and a Soda.

The other tables were live portraits of a society in action on a Thursday night; there were family squabbles, political arguments, wedding plans, women watching men, and men belching with the relief of a birthing contraction. The later it got, the nosier the crowd. It seemed like everyone was shouting. Then come these hi-rise corn beef sandwiches, and Myron is cajoling with the waitress.

“Honey bring some more pickles.”

“Sure baby, anything you want.”

“Well how about some more cole slaw, and another soda.”

“All right, one tune at a time.” She quips.

We ate in silence. There was no way you could talk through this sandwich. Afterwards, before the beef settled, we were on the road again. Myron dropped Paul off at a corner, and Callahan on another corner, and we zipped back through the Holland tunnel.

“ I got a little stop to make first.” I understood the meaning behind that line, because I’d heard it a million times growing up. It is one of those eight minute meetings, never much longer unless they mix it with a meal. A meeting in this world is bim- bam-boom. It is either to collect, to pay, or to get information. You do this–I do that-done. 

We pull up in a neighborhood Myron explains is one-hundred percent Columbian. When he parked in front of this little café, I thought we were in Columbia. The room was lit with harsh white lighting, and plastic chairs and tables were scattered amongst children’s toys. The counter was small, and the menus hand printed and pasted on the wall. It was a family room, a family restaurant, and the place where the boys had their meetings.    

“ These are hard working people. You don’t mind do you?”

“ No, of course not.” I answered.

“ It won’t take long sweetheart.”

We walked inside and a man greeted us. He was clean-cut, young and well-mannered. We sat down and Myron ordered coffee. Then he  made a few introductory comments about his friend and told him I was his niece. Myron carried in a small canvas bag which he placed next to his chair. Then after the coffee was served they spoke in Spanish.  I watched the women behind the counter. She moved fluidly from register, to the ice machine, to the phone, and then every so often looked up. Once we met glances, her fixed brown eyes were ready to flip a table on my head and then she turned away.  The young man handed an envelope to Myron, and he placed it in his bag, without as much as a squeak. They talked a while longer, and I drank my coffee. I observed every detail of the room, and how unfamiliar it was from the previous few hours in Manhattan.

“ Okay sweetheart, you ready to go?”

“ Sure.”

The young man shook my hand,” Nice to meet you.” He looked about seventeen but his grip was sucker-proof.  We walked out to the car.”

“ Myron, he was so young.” I said.

“ Yea, but he’s smart. He’s got his own crew; maybe twenty other young boys depend on him.

“ He was so polite.” I added.

“ Sweetheart, I have the best. I’ve been around more make believe wise-guys than I care to remember. Everyone says he’s a wise-guy until you meet them in the joint and they have to take Anti-depressants every day. I never took them.” 

“ How did you make it through?”

“ Humor. You can’t survive without it sweetheart.”  

“ My Dad had the same philosophy.”

“ Sure he did. We come from a different world.”

 

TO BE CONTINUED Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol.com

THE JAMMERS KICK

In the fall of 1993, I was working for a king-sized jerk in his commercial real estate office.  Dirksen used every opportunity to remind me that I was not as successful as he was.

I was the only female in an office of twelve better suited men. My Chanel 5 was used sparingly and I dressed in navy-blue two piece suits and low-heeled pumps.  With a leather briefcase slung over my shoulder, and a HP calculator that I refused to master, I was a shrimp swimming with the sharks. On hot blue sky days I drove around San Diego searching for new listings, meeting prospects, and showing space. One eye was always drifting; scanning the horizon, museums, artists hang-outs.

I tossed out the two-piece suits, and turned off the world outside. In the next weeks my attention was drawn to music and dance. During the hottest of summer days I was seated cross legged on the worn carpeting of my little bungalow, watching MTV and flipping through magazines.

TO BE CONTINUED

 

UNCLE MYRON

UNCLE MYRON & THE JEWS OF JERSEY

The throw of the dice this week lands on Part Two; Uncle Myron of New Jersey.

“Will you look at this weather? Two weeks of it all ready,” Myron griped.  Then his phone rang again. He doesn’t have time to build on his gripes and complaints. They get momentary attention. 

I shook my head in agreement, but I loved the way rain coated the old brick buildings and sidewalks of Jersey. It was the sort of day that rain and driving alongside Myron while he talked on the phone seemed staged.

“Are you hungry?” He asked.

“Yes. I’m close to starving.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

He didn’t wait for me to answer; he just drove faster. We parked in a lot and walked up to an older building, without windows. A valet greeted us, took Myron’s keys, and they exchanged familiar conversation.

“Sweetheart, this is the real thing, traditional Italian. You like Italian right?”

“Oh yes, I grew up on Italian food.

“Sure you did. Our father’s loved Italian food.”        

The room was sealed like a bank, or casino. Once you stepped inside you forgot what was outside.  A traditional Italian restaurant with built-in booths on one side of the room, a few center tables, white tablecloths, chandeliers and worn paisley carpeting.  There were no windows, skylights, or doors.   It’s a place you where you cannot hide or escape.

 The owner was dressed in a dark blue suit and he had a big bald head and sad eyes. He barely acknowledged me before he bent down to whisper something to Myron.  Then he took the order, “Madam, what would you like.” Afterwards Myron whispered to me, “He wanted a tip on which machines to play. What a shame, he’s got this beautiful restaurant, and he gambles all his money.”

“Dad gambled away everything too.”

“That’s the tragedy of it; you never end up a winner.”   

“I heard Dad was a great handicapper, he lived off his winnings at the race tracks, until they kicked him out. He played poker, and bet on all the major sports games, but he wasn’t a roulette sort of gambler.”

“Of course not; that’s for the suckers.”   

My cell phone rang, and recognizing the number as my agent I answered. A few moments later, I clicked off.

“What is it?” Myron asked.

“Frank had to cancel the meeting; his son has trouble at school.” Myron didn’t flinch, he just stared at me.

“What! You flew 1000 miles to meet this guy and he cancels. Call him back and tell him you must see him.”

I did as instructed, and told Frank’s assistant I had Uncle Myron with me. She said she’d give Frank the message.

“He left for the day?” I said to Myron.    

“Listen sweetheart, I heard the way you talked on the phone. You’re not handling this with what you got to show. Now you tell him, ‘break my heart Frank, tell me the truth. Are we going to make money on this book or not?”

“Yes; you’re right of course. But he has a lot of clients, and he works alone.”

“What are you talking about? You got a story!  Whatta’ya say we take a drive over to his office?”   

“But he’s not there.”

Myron shrugged his shoulders, “Well, maybe he is, and maybe he isn’t. We’ll say we were in the neighborhood.” 

“Really?”

“Why not? Are you ready? Let’s go.” Men like Myron, they do not let time just pass. They don’t let an opportunity, a conflict, a fight, or an injustice just pass by. Whether it be for their own gain, or someone they care about. They don’t leave unfinished business at the lunch table, and let it get swept off with paying the bill. These guys, the real ones, never leave anything to second guessing; unless they’re blind folded or handcuffed.

By the time Myron finished schooling me on what to say, my cell phone rang. ” Frank will be able to make the appointment.”

Myron nodded. ” There you go.”  

When we shot out of the Holland Tunnel I lost all sense of direction. The next thing I knew we were parked in front of a building and two men approached the car.

“What a mug. I thought she’d be pretty like her mother; she looked good on the internet. What a dog face. Take a look.” Myron jibed.

The man leaned over and stuck his head in the window. He laughed and his whole face melted into a half-moon smile.

“Get in Callahan.  Paul, you sit in front. Sweetheart get in the back seat with me. These are two misfits; can’t find their way around a grocery store. Runyon characters. Paul, turn around and say hello you imbecile.”

Paul’s eyes were watery blue and his face flushed, but he was on the side of compassion. You could see all of it in his expression and how he began each sentence with defeat. Callahan was a gambler; ruddy faced, tired, and a pocket full of stories that he rattled off like he had prompt cards on the dash board. We laughed all the way to Frank’s.

“Okay boys, wait here.” 

We went up the elevator and Myron was silent. He was thinking about what he was going to say.

We spent over an hour sitting with Frank and talking about old time gangsters, and who’s still alive and who is doing time. Frank knew them all; or had published their books. It was a relaxed meeting and when it was my turn, I repeated almost exactly what Myron had said. Instead of saying, ‘are we going to make money, I said, are you going to make money. Frank answered, “You’ll make money too.”

Back in the elevator Myron remarked, “He’s a nice guy, I really liked him.” 

“Yes, he’s very likable isn’t he? By the way, Arthur Nash lives close by. He’s the man who has the mob museum collection. He’d love to meet you. He’s waiting for me to call.”

“So, let’s go meet him. Where’s he located?”

“At the Chelsea Hotel.” 

Paul and Callahan were anxiously pacing the sidewalk when we arrived.

“Okay boys, we’re going to the Chelsea.”

“What’s there?” Paul asked. 

“A mob museum. What the hell–I love photographs of the old guys.” To be continued…

Any dice to throw email: folliesls@aol.com

THE DICE on UNCLE MYRON

The throw of the dice the week lands on adventures in Newark and Manhattan with Uncle Myron. Myron is my Uncle by way of tradition in the world of my father. Most of his associates and friends were Uncles. It was after the New York Post published my story on ”Confessions of a Mob Kid”, that Myron wrote to me.    

Our first meeting.

“Hello sweetheart. I’ll meet you downstairs in your hotel at 10:00.”

“Can we make it 10:30, I’m running late.”

“Sure.”

A thick steamy humid rain splattered against the hotel window in Newark, New Jersey. Coming to Jersey has everything to do with Myron and my mother. She was born and raised here, and so was Uncle Myron; the man I am meeting downstairs as soon as I dry my hair. His father, Sugie, was a friend of the family. Not the Smiley family, the other family that I only acknowledged after writing a memoir.  

The phone rang at 10:00 am.

“Hi sweetheart I’m downstairs.”

“I’m getting ready as fast as I can.”

“Well make it faster.” Click.

I had a feeling that he’d be early. Dad pulled the same stunt on me.

Downstairs in the lobby, an imposing man wearing a black fedora and a black over coat, was standing in front of two younger men. They looked like blue collar guys; dressed to make contact with machinery or heavy equipment. They all turned my way as I approached them.

“Hey, little lady! Come on-we’ll have a cup of coffee. I have to talk to the boys for a few minutes.”

“Boys, this is Luellen. Okay, everyone sit down.”

“You know who this lady is?” Myron asked. They both stared at me.

“Her father was Benny Siegel’s partner, and a friend of my father.”

They nodded.

“Luellen, these boys are from Russia. They’re good people–the best, and highly educated.  Where was your Dad born sweetheart?”

“Kiev.” I answered.

Simultaneously the two young men, started to speak about our Russian family name, Smehoff, and the meaning in Russian.

“It translates something like joy, and to be happy.”

“That’s why the immigration officers changed it to Smiley.” I said.

The boys, as Myron called them, talked history, politics and world affairs before I’d finished my double espresso.

“Is the Russian Mafia very powerful?” I asked.

“There is no Russian Mafia. The power is with the government, and it’s hidden agencies.” One of them answered. I regretted making such a stupid comment.  

