To all of you out there, and there are many, many of you, who are willing to be toast on your way to transformation—we are all in this together—and I applaud you with my crispy, toasted little hands!
Love,
The piece of burnt toast you’re smelling right now.
xox
Just when I thought my screenplay was finished, my Muse, who is like a shark in the fact that she never sleeps and hasn’t met anything she won’t eat, suggested that we open our film with the song “Let’s Go Crazy” by that artist who was known as Prince—then the symbol—then Prince again..
Just so you know, her suggestions are more like directives. Softer than outright orders, but hey, who are we kidding, they’re really not open for negotiation.
But still, it’s me…I argued.
“What? What are you saying?” I quizzed the silly ghost who was harping on the fact that it would be a kick-ass opener. A real sit-up-straight-in-your-seat moment.
Well, no argument there, but…
“Just imagine it” she’d say, and I would—vividly—with goosebumps and all—but not without some reservations.
Now don’t get me wrong, I LOVE that song and I’m bat-shit crazy about Prince.
In the 1980’s he was more than the soundtrack of my life. I adored everything about him. I even thought the acting was GOOD in the movie and I subsequently wore the grooves smooth on my Purple Rain album.
But my Muse? SHE is someone from another generation, someone more likely to suggest Nina Simone or Nat King Cole.
Certainly not Prince. Never Prince.
So I questioned her judgment on the relevance of that song at that particular moment in that movie of that subject matter—which is life after death.
During one particularly strenuous argument that I was making about Prince being someone who NEVER licensed his songs out to anyone—for anything, she actually reassured me.
“It’s not your job to worry about that stuff”, she insisted. “None of that will be an issue when the time comes. Besides, why are you arguing? You love that song!”
One day at the gym after that song had interrupted the podcast I was attempting to listen to five times in a row, I heard her voice.
“Hey, you wanna know why this song is so perfect? Did you listen to all the words?”
“Um, yeah.”
“Really? Do you know EVERY word?”
“Maybe… Do you?”
“Sing it for me”, she demanded, testing me.
As I sang the words out loud that morning at the gym with the music blasting in my ears, I suddenly realized, ‘Shit, I’d better shut up because people are staring AND OMG, the bitch is right! This song is all about death and life…and life after death… and… OMG! Who knew?!’
So of course argument over and into the screenplay it went.
FADE IN: [SONG] LET’S GO CRAZY – PRINCE, THE REVOLUTION
EXTERIOR. DAY. CEMETERY
The screen is black. Slowly we see the top of a coffin as the camera pans up to show an overview of mourners, graveside, all in black.
[SONG] “Dearly beloved,
We are gathered here today
To get through this thing called life
Electric word life
It means forever and that’s a mighty long time
But I’m here to tell you
There’s something else —
The after world.
A world of never ending happiness
You can always see the sun, day or night
So when you call up that shrink in Beverly Hills
You know the one, Dr. Everything’ll Be Alright
Instead of asking him how much of your time is left
Ask him how much of your mind, baby
‘Cause in this life
Things are much harder than in the after world
In this life-
You’re on your own.”
EXT. DAY — WIDE SWEEPING AERIAL SHOT – MULHOLLAND DRIVE, LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
The camera follows Mulholland Drive while the music plays and the credits roll until we see a Red Fiat Spider convertible sports car with the top down racing along this winding mountain road.
Ironically enough, I spent a majority of March marinating in all things Prince (there’s another Prince song that closes the film), something I haven’t done since my twenties; changing things around, re-writing and wondering whether or not he would approve of the use of his songs inside our material.
During this time I remembered The Tambourine.
A good friend of mine had absconded with one of Prince’s tambourines after working the sound on an impromptu concert two years ago. As the story goes, (and I will believe this until the day I die), it was the actual one that Prince played himself that night.
After I peed my pants, did my spazzy happy dance, and squealed the high-pitched scream of a twelve-year-old girl—I hung it in my “office” as one of my most prized possessions.
