This Guy I Was Watching

I've been taking Grace to rehearsals for a show she is in for several weeks now. Sometimes I get there early and I wait for her in the car under this big tree in the parking lot where I am largely obscured.

Recently, I sat there and watched a man, seemingly in his mid to late 30's. He had a scruffy beard and he wore baggy, knee length running shorts and a red T-shirt with some advertisement on it and leather sandals. He had a stomach that looked like he really enjoyed beer. He sat on a bench just outside the entrance to the theatre with a Samuel French script in his hands and he clearly thought he was alone. It became apparent that he was there to audition for something.

I gotta say, I wouldn't have ever pegged this guy to be a thespian. He looked like he worked on cars or something. I couldn't hear him but I could see his lips move as he read the words and often and abruptly he would jump up and start acting the piece. I guess it must have been Shakespeare or something because he would start to fence with an imaginary sword and I have to tell you - he was transformed. He moved like fencing was something that was second nature to him. He showed confidence as he gestured and and turned and confronted and yielded and I was absolutely mesmerized! He would stop for a moment and sit some more, reading, with lips moving and then abruptly jump up again and begin to act and honestly - this guy was good!

I wondered if he was as good as he was because he thought he was alone. I wondered if he had known that he was being watched if his performance would have suffered. And then I wondered how many times I am less because I am "being watched".

I think I need to work on being my "authentic self" more.

Oh lord - I sound like Oprah and I hate that!

That guy was really good. I hope he got the part.

Song for a Hero

A year ago today, my dear friend Pete Kish was killed in the most horrific train disaster in California history. He left work and boarded the Metrolink train for home and you'll undoubtedly recall that his train collided with another. Because he liked to ride in the first cabin, we hoped that this one time, he had sat somewhere else but the next morning his death was confirmed. Mercifully, Pete had been killed instantly.

Many tributes have been paid to Pete - deservedly so - he was a truly wonderful and remarkable person. A true family man who lived a life of integrity and kindness. He had overcome a difficult childhood and he and his wife, Janice, made a commitment to making the right choices, doing the right things, and creating a loving household. Grace and their daughter Lori were best friends since they were babies and Grace loved to be at the Kish house. She remarked on the peacefulness there. Unlike the crazy Smith house, no one yelled there. And of all my male friends, I would say that my feelings toward him were feelings one would have for a brother. We did not agree about everything but it was no matter. He was like family. He was a devout Christian and lived a life without hypocrisy. I still can "see" him walking through my front door or sitting in the living room, or in his home, sitting in his chair or cooking in the kitchen. I still "see" him throwing his head back in laughter, or staring off in the distance for a moment with raised eyebrows and pursed lips while he considered a remark or an observation made. But I know where he is now and I have made peace with it.

So one year later, as we prepare to attend a memorial service being held this afternoon, it is not so much Pete as Janice who is on my mind. Bob and I, along with our pastor, were with her when we got the news. She did not cry. Shaken to the very core, in that moment, you could actually feel her pulling every ounce of courage she had within her body and making the excruciating moment-by-moment decision to put one foot in front of the other. One of the first things she said was "I think we should pray". Her thoughts went immediately to her two children, Lori (10 at the time) and Alex, just to turn 18 in 2 weeks time. She willed herself, heroically, to do more than function. She willed herself to live.

Naturally, as the Kish's are dear friends, Bob and I, along with others stayed close. And her sister and brother-in-law were her rocks, but it was Janice who took over. She, by strength, determination and example, led her family through the dark.

Intuitively, she knew that her children (especially Lori) would fear losing her, so she set about - immediately - to get herself in the best health possible. She changed her diet, started serious exercise and took extensive medical tests to assure her children that she was was healthy and would not be leaving them. (She looks terrific now, by the way.)