“All right, now we’re going to go over here and talk a little business.”  Myron stood up. He looked down at me, ” Okay.”

They shook my hand and nodded, without any affectation, and followed Myron to the next table. I’d been here before, many times, I knew the routine, sit and wait. 

After the meeting, Myron and I went to the car. 

“I was in prison with the kid, the fair haired one. He just got another sentence. I’m trying to help him; I have to do what I can. He’s got a wife and child.”

I listened to Myron; every word. His language was not formed in college or through books. It is one of people who’ve survived the dangers of living outside the law;of living in Africa, when Chicago sent him to be the manager of a joint venture slot machine operation with the Arabs, Israel, and every Latin American country from South of the Rio Grande to Patagonia. He moved machines through un-chartered borders, and learned the language of the people. It gives a person the sophistication that enables them to stand up in the hall of justice, where judges and informants cat-walk their power, to the chagrin of men who live by their word, honor, and secrecy. Myron is raw as beef; there is no fat between the lines. He says something; you know it came from experience.     

“What did the kid do?” I asked.

“It’s all bullshit.” 

I’d heard that before too; and I knew it wasn’t any of my business.

“Would you like to see where your mother grew up?”

“Yes!” 

“What street was it—Schley?”

“Yes, 35 Schley.” How did he know the street? I don’t remember telling Myron or writing about  Myron drove slowly, it had been years since he’d been in this part of town. 

“I’m not sure if this street will go through. They didn’t have a freeway going through this part of town in the thirties. Wait a minute-if I go up here, and turn around,” Myron drove with one hand, without a seatbelt, wired into the blackberry ringing at ten minute intervals.  He grew up in Newark, so he was determined to find his way back to Schley Street. We circled for a few minutes. He made U-turns in the middle of intersections, and paid no heed to other drivers. I recognized that routine, Dad used to drive with two fingers and read his mail simultaneously.    

“This was all Jewish at one time. Look! There’s the park where your mother played as a little girl. I can guarantee it.” 

The park was set in the midst of a deteriorating neighborhood; the Victorian homes were boarded up or used for storage. The park was the last remaining landmark of the turn of the century Newark culture; a society that pushed buggies on a Sunday afternoon, dressed in top hats and lace dresses.

“There’s the famous Tavern. It was one of the most famous restaurants back then. Your mother went there, and across the street is the high school. This is Wweequahic neighborhood. Newark was a flashy town back then, better than New York because you knew everyone. I knew every family and if I didn’t, someone I knew did. We looked out for each other.”

“Like Longy did.”  I knew Myron’s father was partners with the legendary Jewish boss of New Jersey, Abner Zwillman, who was known as Longy.  

“Longy is another story all together little lady. You cannot grasp what the man was about on a short drive through Newark.” 

“Look there’s the house.” Myron pointed. “It’s a two-family, your mother lived in a very nice place, see. Now you know. Are you happy?”

Myron picked up the phone. “Yea, meet us in the city-I’ll tell you later what time.”  I looked at the house; imagining Nana, and the grandfather I never met inside, and my little mom standing in the front yard with her German Sheppard.  I have a photo of her standing in front of this house. She is holding a parasol over her head, and even at five she looked ready to model.  To be continued… Any dice to throw email: folliesls@aol.com

MOON OVER A BRICK HOUSE

The throw of the dice falls this week falls on a full paper white  moon shimmering  behind a few sketchy clouds. A few million miles away, a wedding party is thumping to the music of the eighties, I think it is Lionel Richie they are playing.  A man from the party has wandered off and is stumbling down the street, waving his hands to the music. I look down from my window, and five young adults, are leaning up against the wall to the front garden, and staring up at the house. Mark, the restaurant manager is pacing back and forth on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette, his head bent to the ground, thinking of things that matter at that moment.  The television is on, only to obstruct the music, You’re a brick house.

 The Letter, with Bette Davis plays on the old 21” fat screen, that we put in the closet, and I can refer to it, a satisfying intermission to modern living. The convergence of events, under this full moon, of discordant sounds, activity, and physical sensations, has not  shattered my composure. Just minutes before the music started, I was musing notes about my column. It is about this full moon, and how it resembles at this moment, a kinship to a full life.

It began a month ago when I decided to rearrange my life style, the abject attitude and waking to the hymn of self-defeat.  Now, sunlight spreads shadows of light across the lime green leaves and adobe walls of the neighbor. Sage Bakery has dropped off trays of flaky warm croissants to the hotel, and former body building champion, Deneilo is pushing his garden cart and planters around the corner.  He waves, “Go morning,” and I wave back. His gestures are Americanized but he does not speak English. He gestures with fingers spread wide apart, and grins as if he is about to be photographed. I am across the street, drinking my coffee, wondering how the day will unfold, as I direct it’s flow, or think I do.

That evening I was seated at a bistro bar, about to order and the woman next to me turned to me, “ Haven’t we met?”

“Yes, at La Posada. I remember.” I answered.

“I’m Kathy.”

“I’m LouLou, well, really Luellen. Taos named me LouLou.”

“I love that name, it’s so cheerful, makes you want to laugh,”

“I know. No one takes you seriously when you say, I’m LouLou.”

She laughs. “That’s good, it’s give you an edge.”

“Maybe.”

She then recalled a past evening at La Posada. One of Santa Fe’s most haughty and entertaining locals, who some know as St. Francis, started to shout at Kathy, and told her to shut up. He pounded the bar with both fists, and Kathy recoiled under the pressure of good breeding. Raul, the bartender, who had already warned St. Francis to drink his scotch not use it as artillery, raised his arms, and shouted, “OUT, AND DON’T COME BACK.YOU ARE NOT WELCOME IN MY BAR.”

I was not surprised. In a small city as Santa Fe, the watering holes are numbered, and all the horse-asses’ are talked about, even though we try not to be village idiots.

“I’m so relieved he’s not coming back. He was always groping me at the bar, using his thick tongued European poetry.” I said.

“ I know! He was such an arrogant guy.”

“ I think he was worse than what we imagined.”

“ What do you mean?”

“ Well, he said he was Swiss, and his father fought the Nazi’s, and they lost everything. I think his father was a Nazi, and they never had anything to start with.”

“ OH so do I!”

Kathy had traveled the world, and was married to a diplomat. She met the jugglers, jack-asses, and honored government officials.

We found common ground right under our fingernails. Kathy is a composer, and she likes night life as much as I do.

“ Have you been to Curazon?” I asked.

“ No.  I haven’t even heard of it. Do you want to go?”

“ Now?”

“Yes, why not? It’s still early.” 

“ Right toe.” I agreed.

We met at the entrance of the club, crammed in a body sandwich,  of what I later found out was the film group. Two men intercepted us, “Hi where are you from”? She said to the long haired European.

“Switzverland.”

“Oh, I’ve been there, I loved it,” she said.

“ I’ve been there too.” I added. Never mind that it was twenty-five years ago. 

Tied together by limited space and a slow crawl to the bar, we both hopped up on bar stools.  It was old school, old bar, old everything, except that I banished my inhibitions, and made a lot of fuss on the dance floor. 

Turned out Mr. Dave-the director-is working on a documentary  about Murder, Inc, and has a distant relative that was in the mob-or is in the mob, or something. I have a story about that, and when I opened my mouth, he turned to greet a low-cut blonde in high heels. 

I stumbled out of the party around one in the morning. The next day Kathy and I emailed. She mentioned her deceased husband, something about New Jersey, his family’s bakery, and I thought of Uncle Myron.

I  emailed Myron, and asked him if he had heard of Schachtel’s Bakery. He replied.

“ONE OF MY OLDEST AND STILL
VERY CLOSE FRIENDS IS BOB SCHACHTEL, HE IS ABE SCHACHTEL´S SON AND HIS FATHER WAS VERY CLOSE TO ABE ZWILLMAN.”  Bob is her deceased husband’s brother. Abe Zwillman was the honored leader of the New Jersey Jewish population.

You can read about him in  “Nazis of Newark,” among other history books. Kathy came by the next day with a bottle of Champagne and we talked for several hours. The next few weeks, turned around more unprecedented encounters and emancipated me from destructive mumbo-jumbo.

Last night around midnight, I picked up a black clog and tossed it down the stairs. Then I opened the window and yelled, “Shut-Up,” to the hollow vacant space between me and the rappin DJ.

The full moon is kin to my life; it is bright, and shaded by sketchy clouds of uncertainty. One day, I too shall be a million lights years from the rhapsody of rap, gangsters, fresh baked croissants, and maybe Bette Davis will be my friend. 

Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol.com     

 

    It began a month ago when I decided to rearrange my life style, the abject attitude and waking to the hymn of self-defeat.

Now, sunlight spreads shadows of light across the lime green leaves and adobe walls of the neighbor. Sage Bakery has dropped off trays of flaky warm croissants to the hotel, and former body building champion, Deneilo is pushing his garden cart and planters around the corner.  He waves, “Go morning,” and I wave back. His gestures are Americanized but he does not speak English. He gestures with fingers spread wide apart, and grins as if he is about to be photographed. I am across the street, drinking my coffee, wondering how the day will unfold, as I direct it’s flow, or think I do.

 

That evening I was seated at a bistro bar, about to order and the woman next to me turned to me, “ Haven’t we met?”

 

“Yes, at La Posada. I remember.” I answered.

“I’m Kathy.”

“I’m LouLou, well, really Luellen. Taos named me LouLou.”

“I love that name, it’s so cheerful, makes you want to laugh,”

“I know. No one takes you seriously when you say, I’m LouLou.”

She laughs. “That’s good, it’s give you an edge.”

“Maybe.”

She then recalled a past evening at La Posada. One of Santa Fe’s most haughty and entertaining locals, who some know as St. Francis, started to shout at Kathy, and told her to shut up. He pounded the bar with both fists, and Kathy recoiled under the pressure of good breeding. Raul, the bartender, who had already warned St. Francis to drink his scotch not use it as artillery, raised his arms, and shouted, “OUT, AND DON’T COME BACK.YOU ARE NOT WELCOME IN MY BAR.”

I was not surprised. In a small city as Santa Fe, the watering holes are numbered, and all the horse-asses’ are talked about, even though we try not to be village idiots.

“I’m so relieved he’s not coming back. He was always groping me at the bar, using his thick tongued European poetry.” I said.

“ I know! He was such an arrogant guy.”

“ I think he was worse than what we imagined.”

“ What do you mean?”

“ Well, he said he was Swiss, and his father fought the Nazi’s, and they lost everything. I think his father was a Nazi, and they never had anything to start with.”

“ OH so do I!”

Kathy had traveled the world, and was married to a diplomat. She met the jugglers, jack-asses, and honored government officials.

We found common ground right under our fingernails. Kathy is a composer, and she likes night life as much as I do.

“ Have you been to Curazon?” I asked.

“ No.  I haven’t even heard of it. Do you want to go?”

“ Now?”

“Yes, why not? It’s still early.” 

“ Right toe.” I agreed.

We met at the entrance of the club, crammed in a body sandwich,  of what I later found out was the film group. Two men intercepted us, “Hi where are you from”? She said to the long haired European.

“Switzverland.”

“Oh, I’ve been there, I loved it,” she said.