Holding it in my hands in March, I consulted with the tambourine (you know, like you do), and the answer came to me loud and clear (and was accompanied by some tambourine rifts just for good measure).
I felt that if he read it—he’d get it.
No need for that after today. The artist known as Prince has gone to the great concert in the sky and knowing what I know about the after world (that it’s a freakin’ free-for-all, y’all), I can rest assured of the fact that my bossy little friend has a back-stage pass—no wait, she’s with the band —and she has cornered the poor guy and is telling him our story. Which means that in due time she will hammer out any and all of the details for our licensing agreement. Mark my words.
Because that’s what they do in the afterlife, they keep doing all the things they loved.
But I can’t help wondering…did she get a head’s up for his departure from this mortal coil in advance? In other words, did she know he was coming? Was she at the arrivals gate?
For someone of a completely different generation, she seemed REALLY sure of herself about all things Prince.
WTF?
Anyhow, I suppose that’s for her to know–and me to find out…eventually. And when I do, you guys will be the next ones to know.
Carry on,
xox
This is the tambourine. I know. So cool!
Hi you Guys,
You’re going to LOVE this story. Trust me. I know. It’s just what your dear hearts ordered.
Carry on,
xox
“When the world feels cold and dark and lonely, take heart: Anybody can make their corner of it brighter.”
By Elizabeth Gilbert
Some years ago, I was stuck on a crosstown bus in New York City during rush hour.
Traffic was barely moving. The bus was filled with cold, tired people who were deeply irritated—with one another; with the rainy, sleety weather; with the world itself. Two men barked at each other about a shove that might or might not have been intentional. A pregnant woman got on, and nobody offered her a seat. Rage was in the air; no mercy would be found here.
But as the bus approached Seventh Avenue, the driver got on the intercom.
“Folks,” he said, “I know you’ve had a rough day and you’re frustrated. I can’t do anything about the weather or traffic, but here’s what I can do. As each one of you gets off the bus, I will reach out my hand to you. As you walk by, drop your troubles into the palm of my hand, okay? Don’t take your problems home to your families tonight—just leave ’em with me. My route goes right by the Hudson River, and when I drive by there later, I’ll open the window and throw your troubles in the water. Sound good?”
It was as if a spell had lifted. Everyone burst out laughing. Faces gleamed with surprised delight. People who’d been pretending for the past hour not to notice each other’s existence were suddenly grinning at each other like, is this guy serious?
Oh, he was serious.
At the next stop—just as promised—the driver reached out his hand, palm up, and waited. One by one, all the exiting commuters placed their hand just above his and mimed the gesture of dropping something into his palm. Some people laughed as they did this, some teared up—but everyone did it. The driver repeated the same lovely ritual at the next stop, too. And the next. All the way to the river.
We live in a hard world, my friends.
Sometimes it’s extra difficult to be a human being. Sometimes you have a bad day. Sometimes you have a bad day that lasts for several years. You struggle and fail. You lose jobs, money, friends, faith, and love. You witness horrible events unfolding in the news, and you become fearful and withdrawn. There are times when everything seems cloaked in darkness. You long for the light but don’t know where to find it.
But what if you are the light? What if you’re the very agent of illumination that a dark situation begs for?
That’s what this bus driver taught me—that anyone can be the light, at any moment. This guy wasn’t some big power player. He wasn’t a spiritual leader. He wasn’t some media-savvy “influencer.” He was a bus driver—one of society’s most invisible workers. But he possessed real power, and he used it beautifully for our benefit.
When life feels especially grim, or when I feel particularly powerless in the face of the world’s troubles, I think of this man and ask myself, What can I do, right now, to be the light? Of course, I can’t personally end all wars, or solve global warming, or transform vexing people into entirely different creatures. I definitely can’t control traffic. But I do have some influence on everyone I brush up against, even if we never speak or learn each other’s name. How we behave matters because within human society everything is contagious—sadness and anger, yes, but also patience and generosity. Which means we all have more influence than we realize.
No matter who you are, or where you are, or how mundane or tough your situation may seem, I believe you can illuminate your world. In fact, I believe this is the only way the world will ever be illuminated—one bright act of grace at a time, all the way to the river.