Unfathomably, two weeks before Christmas, their house caught fire due to a contractor leaving oil soaked cloths in a corner of their closed garage. They were all taken to hospital for smoke inhalation and then moved into a hotel until they could find a house to live in for the next 9 months. (They finally moved back into their home this week.) But Janice was a rock. And while I imagine she had many tearful nights behind her closed bedroom door, she never faltered in public - with her friends or with her children. She led them through this terrible year of "firsts" with strength, courage and even humor. I watched with admiration as she left her role of dutiful wife and mother, reliant on Pete, behind - and stepped into a role that can only be described as the Captain of a ship in serious distress, determined to keep it not only floating, but moving

forward. She did not turn over any responsibilities; she learned everything - all the things that had been taken care of for her. She conquered the computer (although, and I laugh, she still can't manage the remote to the TV), paying the bills, the complete financials of her household and all the mountains of unreadable legal paperwork involved with Pete's death and transfer of benefits, trusts, etc. She has become a force for insurance agents and lawyers to recon with. She is not anyone you mess with. And I am nothing short of amazed by her.

When Pete was with us, I spent most of my conversations with him. Since the accident, I have spent a great deal of time talking and listening to Janice. She has extraordinary wisdom. She has extraordinary love. She has an extraordinary story. She has emerged from this terrible year victorious. And I don't think I would have.

The greatest tribute that I can give Janice though, and the only one that will be truly meaningful to her, is to say that there is no doubt that as Pete watches over them, he is full of pride for her. And at the core, I know that her monumental effort and struggle to rise above the unthinkable tragedy of his death, devastation to her home, and the unbelievable difficulties they have faced these past 12 months, to not crumble or retreat, to not just hold her family together but to see them through, were motivated by her strong desire to honor him. They were that kind of couple. And she is that kind of person.

Janice Kish is a hero.

A Night at the Theatre

Bob and I went to the Ahmanson last night.

Unemployment has given me a new pastime. People watching. And those who attend the theatre are very interesting. Taking the escalator up from the parking lot, we were in the midst of a large group of aging artistes. They are the ones in their 50's and 60's who still look pretty good and pretty hip and have the appearance of being politically liberal and intellectual. The women all have either very, very short gray hair or long thick salt and pepper hair pulled pack into loose buns or ponytails. They all wear mid-length skirts with flat shoes and scarves or pashimas in vivid earth tones with gold thread woven through them. Their jewelry is hand crafted - metals and beads - no diamonds or gems. You easily imagine them living in clean but cluttered town homes - old buildings - near, or in, Beverly Hills - south of Wilshire. Books everywhere and large abstract oil paintings sitting on old wood floors and resting against the wall. And cats. At least two of them. The men in this group had balding heads and what hair was left was on the long side. And they bare the mark of bohemian authenticity: cat hair on their sweaters. These people were the real deal. I was not feeling well last night so I threw together something comfortable and wore no makeup; Bob is balding and in need of a haircut. Despite no cats and an authentic suburban, minivan lifestyle, by appearance, we fit right in.

Well, we were all in for a treat (or not) as we sat for 3 1/2 hours to watch what is no doubt the granddaddy of all people watching plays: August Osage County. This play won many Tony's in 2008 and the Pulitzer. As we filed into the Mezzanine, I was struck by the fact that there appeared to be a very large contingency of high school students among us as well. None of us could know what we were in for.

You can google it to get the story but the bottom line is that this play re-defines the dysfunctional family. There are some really big laughs. I had mixed feelings about the acting - much of it I felt was "stagy". But enough of my "review". After a very long and difficult Act I, we retreated to the lobby for air and I saw immediately that the high school students were completely unaffected. Can they relate to this play at all? Nope. They may have had the thrill of seeing a Pulitzer winning play but it was clear that the real thrill for them was the opportunity to "try-on" flirting with each other somewhere unfamiliar, outside of school. They are very adorable.

Back for more abuse in Act II - again a lot of laughs but the matriarch of this family is so mean, so vicious, so angry that when I found myself feeling sympathy for her I knew at once this is something you probably wouldn't want to admit to. (So here I am telling everyone.) The problem with plays like this is that there is something familiar about each of the characters - you recognize in some sense the people and the drama - which, I suppose, is what makes it so compelling. I imagine there is a sharp increase in appointments made with therapists in the area during the run of such a play. Had I had one, I would have logged a call by the second intermission...