“ I’ve been there too.” I added. Never mind that it was twenty-five years ago. 

Tied together by limited space and a slow crawl to the bar, we both hopped up on bar stools.  It was old school, old bar, old everything, except that I banished my inhibitions, and made a lot of fuss on the dance floor. 

Turned out Mr. Dave-the director-is working on a documentary  about Murder, Inc, and has a distant relative that was in the mob-or is in the mob, or something. I have a story about that, and when I opened my mouth, he turned to greet a low-cut blonde in high heels. 

I stumbled out of the party around one in the morning. The next day Kathy and I emailed. She mentioned her deceased husband, something about New Jersey, his family’s bakery, and I thought of Uncle Myron.

I  emailed Myron, and asked him if he had heard of Schachtel’s Bakery. He replied.

“ONE OF MY OLDEST AND STILL
VERY CLOSE FRIENDS IS BOB SCHACHTEL, HE IS ABE SCHACHTEL´S SON AND HIS FATHER WAS VERY CLOSE TO ABE ZWILLMAN.”  Bob is her deceased husband’s brother. Abe Zwillman was the honored leader of the New Jersey Jewish population.

You can read about him in  “Nazis of Newark,” among other history books. Kathy came by the next day with a bottle of Champagne and we talked for several hours. The next few weeks, turned around more unprecedented encounters and emancipated me from destructive mumbo-jumbo.

Last night around midnight, I picked up a black clog and tossed it down the stairs. Then I opened the window and yelled, “Shut-Up,” to the hollow vacant space between me and the rappin DJ.

The full moon is kin to my life; it is bright, and shaded by sketchy clouds of uncertainty. One day, I too shall be a million lights years from the rhapsody of rap, gangsters, fresh baked croissants, and maybe Bette Davis will be my friend. 

Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol.com     

 

 

 

ADVENTURES ON THE ARTIST LIFE

 

The throw of the dice this week lands on adventures in livingness, address unknown.

Fifteen years ago, the summer of 1993, I was having lunch in a restaurant in Los Angeles. Across from me was the only other woman of importance in my father’s life, besides my mother, that I had known. Sandy Crosby, a leggy brunette with bark brown eyes, arched brows, and a showcase smile. 

She always had a response that outwitted her opponent, including my father, who relied heavily on, ‘don’t be so smart.’  Half-way through the first course at Jimmy’s, she looked at me and grinned.  

“You’re so much like your father.”

“I am?”

“Oh yes.”

“Your father loved living on the edge, he really did.”

I rested on that thought for a long time. I was temporarily living with a friend in Los Angeles. I lived out of a suitcase, with a broken down Cadillac, and a folder of resumes.  My dad  never lived out of a suitcase, or needed a resume to find a job. After he met Benny Siegel, he had multiple offers in organized crime. 

What I discovered, is Dad didn’t truly settle down until he had to raise my sister and I. He was 56 years old when Mom died, and we were tossed into his lacquered bachelor pad in Hollywood. The same age I’ll be… one day.  

Living on the edge is a term used to describe infinite lifestyles. The momentum, or ignition that fuels that lifestyle, is uncertainty. We live by impulse and imagination. Our plans are last minute, we never buy in bulk, and we are always dreaming of the voyage. We run from stationary life because at heart, we are gamblers.

This time, the edge is the very place I spent two years creating, the photography gallery and place I call home. 

Up until this winter, it operated as a gallery by appointment, while I polished my memoir proposal. After several months, I went to the edge and decided to convert the gallery into a vacation rental. I needed to roam; I longed to gather new material.   

The winter climbed back into bed, and then spring ripped through the ground, and the roses and poppies bloomed. The memoir remained unpublished, and the house began to transform from gallery into a real home. The long uneventful winter punctured my prudent habit of writing, remaining secluded, and avoiding everything but the essentials. By May, I made a silent vow under a stream of sunlight, to enlist into the human race.

The reinvention resembled nature, like today. The day began with  a feverish sky of culminating clouds, a long dreary silence, and an absence of light. The street was empty, just the valet from La Posada running to the garage to fetch the cars. They were bundled in winter coats, while the party rental truck loaded the furniture from last evening’s wedding. The storm struck with impetuous force. The valet’s ran with umbrellas, small children yelled for cover, and I took a seat on the back porch. Suddenly, the storm rescinded, and the sun burst through the cloud cover.

My emancipation back into the flow of mixing strangers and friends was alchemy to the house. Now it’s a home; to cook, entertain, and fill with music, laughter and conversation.  I can see the faces of the people I’ve met, imagine the next meeting, and anticipate the next outing. The windows and doors are opened, the people who pass by look in. I was cooking dinner one night this week, and noticed a man peeking in the window. He looked like Harrison Ford, just back from the Lost Arch.

“ Is this a museum?” he asked when I went to the door.

“ No. It’s a gallery, a home. Well come in, and take a look around.”

Opening the door to a stranger returned the affirmation that impulse socializing is still possible. You don’t have to be a teenager to recognize a good time, but you need to be an adult to recognize a goodfellow. 

Some of us lone roamers cannot reverse the inclination to retreat from life; because we find too much confusion, agitation and adversity in the world. Between all of those elements, there are treasures waiting to be discovered: opportunity collaboration, adventure, and most of all companionship.

Even though the comfort of this home has replenished my spirit and temporarily produced a yawn of security, I am preparing to go to the edge. Though I imagine it is another place of endearment, another address, and another gamble, it may be the inner voyage that will transcend.    

When I tell people we’re renting the house, they ask me where  will you go?    

I don’t know yet. Sandy was right; I am like my father. The edge I picked wasn’t a green felt jungle of dice and chips, it’s an artists’ life.

Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol.com

MIDDLE OF LIFE

THE MIDDLE OF THINGS TO COME

 I read in one of my books on writing that the middle of the novel is where most writers face the demon. The beginning is a gallop, the end is a relief, but the middle wiggles in and out of your grasp. The middle of our lives reflects this same difficulty.

The middle of a life span reflects all we have accomplished and all we have left incomplete. This is what they call a mid-life crisis. I get it every year. This year it is more comical. I’ve finally accepted that my constant relocating, reinventing, and being restless are not going to be solved. I am going to keep doing these. At the bottom of the restlessness is the fear of finding rest more enjoyable than movement. This flotation of comedy rotated around me last night while I was standing out on the porch observing the peacefulness. The scenery of Santa Fe is a comforting, ethereal beauty that comes at all times of the day and night, and the flow of people is integrated and festive. All I could think of was where I should go next. The discomfort of mid-life comes from trying to assimilate what you have and what you want.

 Many years ago, in the summer of 1987, I was seated in a café in Monaco, truly, and a man that I was traveling with told me, “You have to make a choice.” He embarked on a long discussion about choices we make in life and how everything depends on these choices: how you live and with whom, and what you do. He pointed out to me over my first really authentic Salad Niçoise that I was an oblivious example of a woman refusing to choose. I was more interested in the salad, the yachts, the casino around the corner, and the fact that I didn’t have an evening gown to wear to dinner. I listened without argument or insult, but I was disturbed by what he said. I didn’t understand completely, but he was older and had much experience and conviction. That conversation now fits into the mid-life crisis, the comedy of errors in my life, and maybe in yours, and just how much travesty we can ignore. For my fault, as it is, I do not want to sign, commit, or make final decisions. I want it all to be a temporary placement that allows me the freedom to change.

I have lost track of my European friend, but if he met me today, he would say, “You have not changed at all.” So that is why I was standing there in the darkness on the porch and laughing like a silly girl, because it is true. I have not changed at all.

The choice facing us at mid-life is making a change now, risking losing all we have accomplished, compiled, and attached, or throwing the dice.

Beyond the obvious changes in activity, relationships, and scenery are the internal travels. They are not so easily booked. You cannot wake up one day and say, “I ‘m off to become more compassionate, or more practical, or more generous.” These journeys are taken when other factors play into our lives, such as when we get sick, demoted, or experience a trauma.

It is a very subtle inconsistency. When I unplug all the voices and listen to the one that understands, that is when I write. The middle of the story and the middle of life are the same. We and our characters have to make a choice.

THE BIG HOUSE BY THE TAOS PUEBL0

             I fell in love with Taos on a two month retreat. I arrived in April; when the hills were  sugar coated with powdery snow.  For days I sat in a lump on the bed. I burned incense, and stared like a cat into the fluid magenta skin of land, tattooed with sagebrush and cottonwood trees.  Taos has many lovers, thousands actually, and many of them live inside her/him. But none like the native Indians that made Taos.   Some people say Taos is a vortex, all the spiritual senses are cracked wide open.

            Locals tell you many things when you arrive. If you last more than six months, you’re considered a local.  Most of the funny stuff happens within six months.   Someone who came to Taos before you will draw your attention. Mine was drawn by Mabel Dodge Luhan.  In 1917, Mabel was a well heeled avant-garde patron of the arts living in Greenwich Village. She had lived in a villa in Florence, a mansion in New York, and acquired the material possessions people envy.  One day an admittance of emptiness poked her soul. She abandoned the animated literary and artistic roundtable discussions, and journeyed to Taos.  Within a few months she stripped off her cerebral persona and possessions and fell in love with Tony Luhan.   Tony lived on the Taos Pueblo and gave her the moon, stars, and the sun.   She never returned to New York.  Funny things happen to people in Taos.   

        My yearning to discover Mabel, was discarded during the years I tried to forget Taos. Like a former lover, my photographs and journals reminded me how much we shared.  The first retreat manifested into a two-year residency. I left when the romance went belly-up in the bank. That was 1999.

            Three years passed before I could face Taos again. I had butterflies in my stomach thinking about the Gorge: how we hiked into the groin of the canyon where nature expels anything unnatural, and Wheeler Peak at the moment the sun parallels the mountain, and the Taos Inn on a cold winter evening listening to the Spanish Guitars and drinking cheap red wine. I made reservations to stay where I felt my love affair would go into full bloom, The Mabel Dodge Luhan House. 

           There are no phones in the room, no radio or television; the natural sounds of Taos are symphonic.  Mabel and Tony built one of the only two-story adobes in Taos, with a screened in porch to use for sleeping.  Inside this house, the elements of nature are molded, carved and bonded in away that you feel like you are inside a true pueblo dwelling. The dining area could be used for a yoga class if you removed the tables and chairs. The senses are opened to explore freedom of movement rather than precious objects of art. From every angle, there is a window with the Taos light spying on you, reminding you nothing can compare to warm sunshine caressing your back.  To be continued.

PART TWO OF ON THE ROAD

 

Smiley’s Dice-Adventures in Livingness

 

The throw of the dice this week lands on Part Two of On the Road.  

When we returned to Pagosa Springs later that day, the town’s harshness was shaded in the drapery of dusk. I looked up the hillside, to a blur of bathers still lingering around the pools.

In television transition speed we showered, dressed, and raced back to our Keyah Grande. Driving up the entrance in the darkness, a spotty moon webbed into a triangle of clouds, a blackened forest on both sides, and a death like silence surrounded us. The lights of the house beamed onto the parking lot, and the door opened.   