Elizabeth Gilbert is the author of, most recently, Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear (Riverhead).
Read more: http://www.oprah.com/inspiration/Elizabeth-Gilbert-May-2016-O-Magazine#ixzz46OWzc4wR
“So, he said I have a really cute vagina…”
I just about dropped the carton of eggs I was pulling out of the fridge for our breakfast but made the save. The half-smoked cigarette I was balancing between my lips wasn’t as lucky, falling onto the kitchen linoleum, just barely missing my bare feet—as my mouth hung agape.
My roommate chattered on as I stomped out the hot ash that was skittering about with my heavily callused heel.
“One of the prettiest he’s ever seen.”
“Wait. Who said that? Michael? Your boyfriend?” I asked as if I really wanted to know.
Moments earlier I had innocently asked how her visit to the Gynecologist had gone the previous day. She’d had a couple of wonky pap smear results and, well, now here she was, off talking about all the compliments her vagina was getting—and I was confused.
She did have the attention span of a spider monkey so this wasn’t new, but the subject matter was. We weren’t in the habit of sharing super intimate, sex-related pillow talk.
“No, silly, Dr. SoandSo”, she laughed, smoke billowing from her nostrils as she snuffed out her cigarette in the Philodendron on the kitchen table.
We had a habit of smoking while cooking. Only while cooking. It nauseates me even now. All of it. Even this conversation. Especially this conversation.
I whipped around, setting the egg carton down hard in front of her. Egg snot ran from several of the perforations onto the vintage 1950’s Formica diner table we sat around in the kitchen.
She jumped, startled, as I yelled into her face. “What the fuck?! Are you telling me you’re Gynecologist said that to you?!”
She looked at me as if my head had spun around (which it had, but just once), her big, brown saucer eyes filled with fear.
“Uh, yeah, he was just…um…it wasn’t…uh…”
“Please tell me he at least removed his hand before he said that!” I asked, again not really wanting to know the answer. I’m not even sure why that mattered, it’s just that the thought of her doctor wrist-deep inside of her, cooing that bullshit while she’s on her back with her legs in the stirrups made me want to puke—and call the police.
“That is sexual harassment!” I screamed louder than I intended.
”He’s a professional! He should NEVER say that sort of thing to you! Everyone knows gynecologists are only allowed to talk about the weather when they’re down there—below the equator!”
She looked bewildered.
“Honey”, I pulled up a chair and sat straight in front of her, lowering my voice into a calmer, more soothing register as I realized she had no idea what he’d done.
It was a compliment. About her lady parts. From a man.
UGH.
“You have to report him. He’s a bad guy, and not a good doctor. That wasn’t a compliment. It was HIGHLY inappropriate.”
When she finally got it, she looked ashamed.
“If you don’t—I will!”
Sexual harassment in the workplace, from people in positions of power, and I think, in general, is SUCH a subjective topic and to this day—I’m not sure why.
It’s been my observation that most men just don’t get the intricacies.
The boundaries are blurred to the point that unless it comes down to an actual physical assault—it can slide under the radar like it did for my twenty-seven-year-old roommate.
It is often covert—cloaked in a compliment, delivered by someone in authority, wrapped inside of a joke or said straight up to your face with a wink—and if you so much as bat an eyelash—you’re overreacting.
Clearly, the situation was “misconstrued”.
I loathe that word. Misconstrued.
Lots of slimy people get away with highly questionable shit by hiding behind that word.
Here’s the thing, I don’t misconstrue anything. My gut construes everything you said correctly. Your innuendo? It was interpreted exactly how you meant it. There was no mistake made.
Except for you thinking I wouldn’t say anything.
I worked in a male-dominated business for almost twenty years.
And I grew up with a brother and worked my way through school on the night crew of a supermarket as one of only two girls.
I know men. I love men, and I know male humor.
I get it. I can even appreciate it. It can be bawdy and blue and I’m a real broad—one of the guys—so I’m often right there in it AND I can let a lot of shit slide.