We stayed seated for the second break and tried to decide if we liked this play or not. Act III unveiled all the horrible secrets - so many that it defied believability - and it had what Bob and I agreed were three false endings, meaning we thought the play was over and it wasn't.

At last, at 11:00, a standing ovation (Bob and I remained seated - who would know?) and off we went, with the high school students (giggling and looking absolutely no worse for the wear) and the aging artistes back to the parking lot. I tried to imagine how this group felt about this play. Would they be talking about it over toast and coffee in the morning? Had it been an "important" experience for them? Would their "Playbill" be left on the coffee table to encourage philosophical conversation with visiting friends?

We got into a conversation with one of the couples on the way to the car. Everyone in the play was either severely damaged, or a loser, or just plain vile (save two characters) and we made comparisons to Ibsen or Eugene O'Neill or even David Mamet. We had just seen the most celebrated play of the 2008 theatre season; a deep look into the just how horrible it can all be. We tried, briefly, to draw some conclusions and finally, Bob said: "Well it leaves you with a lot to think about". To my surprise, the ageing artiste woman replied : "Yeah, like, 'what's the point?'". Thank you!! I looked at her and knew immediately that she had made a happy home for her family. They drove off, I could complete their "story" - imagining them back in their cluttered town home - with their books and paintings and cats. And there, they treated each other well. A better play.

In the end, what it a good play? Everyone important seems to think so. Ten years ago I certainly would have thought so. It was well crafted. Was in interesting? Well, yes. Did I laugh? Absolutely. But was it really worth 3 1/2 hours of my time to watch a catastrophically wounded family play for a while in their individual and collective agony with not a glimmer of hope for a single one of them in the end? Uh, no. Yes, it was thought provoking, but I don't want to think about it. I'd much rather think of the stories behind all the people who came to the show. They all end well, though no one gets a Pulitzer.

Think about that.

Week Four - Two Weeks Later

Well, in the end, it didn't go so hot - this vegetarian diet thing. First of all, I am not one. And that, apparently, is a problem. I mean, even though it was a 4 week experiment, knowing that it is coming to an end and counting first days and then minutes before I could have a steak is defeating the purpose a bit.

So I have to try something new. I had this great idea once. I thought I would write a book - journaling my own weight loss through the "eat less, move more" method. The catch was that I would take a photo of myself every day, in the same spot, in the same clothes and then I would print the photo at the top of each page and it would become a little flip book so readers could see - in fast motion what you could accomplish only in slow motion in real life. But I thought it could be encouraging. I mean, if it was me reading this book and if I turned the pages one at a time and saw no change and then flipped through them fast and could go, "ah ha", then maybe it could be motivating. But I am tinkering with the idea again. Of course no one is buying books these days.

A less good idea was to publish a book of my own recipes - the idea being that I am such a bad cook that you won't eat at all. But that idea came from a dream I had and those ideas usually disappear 30 seconds after you wake up for a good reason.

Another good incentive is to constantly look at photos of me thin. Of course that could

encourage spontaneous episodes of weeping and visits to "the black hole" as well, as I have no program that will take 30 years off. I can't even do it with a flip book. But for the hell of it, here is me, 30 years ago (actually 33), and thin.

I hate that girl.

On the Beatles

I am watching "Help" with my daughter right now. It is a ridiculous movie. But I don't care because I am in love.

I am quite serious about that. I am in love with the Beatles. Each one of them. My heart skips a beat at their charm. I pine for them. I long for them. Of course, the Beatles, individually and collectively are much more than just musicians and rock stars. They are an entire part of my young life - so much so that I cannot extricate them from who I remember myself to be during a 3 to 4 year period of my young life in the 60's. They are the most significant memory of my first and second grade year. Their music - their early music - became part of the fabric of my being.

My very first memory of them was when I was 6 years old, seeing them get off a plane somewhere in America and it being covered by the news. My grandpa was visiting at the time. He was an amateur opera singer. He looked at them with disgust and said: "Oh for God's sake, they look like a bunch of girls". Eager to please my grandpa, I pledged my disinterest in them and said "I could never like them". But I lied because I watched the Ed Sullivan show later that week and forever more, I was in over my head.