We were seated in the intimate empty dining room, and given time to look over the menu.  The room was decorated with candlelight, soft cushioned high back chairs, chandeliers, a big picture window, and beautiful crystal. For this evening, I am to forget all the financial uncertainty, and the menacing drip of anxiousness about the future. 

   “There’s a lot of meat on this menu.” I said. I noticed Elk, Duck and Moose. When the waitress returned, I stopped her.

  “You have a very carnivorous menu.”

  “Um. We do.”

   “I noticed all the elk on the property.” She squirmed and tightened her lips in an abashing manner.

   “The owners raise elk. They are world class hunters.”

   “Oh I see. Then what happens to them?”

   “They–hunt them.” She winced.

   “They kill them?” 

   “Yes.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, like a child waiting to be given directions. I placed the menu down, and tried to reassure her I wasn’t making any judgment which of course I was.

   “It’s all right. I don’t care for beef too much.” I looked at SC. He was silently examining the menu.  

  “We’re not the hunting type. I suppose most of your guests are.” 

  “Almost all of them.” She answered apologetically. She was only in her twenties; a local gal with sufficient education and class to understand precisely what was going on.

  “So we’re a novelty?” I asked.

  “Yes.” 

  “Well, I’ll have the salmon.”

  “I’ll have the same.” SC added.     

Jen backed away politely and I faced SC.

  “How can you raise an animal, shoot it, and then eat it.”

  “It’s called hunting.” He answered while taking steps to devour the entire basket of homemade breads. 

  “No. Hunting is when you go after wild game; it’s a test of power and masculinity and all of that–if you ever saw the movie Deer Hunter.  But to raise the baby elk, from the time they’re born, and then one day, marinate them in the oven. I find that distasteful.”

  “I knew people like that. My school buddy Covel Sneed came from the back woods of West Virginia. He and his dad went hunting all the time.”  

I objected to the thought of well-fed sportsmen killing those doe eyed elk grazing on the property. I hated the whole lodge for about two minutes, until Jen arrived with my appetizer. “I hope you’re pleased with everything?” She eyed me cautiously. 

   “Jen, tell me about the owners.”

   “They’re such great people to work for and really easy going.  She’s got great style and taste as you can see, but she isn’t fussy.”    

   “Where are they from?”

   “They live in Manhattan.”

   “Really?”

   “Yes, they built all of this over about ten years.”

I imagined Lady X a cross between Carole Lombard and Maureen O’ Hara; a woman who hunts and rides, and then sets the table with Versace flatware, and dresses in Black Label Ralph Lauren.  

Just then a woman in riding pants passed through with two kids in tow.  “She’s here for Easter. They come every year.  She hides the eggs all over and the kids hunt for them.”  

  “They learn to hunt at a young age?”

  “Not everyone here is a hunter. We have a huge riding clientele, and the fishing and hiking are excellent too.” 

It was plain as white toast; this was a sub-culture I’d not mingled with; not ever. I grew up in movie theaters, night clubs, and amusement parks. By the time I got to my dessert, one of the best flans I’ve ever tasted in my life, my objections weakened. These folks would be equally un-charmed with the staged and superficial life style that I understood. 

We drifted outside onto the palatial landing and caught one last glimpse of the sleeping scenery before getting on the wide open highway back to town. Suddenly, SC turned off the road.

   “Why are you pulling over?”

   “Cop.”

I turned around. The officer slowly and mechanically moved towards us.

   “Your tail lights are out, and you’re doing 45 in a 35 mph zone. Can I see your license and registration?”

   “We’re visiting for the night. I didn’t see any signs. It’s so dark, we must have missed them.” I said with a big smile.  

   “Yup, posted right on the road Mam.”

The wine sentiment was thick on my tongue, but if he noticed it he didn’t reveal his suspicion because he was as friendly as the spa attendant at the hotel.       

   “Okay you folks have a good night, and keep the speed down. You have to watch out for the elk.”

After he left I turned to SC, “Watch out for the elk? Does he mean don’t run them over because we shoot them?

The next morning I felt this ping of awareness, of who I am and I was happy with it. It’s very unusual, I don’t wake up singing, I’m so happy I’m me.

   “I’ll go into the baths if you want me to.” SC said as I took the toothbrush out of my mouth.

   “You will?”

   “Yea. If it will make you happy.”

I doused in the shower, wrapped up in the scratchy bleached robe and we scurried outside. The pools were empty. We dipped inside the hot mineral springs, waving the steam as it rose up and formed little clouds. I felt like a leaping lotus flower, and then I understood why the guests floated all day. It was heavenly; until the gate opened and a couple appeared in startling realism. I rose up and SC followed. My body felt like cotton.

We checked out of the hotel and drove down the road to High Mountain Café, the place Jen recommended. The hillsides were blushing with sunlight, and bikers were on the road.

  “Stop!” I said.

  “What!” SC answered annoyed.

  “I saw a bald eagle back there–eating something.”

SC drove in reverse, and we stopped in front of a brown spotted eagle.

  “He’s huge!” I’d never seen one so close, his claws looked almost human.  

   “He’s eating the carcass of an elk.”

   “Oh God, why am I not surprised.”

The next few miles, the scenery unfolded into piercing sharp mountain tops, narrow curves in the road and dramatic drops, that made looking out the window more like hanging over the edge. We’d decided, just that morning, we’d go to Durango. 

Durango is lined with brick buildings, store front awnings, and a cooperative symmetry exists from one end of town to the other. It has the look of a Main Street award winner on the National Historic Preservation website. It was Easter Sunday.

   “Do you want to stay over?” SC asked.

   “Not really, I’m ready to go home now. You know it’s only been twenty-four hours.”

   “Yea, amazing. It feels like three days.”

The twenty-four getaway is better than none at all.    

Any dice to throw email: folliesls@aol.com

 

The throw of the dice this week falls on the soundtrack, the rooftop, and the Flu.   The adventure began with music in the winter of 2006.    If you have one teardrop of sentiment for the summer of 69, then I suggest, you pack the soundtrack from Easyrider for your next voyage. It was playing all across the Painted Desert, and I imagined the whole film experience from inside the car. By the time we were in Flagstaff, I felt disillusioned and a little stoned.

When we reached the neckline of Taos, just past the crater crack of the Rio GrandeI was singing, “ Bettcha gotta run now, head out on the highway, lookin’  for adventure, and whatever comes our way.”  I was ready to be born to be wild.  Men do it, dogs do it, why not a girl with a pair of cowboy boots.  God, it felt so good to land on the dirt and gravel, under the star-studded sky of Taos. In my dreams, I was riding a little red motorcycle.               The house light was left on by the electrician who just installed new heaters.  The door to the adobe opened, and the place was toasty.  SC was dragging all the luggage in, and I was already unwrapping rugs, and pulling plastic off the cushions.  I went to the bedroom, and in the window, the luminaries from our neighbors gallery were sparkling. He had wrapped them all around the exterior of the house.  

          By the mid afternoon of the next day, we were scampering around Santa Fe.  The  sunlight evaporated into a fistful of old man winter and the mountains were dry as pavement. Our adventure was just beginning.

          New Year’s was 24 hours away, and so was my surprise ending.    I suddenly felt light as a cracker jack, and my throat was so dry I could not swallow.  My inner house felt like it was sinking.  It wasn’t just the physical exhaustion, it was more like a collapse.

By dusk, I was hugging the bed blankets.  The finer details are better said in abstractions. The cleansing began with sending enough pain through my limbs so I could not move, then turning up the fever to about 104 degrees,  cutting off my breathing, and filling my lungs with sap. I curled into the fetal position and dropped anchor.  From my bedroom window, I studied the rooftop luminaries, and Dennis Hopper’s house.  The house he used to live-in, and now visits only sporadically. If I turned on my other side, I could see the wood burning and crackling in the kiva.   The Torchlight Parade came and went, I read about it in the newspaper, and it sounded even more spectacular than I thought. 

          New Year’s was not about celebration this year, it was synonymous with appreciation.    We sat quietly, and listened to the crackling wood,  drank our vegetable soup, and the moon dropped into view and rocked us to sleep.  We did waken at midnight  by the celebration outside—guns and fireworks.  Locals shoot into the sky, and the sheriff doesn’t have enough time to get from one end of town to the other to stop them. 

          Everything is different in Taos.  The hours passed like clouds moving through a storm.  From distant memories, to present day toils,  the images rolled over, and I came to see very clearly, what a big selfish girl looks like.   I didn’t like the portrait- and that was validated when I looked in the mirror!

             I laid back and dreamt my way into what I’ll do when I get better.   The new deal was struck, and all my plans changed. 

          Without exaggeration, within a few hours, I raised myself from the bed and walked into the bathroom, and ran a bath.  I soaked until I was divinely bubbled, and then I dressed.  It was the first time in five days.

 I sat at the table, applied the touch of makeup I needed, and sprayed Chanel No. 5.    It was our last night.

          We left Taos the next day. As we crossed the Indian desert, once again I played Easyrider. 

Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol.com 

SUMMER OF LOVE

Hang on to YOUR HANDLEBARS and ride out to Taos for the summer of love. What timing,  just when you thought the world was a digital chip, Taos will rejuvenate your hard drive.   

After living there, and meeting some of the renegades who came for the 60s revolution, I highly recommend going to Taos this summer. Peter Rabbit, Lisa Law, Dennis Hopper ( exhibiton at the Harwood) and Bill Davis, will be giving talks. There are concerts, fashion shows, movies, exhibits, festivals, but the best action will be in the , ” Hey come on over, we’re having a party,” sort of happenings that made the hippie movement keep moving. It was a happening, IT WAS NOT PLANNED. 

WWW.TAOSSUMMEROFLOVE.COM

CONFESSIONS OF A MOB KID

SOME children are silenced. The pretense is protection against people and events more powerful than them. As the daughter of Allen Smiley, associate and friend to Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel, I was raised in a family of secrets.

My father is not a household name like Siegel, partly because he wore a disguise, a veneer of respectability that fooled most.

It did not fool the government. My father came into the public eye the night of June 20, 1947, when Benjamin Siegel was murdered in his home in Beverly Hills. My dad was seated inches away from Siegel, on the sofa, and took three bullets through the sleeve of his jacket.

He was brought in as a suspect. His photograph was in all the newspapers. He was the only nonfamily member who had the guts to go to the funeral.

When I was exposed to the truth by way of a book, I kept the secret, too. I was 13. My parents divorced, and five years later, my mother died. In 1966, I went to live with my father in Hollywood.

I was forbidden to talk about our life: “Don’t discuss our family business with anyone, and listen very carefully to what I say from now on!”

But one night, he asked me to come into his room and he told me the story of the night Ben was murdered.

“When I was spared death, I made a vow to do everything in my power to reform, so that I could one day marry your mother.

“Ben was the best friend I ever had. You’re going to hear a lot of things about him in your life. Just remember what I am telling you; he’d take a bullet for a friend.”

After my father died, I remained silent, to avoid shame, embarrassment and questions. But 10 years later, in 1994, when I turned 40, I cracked the silence.

I read every book in print – and out of print – about the Mafia. Allen Smiley was in dozens. He was a Russian Jew, a criminal, Bugsy’s right-hand man, a dope peddler, pimp, a racetrack tout. I held close the memory of a benevolent father, wise counselor, and a man who worshipped me.