But there’s a line. A boundary that should never be crossed, and you know when it has been by the pit in your stomach.
My male boss was always the epitome of appropriate behavior. He never made a misstep.
But one day in the midst of an all-male jewelry buy (or a shark feeding-frenzy, take your pick), the free-range testosterone in the room took control of one of my boss’ partners and best friends. As he went to leave, he hugged me goodbye for a little bit too long, and the hug was just a little bit too tight and there it was—his semi-erect “little friend” pressed up against my thigh.
It was no accident. There were a couple of dry-humps. I kid you not.
Reflexively and forcefully, I pushed him away with both hands looking him straight in the eye—horrified.
He winked, and yelled something back at the guys about his jeans being too tight, and made a quick getaway.
I could barely catch my breath. I was shaking and red in the face. Immediately, I grabbed my boss by the arm, yanking him out of earshot of the others.
As a woman in a man’s world, you walk a tightrope—you want to be a “good sport”, “one of the guys”, yet still be treated with respect.
“THAT man!”, I whisper/yelled, “You had better keep your FRIEND away from me—he is NEVER to lay a hand on me again, DO YOU UNDERSTAND? If he does—I will quit and then I will sue him all the way to hell and back!”
He shook his head and shrugged, confused. “O…kay…”, he stammered still staring at my panting, red face.
“He pressed his dick against my leg!” I whispered forcefully, staring him down, trying to make him understand. He immediately looked down at his feet, embarrassed. “Okay”, he replied, wishing he were invisible as he slowly turned and walked back to his buddies.
I think, rather I KNOW, that he thought I was overreacting. That I had misconstrued his friend’s natural affection for lechery.
I tried not to gag every time I had to see that man again, which was often since he was a part of my boss’ inner circle. But nothing even remotely resembling sexual innuendo or impropriety happened again. I don’t know if my boss had a talk with the guys or if they had just decided on their own to behave themselves.
All of them except for that one man.
In the space of ten years, with a wife and two kids to support, he settled three workplace sexual harassment cases (that I know of ), out of court.
If I remember correctly, I think it was when my boss told me about the second one that his face registered some sort of understanding and an unspoken apology for having doubted me.
That would have to be enough.
Talk to me.
Carry on,
xox
“We are Starstuff and we remember what we forgot”
~Carl Sagen
“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” – W.B. Yeats
Marinate in those two thoughts today you guys and make your Sunday a great one!
Carry on,
xox
I just wanted to give you guys, my trusted tribe of loyal followers, a head’s up regarding my upcoming music video.
What’s that?
You haven’t heard about it? Have you been living under a rock?
Okay.(Giant, exasperated exhale)
So, I was going to videotape one of my epic karaoke go-arounds.
Preferably the one happening at my friend’s upcoming karaoke wedding reception.
What? I know!
Except the stupid LIVE kareoke band doesn’t play Total Eclipse of the Heart OR Living on a Prayer.
So, I scrapped that plan.
But I am going to be on an episode of Orange is the New Black.
After I write myself a part.
Which isn’t completely out of the question, and my favorite color is orange and I wear mostly all black, so…
Let’s see..
The Huffington Post did pick up and publish this essay I wrote about feeling like an alien stowaway inside of my own family, growing up a black sheep, and suffering through a wedding attended by a bunch of mean strangers disguised as family.
If it sounds familiar maybe we grew up in the same family OR you read it here on the blog earlier this week. Read it again, Jim, I know you, and you don’t have a photographic memory!
I’d love it if you’d take a look, comment, like or share.
And this concludes the self-promotion part of this Saturday, but I can’t promise you anything regarding the shamelessness.
Sorry, it’s the weekend.
Carry on,
xox
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/janet-bertolus/a-stowaway-a-black-sheep-_b_9696654.html
This week needed its own anthem and thanks to a friend of the blog, Billy, we have one!
Fuck This Shit I’m Out!
This past week at our house has been an interesting mix of tomfoolery and shit.