A crush? Oh man, no! It went way beyond a crush! They were an obsession. I had a whole fantasy life built around the Fab Four. They were adorable. Just this side of "bad", they were still safe - not like the Rolling Stones - who scared me. The Beatles matched. They, in their grey suits and ties with high collared shirts and matching hair. They with their Liverpool accents and winking and "knowing" smiles. They made you feel like they really would like you if they met you. At 6, I believed that they were kind and good and they would take care of me if they knew me. Like I would be the most important thing in the world to them - if they only knew who I was.

It was Paul that I was over the moon over. I was jealous of Jane Asher for being his girlfriend and even though I was only 6, I would pretend I was her and at night I would close my eyes and imagine I was on a date with Paul. My hand was his lips and we would kiss. And that was the full extent of my mad and passionate affair with Paul McCartney. Well that and kissing his picture. I know, I was young - but think Snow White and Prince Charming - the Disney version...

As the Beatles evolved over the years, and I grew older - I still loved them - but not like when I was 6. Their music was certainly much better in their later years but I would choose to listen to the early Beatles over Sargent Pepper or the White Album any day. Not because I don't love Sargent Pepper or the White Album - I most certainly do. But they do not evoke the heart fluttering, emotional response from me that the early albums do.

As an adult, I have naturally followed their lives and careers and have tremendous appreciation for their contribution to music and our culture in general. I remember where I was when John Lennon was killed and I cried when George Harrison died. I stifled a squeal when I saw Ringo once in Santa Monica. I was thrilled to see Paul on Letterman recently and when my girls saw him in concert this summer, Jennifer called me from her cell phone so I could listen to him live. Loved that.

And as I sit here watching "Help" with my daughter I am trying so hard not to choke because I cannot hear those songs - any of them - without being moved, nearly to tears. I don't want her to see me welling up and have her ask me why I am crying. Because I can't explain it. It is a feeling that is very full because a part of me lives in this dumb movie we are watching. It is crazy but I'm telling you, it runs deep. And I realize I long for the innocence of the time, for four charming young boys who belong to that time, and their music so magical that I can still feel the flutter of the heart of a little girl, 6 years old at the time. They still show up periodically in my dreams. Honest to God, they do. I still love them in my dreams. But in my dreams, they love me back - like we were very old and dear, dear friends.

For those of you who may have decided - after reading this entry - that I am completely unhinged, what can I say? I will love them till the day I die. And honest to God, I am watching them sing "Ticket to Ride" and I have tears in my eyes. Yeah, yeah, yeah.

God Shows Up. Again.

God really exists. This is a statement of fact and I have so many, many stories that prove it and perhaps I will blog about all of them eventually. But yesterday we got further evidence.

Christine had a big car accident. She was looking at another accident on the side of the road and slammed into a car that had come to a quick stop in front of her. The collision forced the car in front of her to hit the car in front of it.

Christine just bought her first car in June with her own money. She no longer has a car. She was badly bruised and was taken by ambulance to the nearest hospital because the shock of it caused her blood pressure to drop and she fainted. But she is absolutely fine. No broken bones, no lacerations. Just lots of ugly bruising. Mostly from the seat belts. The car is totaled. As well as the car ahead of her - but no apparent injuries to the driver. And I don't know what is going on with the car ahead of that one, but Christine was the only one who went to the hospital and we are, naturally, grateful that she and everyone else are okay.

When I got the call I was sitting and enjoying the newly air-conditioned house of my friend Janice. She is just moving back into her house after it had been basically rebuilt after a fire back in December. My cell rings and I see I have voice mail messages waiting as well. Bob had been trying to reach me. He did not sound good. He said: "Christine's been in an accident". I stopped breathing for a minute. My mind automatically goes to her lifeless body on the side of the freeway with a sheet over it. I gasped that gasp you gasp when you hear something un-hearable. I go blind and deaf for a second. I can't read his tone. The tone in his voice could have been anything from "Boy, we really didn't need this" to "she didn't make it". He quickly told me she was okay but had gone to the hospital and we needed to get there. All those emotions and thoughts in a 5 second span. Headache on its way.