I made a Freedom of Information Act request and obtained his government files. The Immigration and Naturalization Service claimed he was one of the most dangerous criminals in the country. They said he was Benjamin Siegel’s assistant. They said he was poised to take over the rackets in Los Angeles. He didn’t; he sold out his interest in the Flamingo, and he went to Houston to strike oil.

I put the file away, and looked into the window of truth. How much more could I bear to hear?

Born in Kiev, Ukraine, my dad’s family immigrated to Canada. He stowed away to America at 16, and was eventually doggedly pursued for never having registered as an alien. He had multiple arrests – including one for bookmaking in 1944, and another for slicing off part of the actor John Hall’s nose in a fracas at Tommy Dorsey’s apartment.

He met my mother, Lucille Casey, at the Copacabana nightclub in 1943. She was onstage dancing (for $75 a week), and my father was in the audience, seated with Copa owner and mob boss Frank Costello.

“I took one look, and I knew it was her,” was all he had told me on many occasions.

On a trip to the Museum of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences in Los Angeles, I was handed a large perfectly pristine manila envelope, and a pair of latex gloves with which to handle the file.

Inside were black and white glossy MGM studio photographs, press releases, and biographies of my mother’s career in film, including roles in “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty,” “Ziegfeld Follies of 1946,” “Meet Me in St. Louis” and “Harvey Girls.” She was written up in the columns, where later my father was identified as a “sportsman.”

The woman who pressed my clothes, washed my hair, and made my tuna sandwiches was an actress dancing in Judy Garland musicals, while her own life was draped with film noir drama.

My father wooed her, and after an MGM producer gave her an audition, he helped arrange for her and her family to move to Beverly Hills, where she had steady film work for five years. He was busy helping Siegel expand the Western Front of the Costello crime family and opening the Flamingo casino in Las Vegas.

They were engaged in 1946.

Still, the blank pages of my mother’s life did not begin to fill in until I met R.J. Gray. He found me through my newspaper column, “Smiley’s Dice.”

One day last year, R.J. sent me a book, “Images of America: The Copacabana,” by Kristin Baggelaar. There was my mother, captioned a “Copa-beauty.”

Kristin organized a Copa reunion in New York last September. I went in place of my mother, but all day I felt as if she was seated next to me. I fell asleep that night staring out the hotel window, feeling a part of Manhattan history.

Now, the silence is over.

I don’t hesitate to answer questions about my family. I have photographs of Ben Siegel in my home in Santa Fe, NM, just as my father did. Every few months I get e-mails from distant friends, or people who knew my dad.

It seems there is no end to the stories surrounding Ben and Al. I am not looking for closure. I’ve become too attached to the story.

 

Jessica Lang in Grey Gardens

She knocked the stage into smittereans. What a performance!!. Give her more roles Hollywood!

Smiley’s Dice on the Road

THE Throw of the dice this week is on the road.

Scenery racing by at 60 mph, on a two lane highway, saddled between fresh morning pastures, and broken down double-wides. A New Mexican patchwork of serenity and simplicity. On Highway 84 out of Santa Fe, we pass through the one-blink town of Chama. During the summer tourists flock here to ride the Tupeltec Train through the mountains and fish in the Rio Grande.  The window sign of the coffee house advertises Espresso, but the paint is worn thin, and the letters breaking up. The sidewalk flower pots are filled with cigarette butts, and the newspaper stands are empty. There is an old fashioned gas station, closed for the winter, and just beyond are the train tracks, and a stationary train. That’s where I got the idea of living on a train. I could settle down in a train, like Jim West in the television program from the sixties, The Wild Wild West. Movement is what gives me comfort. Some of us just cannot sit still. We try to cushion ourselves in with big windows and heaps of scenery: fireplaces, and fresh flowers, music, books, and home theater.  What lies beyond home organization is a world of surprises and that’s what we keep reaching for.

Outside of Chama the road grows narrower, and signs of life diminish with the exception of the crows, and the solitary underfed horse staring at a fence, looking like the loneliest creature on the face of the earth. The scenery transforms into a sketch of poetry as the sky suddenly turns white, and the hillsides are caked in snow frosting.  We were on our way to Pagaosa Springs; a small town just across the continental divide into Colorado. The Springs Spa & Salon boasts of having European fashioned mineral springs.

 “That’s it?” SC asked. 

 “Yes, I guess so. What’s it doing IN A PARKING LOT? The website made it look like we were in the mountains.”

“ Good marketing.” He said.

“ Oh no, this is awful.” I snapped.  But I caught myself. You know how words come back at you with meaning, and you have to adjust yourself. I looked the place over and thought, I’ll make this an adventure. I will not complain or snub my nose because I’m here, in the cup of Colorado and it’s beautiful. 

“ The springs are public?” SC denounced.

I looked over at the three-tiered sculpted hillside; pools of water connected by walkways, waterfalls, and this wake of steam rising. It was the lusciousness of a European spa, except, the bather’s were beer-bellied rednecks and saloon sloppy women, wearing stretched out bathing suits that hung from their skin. Children were running back and forth, and Soaring Crow didn’t look too happy.  

“ I’m not going into those baths.” He snapped. 

“ The hotel has its own private area; it will be better.”

“ It’s like getting into a bathtub with a bunch of strangers.”

“ Well, I’ll throw some bleach in before. ” 

We headed into the reception area of the Springs Spa & Salon. A man dressed in Spa-white was gnawing on a chewy nutrition bar. Before he finished swallowing, he said, “ What I do for yer folks?”  

He leaned over the counter and chewed, while SC explained we were checking into the Spa. The Spa smelled of chlorine, and I started to laugh.  What I had imagined, was the Sonoma Mission Inn, or Roosevelt Spa in Saratoga Springs.

“I can’t wait to see the room.”  I said.

There are two types of getaways; first class and adventurous, this was less than adventurous, it was shoddy. We unloaded and went for a drive through town. The shop with the Antiques sign drew us in first. It smelled like acerbic spring water was oozing out of the walls. I looked around; drawing my breath in, to avoid a dust storm. Cowboy mugs, saddles, fiesta flatware, mantelpiece trinkets and dusty smudged books were stacked on shabby boxes and wooden carts. Not much to capture the eye, except the saleswoman. She was built like an old door. I imagined she was young once, and had a softer edge, now she moved in wooden strides, and her eyes were plucked of sentimentality. Maybe she came from a mining family, and they were hardened at an early age. I imagined what she was thinking of me. It sort of slipped out when I opened the door. She hadn’t expected me to say thank you, and when she met my eyes, hers were raising heck with my attire.  Outside, the snow continued to dust the town with a bit of whitened cleanliness.

“ Where are we eating tonight.” SC asked.

“ Oh I found a place that sounds interesting, The Old Miner’s Lodge.”

“ It sounds like we should drive by first.”

We drove down the main road, and I looked through the dining guide. The short list was the kind you’d expect in an old mining town, that Robert Redford hadn’t discovered.

“ It’s a steakhouse with a salad bar.” I assured SC.

“ Let’s find something else. I don’t want to bathe and eat with the same people.” 

“There isn’t anything else but what the receptionist suggested, Eddie’s Grill, it’s her favorite place.”

“ Because her father-in-law, or half-sister owns it.” 

We went looking for Eddie’s and along the way I noticed a sign for Keyah Grande. It was the kind of sign that eluded, exclusive, so I suggested we drive up. Outside a large menacing iron gate, we rang the digital keyboard and the Chef answered the phone. He said to come up. We passed through the gate and slowly eased the car up an unpaved road, and entered what looked like safari country. There were elk and deer wandering inside gated pastures, fat and sleek-coated, without visible fear or alarm, they just seemed to nod at us.

We drove past a sign for horses, and I thought, I’d wished we stayed here. At the top of the mountain, a plateau surfaced and a two story Spanish colonial building jolted out of the ground. We were surrounded by mountains, three cars, and a clubhouse attached to a suspended deck that looked like the wing of an airplane. SC immediately dashed for the edge. I lingered back closer to center. We were raised to new euphoric vistas, set above the San Juan Mountains with streaks of snow edged between pine trees and shafts of light. A cold breeze that John Cage would have recorded brushed through the trees.

We went inside the hotel and discovered a palatial home-museum. A woman greeted us.

“ Hi com’on in. We’re just taking these folks through the rooms; would you like to join us.”

“Yes,” SC said.

“ No.” I answered, and whispered to SC,“I’m still catching my breath.    

We followed another young friendly woman to the cocktail lounge. It was the sort of place you’d curl your legs under and hold the glass as if you owned the house. Darkened cherry-wood paneling and leather wrapped a room with built-in everything, and made it feel gracefully masculine. We sat on the sofa sipping wine and forgot about Pagosa Springs.   

   “Can we have dinner here tonight?” I asked without willing to accept anything less. 

  “You bet we can. I’m not leaving until they throw me out.”

  “Will you be joining us for dinner?” The cocktail waitress asked.

 “Yes, we’d love to.” 

 “I’ll show you the dining room.”

 “How many rooms are there in the hotel?” I asked.

“ We call it a guest house. There are eight rooms.”

“ Are they all booked?” I asked.

“ I’d have to check; we may have one.”

  SC looked at me expectantly.

“ First I’ll show you the dining room,” and she took us through the main parlor, a salon of European taste dignified with a gold trimmed piano, original oil paintings, tapestries, and enough natural light to take a sunbath. 

“ How many acres go with the guest house?” I asked.

“ Four thousand.”

“ Eight rooms and four thousand acres.” I repeated. That makes some kind of statement. 

We found out the rooms were $500.00 a night and it was better to go with the package deal; $800.00 including all meals. It reminded me of what I read in the WSJ; about executive holidays, and the kind of money that passes from one pocket to the next.

 After a peek at the menu, and finding the prices comparable to any fine dining, we finished our wine, and drifted outside like two beggars who’d just found a gracious host. We decided to go back to Pagosa and shower.

“ I can’t wait to go back and use the scratchy towels and cheap soap.”

 “It’s more fun this way, it’s an adventure.” I said. The funny thing is; I wasn’t fibbing or pretending. The adventure in me felt atrophied and I was thankful I was out of town and on the road. Even if it was a tiny stiff room without mints on the pillow, I knew we’d be laughing ourselves to sleep. To be continued.  Any dice to throw: Email: folliesls@aol.com  

 

I AM DOW- TODAY I’M UP TOMORROW I’M DOWN.

A GREAT CAUSE

SEE JIM MARSHALL’S OFFICIAL WEBSITE FOR ICONIC ROCK & ROLL COLLECTIBLES AND PHOTOGRAPHY AT AUCTION.

JIM’S A GREAT FRIEND.

ALL PROCEEDS GO TO THE ROCK FOR MS FRIENDS BENEFIT.

I plucked it out just recently to give my courage.

Good to seet that I am not alone in feeling it is time to shake hands with Steinbeck’s,  Grapes of Wrath once again.