We had a surgery, a completely fried computer hard drive, a kitchen drawer full of rat poo, doctor visits, three FULL glasses of a liquid that got knocked over and spilled EVERYWHERE! (The last time I spilled a full glass of anything was when I was five.) We also have a blown sprinkler that shoots so high into the air that it waters the moon, a little dog with breath so bad you want to slap your mama—a bar-b-que that’s on the fritz—and a migraine. Not to mention Friday is tax day!
On the upside, nobody died, I have blue/purple in my hair again and got to power wash the outside patio area in anticipation of new furniture. Yip.
So, yeah.
It may only be Thursday, but Fuck this shit I’m out!
How about you?
Carry on,
xox
“Hiding takes many forms. Inappropriate attention to detail is a big one because it feels like a responsible thing to do.”
~ Seth Godin
Take a look at the two quotes above.
Attention to detail. Good. Necessary for greatness.
Attention to detail bad. Perfectionism. Hiding.
I agree. With both. Seriously.
My belief in the quality that lies in attention to detail remains unwavering.
HOT water causes peonies to open.
Dirty fingernails telegraph all your nasty secrets.
Cloth napkins. ONLY cloth napkins.
Clean underneath your patio furniture. God forbid someone moves a chair and a family of ten thousand baby black widow spiders decide it’s time for a meet-n-greet. (I speak from personal experience on this one).
Make sure you’re wearing your glasses when you shave your bikini line. You don’t want to leave unseen strips of grown out stubble that are long enough to braid. That’ll ruin any day at the beach. (Again with the personal experience.) And men, the same holds true for nose hair. Glasses on, and…Clip it.
Those are just the tip of the iceberg for me when it comes to paying attention to the details, and it’s easy for me to go overboard.
Here’s the thing, as unbelievable as it may seem to some, I’ve lightened up significantly the older I’ve gotten, and you know what? Things still look great—and I‘m so much happier.
As far as hiding in the attention to detail, never one to pass up a neurosis—I’ve done that too.
It’s easy as a writer to convince yourself that “it” will be so much better if you just work on it for a few more days. Who hasn’t done that with a project they care about? It’s got your name attached, so it better be perfect. Right?
Days turn into weeks, weeks turn to months, months to years and all you have are drawers and files full of “rough drafts”.
Just send the freakin’ article! Just enter the photograph in the contest! Jeez! Pahleez! There may be a typo, flub or a mistake.
Big. Deal.
Truth be told, tired eyes miss typos. They just do. I’ve seen typos in published material that was edited by industry professionals! It’s okay, it actually makes me smile and you know what? I’m pretty sure nobody died in the making of that minor error.
I know an artist AND a writer both of whom are so intellectually adept that they over think their creative endeavors to. a. fault. They’re always reading one more book, or taking yet anther class—when they should just be painting and writing! Enjoying the process.
No more details! Flip perfection the finger!
The rest of the Seth Godin essay:
“There are endless small details to get right before you have something you’re truly proud of. No doubt about it. But there are frightening and huge holes in any bridge to the future, and until you figure out how to get across, I’m not sure it matters if you have a typo on page 4.”
One way I figured out to get across the scary bridge is the fact that I take consolation in knowing there always has to be a FIRST DRAFT. Always. For everything.
Carry on,
xox
We’re at a family wedding.
Not immediate family. Extended family. The worst kind. The judgiest ones in the bunch. The one’s who keep inviting you as an afterthought, because, well, you never come anyway, so when your husband convinces you that it’s an afternoon of cake and dancing, you RSVP Yes + 1—and blow their judgy little minds.
I’m the black sheep of our family, one of several, and so they’ve seated us at the “loser’s” table. I actually overheard someone at the wedding call it that.
It really is the loser’s table.
It’s the absolute worst table in the room. It’s way in the back, next to the kitchen, so far away from the action that the music takes a minute or two to reach us. It’s so bad the band’s lips are out of sync, like an old Charlie Chan movie. They run out of food by the time it’s our turn to hit the buffet. And cake. My hubby and I shared the last sliver of cake.