Once I knew she was okay, really okay, I switched into practical mode and started firing off a ton of questions: "Was it her fault?" Yes. "Is her car totaled"? Don't know. "Was anybody else hurt?". Don't know. "Was there extensive damage to the other car?" Don't know.

Okay. Now what? Oh sh-t!!!

I got in the car and drove to the hospital and felt my shoulders rising to ear level and I could not get them back into place - even when I tried. The sky was still filled with smoke and the sun had started its daily descent and so everything was a dirty orange and I started to feel that big black hole gaining ground on me to try to suck me into it. Grace was in the car too - being particularly chatty I might add - about nonsensical things and it was all I could do to mindlessly "uh-huh" her and not scream. I put on my special CD of all my favorite music and played the theme from "On Golden Pond" over and over again because it is beautiful and serene and I thought it would help but it didn't. Grace protested. Couldn't she move it to track 15? "Jump" by Van Halen? No, no. The suggestion of jumping was far too powerful at that moment. By the time I got there I was getting what my grandmother used to call "the vapors" - whatever that is - except I know that it involves feeling like you're going to faint.

My brain couldn't wrap around the fact that my daughter had been in an accident; had caused it. Jenny was there waiting for me. Bob was on his way. We went back into the little area where they had her on an IV and a monitor and her face had black all over it - what I later realized was the gun powder from the air bag. But I knew she was fine. I knew this because she was on her cell phone. So I just started seeing dollar signs. Emergency room: Ka-chink. X-rays: Ka-chink. Ambulance: Ka-chink, Ka-chink, Ka-chink. Deductibles, raised insurance premiums, potential lawsuits? So I was relieved to hear the doctor had written her a prescription for Vicodin because I was going to need it.

And all through this I am aware that for some reason, God had protected her. She was okay and it didn't have to end that way. But here is where I really started to feel God:

1) I heard her telling her friend on the phone, "I don't know how I am going to pay for this". I didn't expect that. I had expected that she would tell us she was sorry and then wait for us to take care if it. And of course we will do everything we can to help. But she was taking full responsibility on her own and that, without sarcasm, was a miracle - a great moment I will never forget. There, in the midst of an awful experience, I was proud of her.

2) The previous day, we suddenly realized that our auto insurance was about to expire at midnight. I went to pay it online but saw that the money wouldn't transfer for 4 days. Normally (and I know this is really bad), I would think to myself, "Oh whatever! So what if its a little late? They'll have the money before they even notice its late". But for some reason, I looked up their address and drove down to their office and wrote them a check right there. Had I not done that, Christine would have had this accident as an uninsured motorist. And that would have buried us.

3) Once we all got home, after we had something to eat and watched TV and started to think about sleep, Jenny went into her room and found something strange sitting on top of her bed. She had never seen it before. Neither had anyone else in our house - but there is was, sitting - strangely - in the middle of her bed - from completely out of nowhere. It was this weird, oversized charm. It was kind of cheesy looking. It was about one and a half inch square and it had an angel on it and it read: "Never drive faster than your guardian angel can fly".

And on my life, I am totally NOT making that up.

Lunch with my Homegirls

Yesterday I had lunch with Meg and Jackie. I hadn't seen Meg since my 50th birthday party. I saw Jackie at her daughter's Bat Mitzvah a few weeks ago, but prior to that, it had been years. The photo here is from the early 90's, when our friendship was already over 10 years old. The photo was taken at Peg's house - but Peg moved to Ohio and I see her even less frequently.

Once again, it was a sweetly strange experience for me because seeing these two wonderful friends had me reliving a fat Rolodex full of memories. I began my adult life with these women and it is truly moving to see them again. Of course, menopause only heightens the sentimentality of it all and I actually got very teary at the table but there isn't anything I can do about hormones gone wild.

We did a lot of catching up - mostly on our kids - nearly all of them are now in college. We were there for each other's bridal showers, weddings, baby showers, birthdays, anniversaries. And now, there is something so wonderful about looking into the faces of old friends, ones that have aged (well I might add) and still see the girl. It is a lovely phenomenon, one of the good things about growing older. I have said it before. We will always be young with old friends.