Today it may be renamed,   The wrath of wealth

Uncategorized « Galleryloulou’s Weblog

Uncategorized « Galleryloulou’s Weblog

DOUBLE VISION – 1998- FOR NATIONAL POETRY MONTH

 

DOUBLE VISION

 

 

 

Neckties choking thin men with beepers

I want to strip the needles pricking inside their ambition

Stone the waxed smiles spitting false promises

Shatter the pointed arrogance

Wrapped in crisp bills

Inside brand wallets

Strapped on trendy trousers

Driven by rovers and jeeps

Never been on life’s edge

 

Save the artist

Who wears his life holy

Waiting for the moments to create

Starved from meat and wine

Sits on a ray of light

Enraptured

 

 

LOST ANGELES PART 3

THE THROW of the dice this week falls on part three of adventures in moving.  Marietta Hayes and I were just seated in a booth at the far end of the Grill, “ We won’t disturb anyone here. Let’s order and then we’ll talk.”

I’m not at all hungry.” I said.

“ Neither am I,” she declared. ”I’ll order an English Muffin; that way they won’t make us leave.” 

We had only to look at one another; and the friendship blossomed. She’d discovered a likeness to my mother, and I recognized in her, a woman associated with the era of gangsters, glamour, and subtlety. Her poise was what struck me; today we’re not refined and self contained. Today we are=2 0still admonishing the residue of restrictive behavior and thought.  

We started talking about the kinds of things that have changed in Los Angeles, like Laurel Canyon.”

“Oh those homes used to be so beautiful. It’s such a shame they are not maintained any longer.”  She said.

“It must have been really different in the thirties.”

“Oh it was! I don’t want to sound conceited. No–it’s not even that.  I was fortunate to have lived during the most glamorous of times in Los Angeles.”

“You definitely were. The whole city seemed to be night-clubbing.”

0We had our tragedies too. My husband was a musical lyricist, and worked for the studios. He was black listed because he associated with some of the questionable characters. After that he couldn’t get any work, and we left the country.”

“For how long?”

“Several years. I think I was with Fox Studios then.”

Much later, I thought, what would a woman thirty years younger want to know about me. She might ask if I was a hippie, a feminist, or a protester. What could I impart about my twenties that would stand the test of time?

Marietta didn’t ask what I used to be, she wanted to know who I was now, and how I ended up in Santa Fe. All I could think about, was what she knew about my mother.

“ I knew your father too.” She interjected.

“ You did? Tell me about it.”   

“ Well, I was dancing at Earl Carroll’s Night Club. Your dad used to come in quite a bit; he was in the movie business at the time. One night he asked me to introduce him to a girlfriend that he liked. So I introduced them, and they went out. A little while later, he came up to me and said,” I want to return the favor, and introduce you to a friend of mine.”

She paused. I asked who it was.

“It was Bugsy.” She giggled.   

“ Did you go out with him?”

“ Yes. He had impeccable manners, you couldn’t help liking him. I didn’t know what he did, that hadn’t come out yet. We all thought he was a businessman. I went to his house, I think it was the one on Linden Drive, and I noticed there were guns all over the place. She leaned ov er and whispered. “It was exciting, I was so young, only nineteen or twenty. Well, we went together for awhile. Until I told my father.” 

“What did your father say?”

“Oh he was furious. He had information about Ben I didn’t. Oh, he went into a rage. He was a policeman.”

“Then what happened?”   

“I think Ben left town, and we just drifted apart. It wasn’t serious or anything.” 

 “ Dad used to mention Earl Carroll’s. He loved to watch but I never saw him dance. Was Johnny Roselli there too?”

“Oh yes. I remember him. He went with a gal at Fox, and she got paid three times the rest of us!“

“ You had a great time of it didn’t you?”  Earl’s later became the Moulin Rouge, where I used to go with Uncle Doc’s daughter and see musicals.  Then it was renamed the Hullabaloo, and the Doors played there.   

“ Earl had a great sense of style and perfection. He made us practice all day. It was a beautiful dinner club, and we performed all night. I was too tired to tell you what happened in the club. All the stars went there.”

“ Did you know Clark Gable?”

“ Yes, like all of us knew him. Not very close, but we crossed paths a lot. He was so easy to like.”

“ I could watch him act all day.” I added.

“ Oh he wasn’t acting. He was just himself. He used to say, if he acted or tried to act, he wouldn’t be any good. He was just na tural.”

“ Dad went out with Carole Lombard before she met Clark.”

“ I’m sure he did. He was tremendously good looking. I can see why your mother fell for him.”

“ How did you meet her?”  

“ Norma. She was a very good friend of your mothers. She introduced us.”

I remembered Norma. Mom talked about her so often.

“ Where did Norma live.”

“ Chicago. But she moved to Los Angeles later. ”

“ My mother was in Chicago when she toured with a Broadway show, I think it called High-Kickers. May be that’s where they met. ”

“ It could have been. Norma danced in the Latin Quarter.  Well, Norma was very close to your mother. I wish you had a chance to meet her. She could have told you so much more. She was a lovely generous woman.  She ended up with millions from one of her husbands.”

“ When did you meet my mother?” 

“ She was already sick. I didn’t know it. Norma told me. We all went out to lunch and your mother never said a word about it. I remember thinking how beautiful she was; I couldn’t believe she had cancer. You were living in Westwood at the time.”

“ Yes.”

“ She died shortly after.”

“ I’m happy you came to see her.”

We sat for a minute like you do when you remember someone whose gone, and you can’t quite harmonize with reality. We were still sipping coffee three hours later. I’d found out Marietta lives a few blocks from where my grandmother lived, she has some family in Los Angeles, she prefers night to day, rents movies, and watches the Academy Awards.

She was sixteen years old the first time she went to the Awards ceremony. She went with Alfred Newman; a legendary composer and music director in Hollywood.

“He kept winning awards, and he handed them to me. They were plastic records. I had to carry that load around all night.” She laughed, and her eyes glistened into the memory.  

I left Marietta with promises of another trip to Los Angeles, and an invitation to our place in Santa Fe. I believe she will take me up on it. Afterward we drove through

Rueben, who’s been the Matri D’ since they opened in 1966 was fast–footing his way across the room, shooting praise and adulation in every direction.  I waited until he stopped to take a breath, and told him I was Al Smiley’s daughter. He nodded hurriedly and bowed. “I have a plaque upstairs with your Dad’s name on it. All the big shots; Johnny Roselli, Frank Sinatra.” He went on name dropping. I didn’t remember the plaques.

I looked over the menu.

Rudy! I had no idea it was this expensive.”

He put his glasses on, “The appetizers are twenty-two dollars. How much are the entrees?”

“Forty–five. Don’t worry; we’ll share something.”

 When the waiter returned, we ordered.

“The split fee is twenty-five dollars. You might as well order an entrée.”  We discussed the matter, and then Rueben returned.

“May I suggest something?” He said in indignation.     

“Well, I’m not sure I want an entire entrée.” I uttered.

“You must have one. It’s Valentine’s Day.”

=0 D

“Okay.” I acquiesced. The food was sensational; if you don’t mind spending that much on one meal. I really went to feast on the memories, and those were free.

On the last day; I stopped at Nate n’ Al’s for a dozen bagels. I stood at the deli counter and noshed on all the times I’d been there, and all the hours spent waiting for Dad to stop telling jokes, so we could get on with the day. Nate’s is a sort of Jewish sanctuary, where every Jew is as good as the next, unless you happen to have more money. 

I took one look at Los Angeles before getting on the 405 freeway.  The city is like an old dresser drawer filled with garments I’ve outgrown, but I just can’t throw them away. When I returned to Santa Fe, I brought home a caption from these encounters; approach the next move with a big welcome sign. Whether it be Los Angeles or New York, make it a story I’ll want to tell one day.    

GALLERY LOULOU
WILD WILD WEST VACATION RENTAL
343 E. Palace Avenue
Santa Fe, NM 87501
Ph : 505-989-3426
Cell: 518-859-7828
www.galleryloulou.com

Laurel Canyon to watch the sun squatting down on a metallic horizon. It seemed strange to go to a hotel and not my own apartment. By now the Parrot and I were bobbing hello, and the little room by the pool felt familiar. We dressed and drove to Beverly Hills where I’d made a reservation at La Dolca Vita. It was another childhood landmark. Like a child from the country has a favorite place by the river, or tree, my places were ocean bluff parks, canyon roads and restaurants. I hadn’t been to La Dolca Vita since the seventies. Like so many early memories, it was not as sensational; until I looked at the menu.

LOST ANGELES PART 2

The throw of the dice this week lands on the continuation of last weeks, adventures in moving again.

I’d just walked into Jack Taylor’s haberdashery. Jack was looking at me from behind his big signature black eye-glass frames; one of the largest frames I’ve ever seen.  He didn’t recognize me right off.

“Jack–it’s Luellen.”  I kissed him on the lips and he smiled.

“How are you?” he said softly.

“I’m good. I was just driving by, and saw your sign. What a place you got here, it’s beautiful.”

“What? I can’t hear you. Speak up.”

“I SAID IT’S A BEAUTIFUL SPACE YOU HAVE HERE!”

“You know how many customers come in off the street?” he     asked.     

“How many?”

“One.In a whole year, one customer.”

“Oh Jack, that’s awful.”

“What? I can’t hear?”

“IT’S AWFUL TO HEAR THAT.”  

“ Look out the window.”  He said. I turned to look, and a young man was passing by. He was hunched over, plugged into an Ipod,  dressed in crotch hugging jeans, a sweatshirt, and lace-up shoes.

“Look at that-no one dresses. They all look like that,” he said.  

“ Jack, they look like that everywhere.”

“Call Bonnie,(his wife)and ask her to come down to the shop.”

I wondered why he didn’t have a hearing aid; knowing Jack, it wasn’t stylish enough. Bonnie got on the phone with me, while Jack sat, staring into his memory through floor to ceiling glass windows.  What separates Jack from all the others is that Jack’s continental suits are custom fit to the customer by Jack, and no one else. His tailors hand stitch each item; with custom lining, handmade bottom holes, and your name woven into the pinstripes.

I remembered back to the summer of 94, when Jack used to fancy-foot around the shop on Camden Drive; calling out orders, answering phones, greeting customers, and yelling at me,

” Luellen, don’t just stand there. For crying out loud, count the suits or something!”  Whenever I went to do something, he shouted, “For crying out loud Luellen, don’t do it like that!” He repeated the same script to me every day for three months. He had a similar script for everyone in the shop. His tailors, some of whom have been there thirty years, shake their heads in frustration and sew. Behind all that shouting and hollering is one of the good guys, a guy who would give you the shirt off his back, a guy from Brooklyn. 

Bonnie, his wife for some fifty years, speaks with a flare born from the genes of an actress. She’s theatrical without being in the business. “Oh Luellen darling–it’s so good to hear your voice. How are you? Did Jack recognize you?”

“Oh yes, right away.” I fibbed.

“I’m surprised. He can’t hear, his eyes are bad, but he won’t leave the shop.”

“Bonny, he said he has no customers. Is that true?”

“Unfortunately, it is. We both thought new customers would come from the second generation, but it didn’t happen, so what can you do? All the old ones are failing or dead. Tell me about you. Are you married?”

Bonnie and I chatted while Jack talked with Soaring Crow. I was looking at Jack the whole time I was on the phone. I noticed the way he raised his brows, and shut-tight smile that resonates a New York edgy resignation. His expressions were so familiar to me from working with him that summer.