We are seated with two non-recovered alcoholics who are shit-faced and speaking what sounds like pig-latin to each other, what looks to be someone’s fourteen-year-old pregnant niece, an old hippie who took way too much LSD in the’60’s—and a convicted felon.
In stark contrast, the horrible bitch-faced woman who was married to my dad and quite literally drove him to his grave, is smiling sweetly at my husband from the bride and groom’s table (I can see her with my binoculars)—because she knows how to write epic thank you notes—and she plays the game.
I can remember looking at pictures of myself as a baby and wondering if I’d been a stowaway on a ship from some far-off galaxy that was looking for signs of intelligent life and when they realized this was an okay place to leave me—they did just that—in Santa Monica California—so, not too shabby.
With my thick white hair and tanned skin, I didn’t resemble my pale, dark haired, freckle-faced siblings in the least.
I also arrived with the most vivid imagination, a song in my heart and a skip in my step. And it saved me.
Rickets skinny with large buck teeth, I forged my way through childhood wondering if my people were ever going to swing back by this way and pick me up. That had never been their promise but still, I held out hope.
I’ve always been different. I can’t explain how or why and at times it caused me a world of hurt.
As much as I loved Catholic school, (especially the uniform, see, I told you, weirdo), the dogma never made sense to me.
The wrath of God? A punishing God?
Whose God were they referring to anyway? Mine told me knock-knock jokes and led me to the fields with the most lady bugs to catch. Mine wasn’t hanging over my head bleeding on a cross, mine lived happily, laughing and loving in my heart.
This caused me to question things. Mostly authority. I could never do or believe something just because someone older told me to. And I just could NOT bring myself to “play the game.”
That spells trouble for a kid. Trouble, with a capital T.
And not the obvious punky trouble. Rather, the kind that challenges parents and teachers with all of it’s “Why’s”.
I will ALWAYS pledge allegiance to the wild side, and by wild I mean overgrown. The unbeaten path.
I remember asking my fifth-grade teacher what I was actually promising by pledging my allegiance to the flag. It opened an hour long conversation about Patriotism and love of country and she seemed genuinely happy to be asked something she’d ‘never before given any thought to.’
I broke some of our unspoken family rules as a teen by addressing the elephants that had taken up residence in pretty much every corner of our house. It sounded like sassing, backtalking, and disrespecting authority and it was resoundingly unappreciated. But because I kept my 4.0 GPA and honor roll status, it saved me from long weekends grounded in my room.
I was an anomaly at the time. Not a paint-by-numbers slacker and not your typical hippie-druggie—just a high performing, insufferable, pain-in-the-ass.
Black sheep.
I think my dad first labeled me. He could never figure me out. That day it had something to do with the fact that I got an A in Science Class without ever buying a book, yet, I wanted the teacher fired for being a dumb-ass.
Black sheep. I’m guessing most of you were black sheep too.
I quit college to act.
I retired from Catholicism.
I prefer the cookie dough to the baked cookies. Always have.
I didn’t want to work the “family business”.
I believe in energy and the power of thought.
I was divorced by twenty-six.
I decided NOT to have kids.
I’m unafraid of confrontation.
Until I went gray, I couldn’t have told you what color my hair REALLY was I dyed it so many different colors.
I don’t like ambrosia salad.
I hate green jello, bridal showers and babies breath in flower arraignments.
I love to sing and dance. Anytime, anywhere.
And that vivid imagination that led me to believe that there was something greater out there for me. I know many of you feel the pull as well.
I’m back at the wedding, with all of its criticisms hidden in polite discourse.
“So, I guess no children for you, Janet?”
“No Aunt Barbara, You do realize I’m over fifty now.”
“Huh. And you’ve finally married. A Frenchman. American men aren’t good enough for you?”
I decided right then and there, in the midst of this family of strangers, to declare my status.
“I guess not. You know, I’m a black sheep.”
The old woman looked up at me with something…recognition?…as I gently guided her back to the “winners table”.
Carry on,
xox
Got any good “black sheep” stories?