Meg initiated this lunch. Meg grew up in Los Angeles, one of eight children in an Irish-Catholic family. Her mother went to Mass every day. Her license plate read 10HLMRYS or something like that. Translated, it said: "10 Hail Mary's" because Meg's mom always said the Rosary prayers before a family trip in the car. Her dad owned a dairy business and together her parents had a wonderful love affair. Her dad asked for her mother's pillow when he was hospitalized shortly before his death. I thought that was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard.

They lived in such a lovely, warm home with a big rounded porch in the front yard and a beautiful back yard; Meg and Pat held their wedding reception there. I remember that whenever I was there, I would wonder what it must have been like to grow up in that house. I think it must have been crowded but loving with an emphasis on compassion and understanding. Meg told me that her mother had a rule: if a boy asked Meg or her sisters out, they had to agree to a date at least once. Her reasoning was that if the boy had mustered up enough courage to ask for a date, he deserved to be said yes to at least one time. The girls didn't have to agree to a second date if they didn't want to, but I remember even in my early twenties being moved by the incredible kindness of that rule and I am sure there are many boys who remember a pleasant date with one of the Boyle girls. They were raised well - everyone of the brothers and sisters are grand people. In fact, one of them grew up to be Father Greg Boyle.

If you have not heard of Father Greg, please google him. He is one of those people who prove that one person can make a huge difference in the world. He has devoted his life to working with and ministering to the gangs of East Los Angeles. He has saved and built lives. His vision produced "Homeboy Industries". Part of the complex houses a restaurant called Homegirl Cafe - and this is where Meg asked us to meet her for lunch.

I'll be the first to tell you that I had never been to this part of downtown Los Angeles before and I was a little intimated - lots of tattoos and piercings; physical markings we have come to, frankly, fear, as gang identification. But you quickly forget that. Our waitress was charming (in spite of what looked like a painful lip piercing) and the food was out of this world (especially the mango salsa). Their "uniforms" are t-shirts that say: "Homeboy Industries - Jobs Not Jail".

After lunch we were treated to a tour of the impressive facility. There is a bakery where former gang members work and make breads and pastries and are growing their contracted business. Upstairs there is drug counseling, personal and spiritual counseling, two medical rooms where local doctors donate their time to remove gang tattoos (using state of the art medical technology that has been donated). It is a gruesome process so those who endure it are dedicated to changing their lives. All this is free. They also house a charter school where those who work there can continue their education and get their diploma. They are held accountable. If the don't do their school work, they don't get clocked in. They offer "Daddy and Me" classes for single fathers. They offer job training and computer training and they run and staff a bakery, a restaurant and a gift shop.

Our tour guide was a soft spoken and respectful former gang member who told us of a life I could not fathom. His arms and neck were covered in tattoos - and while he had had some removed from his face, they were still distracting. He was a drug dealer at 14 and soon became his own "best customer". He robbed people for his addictions and went to prison where he was traumatized. After getting out, he tried to go straight but relapsed. He accepted that he was a drug addict and resigned himself to a life of misery. But his "brothers" from Homeboy Industries found him, picked him up and refused to give up on him. He is now clean for over a year. We have often heard the phrase : "What would Jesus do?" Let me tell you. He would do this.

So of course the economy has not been kind to them and they are in need of money. And unemployment to these people is not at all the same as unemployment for me. They need help. If you want to be a blessing to someone, please go to http://www.homeboy-industries.org/ and participate in their effort to raise money to keep operating by contributing to their "virtual car wash". This is important work. And if you get a chance, go down and visit. Have the whitefish tacos - they're delicious!!

Meg, Jackie, and I walked back to the parking lot and promised to get together more frequently, something we promise to do every time we see each other - about once every 5 years or so. I sincerely hope that we do this time. But if we don't, I will wait patiently until I am 57, and be so glad to see these women who will always be my friends. And I have no doubt that I will look in their faces and see girls again.