“How’s your daughter?” I asked Bonnie.

“She died four years ago.”

I was watching Jack, “Oh Bonnie, I’m so sorry.” Jack’s eyes darted back to me. I promised Bonnie I’d come back and we’d all have dinner. I told her about the memoir and she remarked, “I have lots of stories about your father. He was a character.”   

After I hung up the phone, Jack yelled, “Is Bonnie coming down?”

“No. She’s not up to it right now,” I answered. He pressed his lips into a thin disappointedly accepting line. For twenty years Bonnie worked side by side with Jack. She knew every customer, and made them feel like family. As a young teenager dad used to bring us in the shop. Bonnie always made an effort to be our friend.     

“Look out the window, there’s another one. See what I mean?” Jack said.

“Yes Jack. I do. Listen, I want to thank you for giving me a job that summer. I never had a chance to thank you. It really meant a lot to me.”

He smiled. “I can’t sit here all day and count the birds. What am I gonna do?”

“What do you want to do?” I answered.

 He shrugged his shoulders.

“Do you have any hobbies, anything else you like besides suits?”

“I love to paint.”

“Paint?” Well that’s what you should do.”

“Look over there,” he gestured with a heavy arm. On the wall behind me, half a dozen oil paintings were hanging. I noticed one of a young sailor standing next to his ship.

“I really like that one Jack. I think you should paint.”

 “What?”

 “I said, RETIRE AND PAINT.”

He shrugged his shoulders. I kissed him again and he didn’t move from the chair. He needed me to raise him up, close the shop, and lock the door. I would have done it if he was all alone. I wanted to take him back to Santa Fe and place him at the Audubon, and let him paint the swallows.

 I walked out and looked back once. He was staring out the window. I thought about the stories he used to tell, like the time Mickey Cohen came rushing through the shop and dropped a suitcase at Jack’s feet, “Hold onto this until I get back.” Mickey had commanded.

“What was in it Jack?”

“Whatta ya think? Stolen loot. They all used to come through the shop on the way out of Ducker’s Barber Shop.  I couldn’t stop them–they did what they did–I don’t even know what they did, but use my phone all day.”  

After I left Jack, Soaring Crow drove me over Laurel Canyon to meet Marietta, my mother’s friend.  We had just passed Lookout Mountain when I recalled being there. It was painted right before my eyes. Lizzie, one of the wild ones in high school, and I used to drive up there in her British racing green Volvo. She loved going to mountain tops. We’d get high, and lean into the flickering spray of lights imagining all we were missing by beings so darn young. We didn’t know then we weren’t missing anything. We had it all; a big bubbling hot city filled with mysteries, puzzles, romance, and opportunities. Neither one of us had dreams of college and marriage. Lizzie wanted a baby, and I wanted to runaway to a distant splendor in the grass. As Soaring Crow descended the canyon and inched towards Studio city, I glanced over, and noticed a street sign, Sunshine Terrace.

“That’s where Kenny used to live with his parents. I bet his mother is still there.  I’m going to call her.” Kenny was an irreplaceable boyfriend at eighteen, who later became the man who guided me towards writing. He used to shout out loud about how f—g good my poetry was, and how I should be published. Who can let go of a guy like that.  

Kenny’s dad, Bernie the big shot, who everyone tolerated because he was a WWII Nazi military prosecutor, had died years before. You couldn’t butter your bread without Bernie finding something fishy about it. Soaring Crow met Kenny back in the nineties, when Kenny dropped by his house on his way to living in a campsite in Escondido. He stayed a month.      

“Kenny! What a case that one is. You gotta love him. I understand him now. I know why he bailed out of society. I thought he was weird back then.” Soaring Crow chuckled thinking about Ken. He always had a neatly organized backpack, a cigar in his mouth, and carried a little black book with all his notes and phone numbers. He was an herbal tea importer and an inventor of gadgets.    

We drove into the strip center on Ventura Boulevard fifteen minutes early. I called information and got the phone number for Ken’s mother, Anna Marie.

“Hello Anna Maria, it’s Luellen.”

 “Oh Luellen how are you? It’s been a long time.” That was an understatement. It had been thirty years or more.”  Her voice revealed so much. She spoke in long unwavering sentences, and it reminded me of how long-winded Ken could be when he got on his philosophical podium.  She was Austrian and her accent smoothed out the awkward moments.   

“I’ll be 84 this week.”

“Really? Well Happy Birthday.”

“ Oh thank you. I’ve been in this house fifty years.”

“ Wow, that’s amazing. It’s a beautiful house. I always admired your cooking and gardening.”

“ I don’t do much of that anymore.” 

“ How is Ken doing?” I asked.

“ He moved to Guatemala.”

“ Really? When was that?”

“ Five years ago.”

“ Have you seen him lately?”

“Five years ago was the last time.”

“Is he all right?”

“He says he is. But I don’t know. We email, and sometimes he’ll call. I wish he would visit.”

“He couldn’t stand living in Los Angeles, or anywhere in the US.”  I added.

“He lived in Ensenada for years; then he decided to go to Guatemala. It’s so far. He loves the Latin culture. It’s too hot for me. He should come back and visit. I need a little help.”

“What about the other brothers?”

“Rick has cancer.”  

I rolled the rental-car window down and looked through people as they walked by. I didn’t tell her I was around the corner; I couldn’t just stop in and leave five minutes later.   

“I’m so happy you called. I’ll tell Ken when I write to him next time. Are you married?”

“No.”

“Oh well. So nice to hear from you. Come and visit sometime.”

“I will, I promise you I will.” 

As I left the car and headed upstairs to meet Marietta I felt a peck of familiarity with my surroundings. I was standing in front of the Starbucks, where Ken used to call me from when he was in town.

“ I’m over here at Starbucks, what a nightmare, I can’t even find a set a teeth in the place, nobody smiles. I’m telling you Lou, this isn’t the way it’s supposed to me. I got a headache and nothing even happened yet.” I wished he was sitting there, he could bring hours of non-stop laughter.     

Soaring Crow opened the door to the Daily Grill. Seated on a high stool, next to the hostess, was a strikingly beautiful woman. Her hair was pulled back in a bandana, and fell to her shoulders. Her skin was snow white, with a frosty pink glow and her china blue eyes glistened when she smiled.

 

 

 

 

 

“Oh you must be Luellen.  I knew it right away; you look like your mother.”  To be continued next week.

Any dice to throw: Email: folliesls@aol.com

 

LOST ANGELES

 

The throw of the dice this week lands on adventures in moving….again. What precipitated my even considering this next move an adventure is the weekend I spent in Los Angeles. I was going to meet two women; one who had known my mother, and one whose career paralleled hers. It was a meeting any daughter  who buried their mother before turning sixteen would wish for. A secondary and subconscious motive was to explore the idea of moving back to Los Angeles.

 

The day I arrived it was raining; a Saturday painted with big strokes of gray and patches of blue between a steady but non-threatening shower. The rain breaks Los Angeles down, and spreads an even glossy finish across the faded facades of buildings along Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood. This is where I lived with Dad, just north on Doheny Drive, and where almost anything could happen to a teenager walking her father’s poodle. I was invited to parties, met strangers, hitch-hiked and observed adults that didn’t want to be noticed. West Hollywood was a reclusive neighborhood in the late 1960s.

 

As I strolled south on Doheny forty years later, I discovered a jigsaw scenery.  It was a bizarre surrealistic shadow, between deteriorating shops, abandoned buildings, and modernized residential neighborhoods. I stopped into Bristol Market for a snack. The lofty concrete warehouse was filled with gourmet packages and imported delicacies. It’s a grotesque replacement of the former Chasen’s restaurant;where Lionel Barrymore and Errol Flynn sipped the off-camera hours, before heading upstairs to a private steam bath. It was where I first laid eyes on Paul Newman and my father scolded me for staring.” Dad everyone stares at Paul Newman!” 

  “Well, stop being everyone!”  Paul’s eyes were blue headlights that radiated in every direction. You had to be blind not to see him. Dad was right, Paul squirmed at the attention.

  

When I got back to the hotel, the lobby-house parrot was my first detour. I needed to settle my nerves, going home is unsettling.  You may find the whole city unrecognizable.  The longer I remain detached from Los Angeles, the more intensely attached I need to feel when I return. Doheny Drive is the street that distinguishes Beverly Hills from Hollywood. Dad lived on the Hollywood side. If you served time, you have to register with the local Beverly Hills police department as an ex-con. After dad was released from prison, they arrested him for not registering as an ex-convict. He swore he’d never live in Beverly Hills again. However, he made his presence very well known by spending the better part of each day and night meeting with associates, girlfriends, and shopping. Almost every day he walked from Doheny to Linden Drive; the street where his best friend lived and was murdered.

 

The next day I wandered around Melrose and watched the 90212 cliff-dwellers at work in the cafes.  Café Figueroa was the first real coffee house on Melrose; it was where I discovered lattes during high school, and how well they went with obscure magazines and classical music.

 

The first day in LA was an amusement ride. It was jostling, humorous and frightening, like riding my former self through a time capsule. The parrot made me laugh, and the staff at the Beverly Terrace was old school Los Angeles, even though they immigrated here very recently. They all seem to be Russian; in fact all the guests appear to be Russians, and my room overlooking the unused pool, was where I observed these Russians don’t sit by a pool.

 

The second and last day of the trip began with a sublime  umbrellas of Los Angeles walk up to Urth Caffe on Melrose. I stood in a chaotic line of young readymade bohemians; friendly and insincere, a remarkable warm up exercise for any dweller in LA. Everyone in the café was on the phone so I opened mine.  

   “Hi Marietta, it’s Luellen.”

   “Oh hi Luellen. Edna cannot make it today; she’s not feeling well enough.”

   “That’s too bad, I wish I could stay longer, I’m always rushing in and out of Los Angeles.”

    She laughed, “Well, I’m okay. Do you want to meet at one o’clock at the Daily Grill on Ventura; it’s very easy to find?”

    “Sure, that’s perfect. I’ll see you then.”

    “I’m an old lady with gray hair.” She laughed again. I decided to drive through downtown Beverly Hills. As I was about to turn onto Canon Drive, I noticed a big store-front sign ahead. I parked the car in front of Jack Taylors. Jack was Dad’s pal since the 1960’s when he opened his opulent men’s custom-suit salon. He had a pool table, green marble floors, and a bar in the lounge. In the back room a circle of tailors hand-cut suits for men who dressed for work. Dad was one of them.  I worked for Jack, one disjointed summer back in 1993, and I hadn’t seen him since. He was the man who made the Rat Pack look like rat royalty.

Jack was in the shop, seated at a big circular desk in a dark blue suit with a day old carnation in his breast pocket. I recognized the same smile of tolerance, the Jewish brand of tolerance that evokes historical overtones he’ll never speak about. Jack is 92 years old. To be continued next week.

NO DICE NO LUCK

The throw of the dice this week falls on adventures in livingness when the luck runs out. I was inside Borders drinking a raspberry latte, and browsing the new non-fiction titles.  Borders in Santa Fe is a cross between a library, a day-care center, and a time filler for truly retired people who love books.  On this particular Saturday, the aisles were jammed; kids sprawled on the floor kicking their legs, and mother’s rummaging through big plastic bags filled with snacks and toys.  Contented unshaven men were seated in leather chairs reading books off the shelves, and the multitasketeers’ read, paced, and talked on the cell-phone while circulating the magazine racks.  The café was cluttered with dutiful students posed at their laptops, and young teenagers ordered paragraph drinks they paid for with credit cards. 

 I’d just left the Cocteau Theater where loyal readers of Michael McGarrity’s mystery novels were seated listening to him talk about his next book, “Dead or Alive.” I’ve never read his books; I wanted to hear him speak, just to see if I could imagine one day I might stand in front of an audience and talk about my book.  Michael was effortlessly engaging. No, I have a long long journey before I speak like that.  

“ This is the last stop of my three-month tour. I’m happy to be back home. And even more happy because on Friday I signed a new two-year contract for my next book. Believe me, today it takes more than luck, you have to have a track record.”  

That got me thinking; how people use to say; ‘it was good luck, or good fortune that I got published.’ If Michael McGarrity is right, then what we need is a lot more people buying books.  Our economy isn’t going to recover because of good luck, and all those people who lost their jobs, aren’t going to depend on luck to get a new job.

In fact luck is sort of passé. 

What was most interesting about that Saturday is that of all the little boutiques in Sanbusco Center, Borders had the crowd.  Books, even if they are hard as heck to get written, published and printed are the cheapest form of entertainment that I’ve found. Lately, I’ve drifted into an adventure in  Santa Fe history, so I picked up two books.  It has to do with my own stimulus package; how to balance the scathing news with something more rousing.  The first book, “Walks in Literary Santa Fe,” by Barbara Harrelson is a companion to a spontaneous walk through town. Just about every building used to be something more appealing: La Fonda Hotel was a Harvey House until 1969. The resplendent Fred Harvey made waitressing a fashion statement, with his Harvey Girls, and then Arthur Freed turned it into a MGM musical. My mother was in the film, a singing and dancing Harvey Girl.

 The Palace of the Governors, “the oldest public building still in use in the United States,” and built around 1610 is a museum today. Once it was home to Santa Fe governors, two of whom were writers. In 1943 the Palace became the meeting place for the Atom Bomb Quartet, aka as the Manhattan Project. Santa Fe’s first bookstore,Villagra, opened in 1927 inside the classical Spanish Sena Plaza.  “The owner served tea and gossip every day, and martinis at 4:00 every afternoon.” In that bookstore, Willa Cather was seen making notes, for her book, “Death Comes to The Archbishop,” about Santa Fe.

 Even my house, The Elliott Barker House, is historic because it was occupied by the man who gave Smokey Bear a career, when he took the cub to the White House and coined the phrase, ‘Only you can prevent forest fires.’ Mr. Barker was the state’s first Game Warden, and a zealous conservationist, when there was more land than building in Santa Fe. The Elliott Barker Trail north of Taos is one I hiked, before I knew I’d be living in his house, and feeding the sparrows.  He wrote half a dozen books about wilderness living in New Mexico.   

I mean it’s not New York, which could eat up an entire lifetime tracing the former famous residents of brownstones.  Santa Fe will be 400 years old this summer and I want to know who I should be celebrating.  For the price of $12.95, I have this great book, the references to other great Santa Fe literature, and a sort of walking tool to take with me when I’m on the streets.  

If you live in San Diego and remember my arts column every month, then you know how much I love to dwell in the house of the artist. As Black Monday’s get darker, I find solace in treading history in books, museums and film.

Any dice to throw: Email folliesls@aol.com

AN ALMOST FULL MOON AND OTHER THINGS

The throw of the dice this week falls on adventures in beginnings. Starting over, and rewriting a life you’ve lived many years is the same as re-writing a secret story. It takes the same blind courage. About half between forty and fifty years old, you hear people say, “It’s too late to start over,” It’s not true. Behavioral change is essential to living a full life.

In the middle of the night I woke up as if it was morning. When I looked out the window, an almost full moon, white as a laundered tablecloth, was staring back at me. It said, get up and write. I retreated to my corner of the world; a tiny room bathed in blush pink and gold, and wrote from beneath the goose down comforter. The moon watched. Now that the holiday lights and decorations are placed in the cartons, the wrapping and ribbon tossed away, a landfill of disturbing, distressing, and terrifying global news is dumped on us. I do not understand the external world of political and international power, wealth, and motivation. I fled that world a long time ago when I learned that men who controlled the paths of others were dangerously self-serving. I recall my father sitting on that crushed green velvet sofa, holding the remote control in one hand and watching a news program. He turned the television off and said to me, “Luellen, everything that goes on is fixed; you cannot hide your head in the sand and think otherwise.” I nodded my head in understanding, while internally I thought my father was suffering from his usual paranoia.

Now the forces of evil have shattered that glass of indemnity, and I’m forced to understand. This year is not about selfish resolutions catering to my fanciful comfort and ambitions, it is about survival. It’s about transforming behavior and habits, excesses and denial. Being part of a group, makes us feel less traumatized. Imagine, all the thousands of people paddling the same current; forcing back the mortgage lender, relinquishing precious possessions, driving a car with a shattered windshield, wearing coats without any down feathers left, and wondering when the pink slip will arrive. Alienation, religion, and racism are at the root of mankind’s aggression and discontent. It can lead to unexpected violence, and then to massacre, and war. It is a collective neurosis that grows worse every year.

The inner world, where each of us faces a truth no one else knows, is ruptured. All I can think of is bringing a little bit of light to someone I know is in darkness. Like a child thrown into school on the first day, we are unsure how we fit into the novelty of today’s complexities. It is time for courageous thinking and reinvention. If you have any excesses, hold them up to the light; rethink how to make them work for yourself, or someone else. Recently my friend and business advisor, Jazzwise, told me a story. He is offering business counseling for a program sponsored by the Small Business Administration. One of his clients owns a three bedroom house she cannot afford to keep. She is going to convert it into an Assisted Home Residence for seniors and rent each bedroom. That way she can retain possession, and earn more than enough income to pay the mortgage.

Taking in boarders is another option, and one I considered. When I remember the roommates of my past, I run from that idea. I’ve managed to find a tortured closet lesbian, a Nazi sympathizer, and critical case pot-heads. It was 1988, the summer I returned from my European sojourn, and decided I could not go back to real estate management. With no experience other than browsing the museums and galleries of cities I’d been to, I decided to try working in a gallery. The gallery I chose sold expensive commercial sculptor and lithographs. I got the job because I wore a short skirt. After a few weeks, one of the salesmen approached me. He was coiled like a snake, with icy blue eyes, spiked bleached white hair, and a radio-perfect deep steady voice.

    “Why do you keep running away from me?” he said when I passed through the lunchroom.

     “I’m not. Why?”

      “You’re so jumpy. Sit down for a minute, and tell me your story.” He reached for a extra long Benson & Hedges and flicked the ashes like a movie-star. I watched him because he was so well choreographed. We sat in the lunchroom and drank burnt end of the day coffee. I told him about growing up in Los Angeles, and before I got to the part about moving to San Diego, he had already set-foot into our common ground, and was pulling me down. He knew how to manipulate what I said into the broadest sort of connection. He was sure we’d met when we both vacationed in Laguna as young kids.

I can’t believe I’m telling this story. Anyway, Heidelbaum, I’ll call him, made me his personal pet. Since he was highest grossing salesman, when he asked me to be his, what did he call it, “frontline,” I accepted because we were paid on commission. Heidelbaum knew a lot about art, and just about anything else I mentioned. He claimed to be a dancer in the original “Hair” production in San Francisco; a former golden-boy broadcast personality, a child prodigy of the piano until some irreversible accident, and a frustrated but hugely talented writer. He only associated with creative people. He told me I was creative, and that’s what got me hooked. He also insisted on calling me LuLu, when I was still attached to the name Luellen. We worked as a team. I wore short skirts and he closed the deals. Those months at the gallery were the most deranged period of my life. I learned that there wasn’t anything creative going on in the gallery. Most of the salespeople were misfits of some breed, and the company policy was to practically force clients to buy on the credit we provided. We advised young sailors anchored in San Diego, that they needed an Erte sculpture to feel culturally accepted. Heidelbaum sold a sculpture or two a week.

“I’m going to take care of you. Don’t worry about everything so much LuLu, it ruins your personality.”

Within six months he picked out an apartment in a wooded canyon and told me I could have the large bedroom. He’d pay the rent and all I had to do was make coffee and be nice while he tried to write. I believed him, he was a non-attending student of Method acting. He studied books and film with relentless appetite. When I moved my furniture in, he went through the boxes. “What’s this?” he said as he browsed through my odd collection of art, books, and photographs.

     ”Is that Bugsy Siegel?” He held the photograph up and smiled. The photograph was inscribed; to Al, from your pal, Ben.

    “How did you know.” I asked. “ LuLu you have to realize I know a lot.” Everything he said was preceded with, you have to realize.

    “Your Dad was involved with him. Did you know that?”

    “ They were friends.” He did that thing with his eyes, he practically tore the skin off my face staring at me.

    “ LuLu, your dad was more than a friend. You can handle it.” I never did find out how he knew about my Dad and Ben. This was way before google, so he had to have read about him, or asked one of his big shot friends. After that, Heidelbaum turned into the tyrant from a science-fiction thriller. That first night he cooked a chicken, and threw it in the garbage because he said it was lousy-stinking lousy, “ I hate my cooking, and I hate this apartment. I only rented it for you.”

He drank cheap wine, and stomped around the room all night, mumbling about how wrecked he was, and how much he loved his sister, who had died, and all that other stuff he’d been hiding for six months. I closed the door of my bedroom clutching the photograph of my father. Heidelbaum banged on the door, and I held my breath. Naturally in the light of day, he bowed his head, turned his icy eyes into rose pedals, and begged me to tell him he still had his looks. I didn’t have any idea what I’d gotten into. I managed to live through three months of the most explosive and emotional behavior I’d ever witnessed in my life. Poor Heidelbaum was really choking on his identity. During that period a former boyfriend came to rescue me, after I called for help. Kenny could talk sense into a murderer, and manage to get a confession. Kenny was the one who found out that Heidelbaum’s grand-father was very big in the Nazi party. When Kenny told me to get my f—bag and move out before I lost my mind, I listened. I vanished from the apartment, and took my silly little boxes with me.

 When I resettled into my next home and unpacked, something was missing. Heidelbaum had stolen the photograph of Ben Siegel. He probably sold it to a pawn shop and now it’s part of someone’s collection. My sister was outraged when I told her. ” You idiot, that was worth a lot of money.” The funny thing is, Heidelbaum and I used to write together, he out on the wooded terrace, and me in the yellow wall-papered kitchen. Then we’d exchange our work. Mine was always, sort of boring. I lied about his, I said it was good, but I knew it was contrived. That’s the first time I’ve ever written about Heidelbaun. The story has a part two but I’m not ready for that yet. Sometimes a story gets out that you hadn’t planned, and then there it is staring at you. I don’t like remembering that Lulu, but now that I have said this much, Heidelbaum did set off a spark of creativity in me.