It’s only Natural

Sex is a perfectly nature and acceptable instinct like eating, but how would you feel if you had to find someone to eat with every time you wanted a sandwich? Or call someone over to your house when you wanted a drink of water? I find it very inconvenient to partake in naturalities that demand a partner. I find it unnatural. Natural instinct: to hunt, to forage, to move from place to place. We can do all those things alone and that is why we are able to do these things without getting emotional strung out. Sex fosters an unhealthy dependency, a desperation to connect, merge, cooperate. I spent the first half of my life looking for a sexual vehicle in the form of the male species. Continue reading

If It’s Not Broken…It will be.

If everything breaks, and we have alot of everything, there’s a good chance that something will be broken every day of your life. Like the child’s game of “hit the popping head” – you hit one head, another one pops up, guaranteed. I find this very stressful. Now that I am older, my body is another “thing” that breaks, a tooth cracks, I have it cemented, a mole changes shape, I have it removed…..ingrown toenails, poison ivy, stomach flu, pink eye, insomnia, car accidents. The upside? I am not living in Burma. I have health insurance, but my computer doesn’t, nor my toaster, phone, tires, lawn, mattress, reading glasses, hamburger patties. A statute of limitations on everything, the clock is ticking. It will stop ticking, but time, which supposedly does not exist, continues to bite at our heels. It seems that being alive is an exception to every universal principal. Most everyone is dead or haven’t been born yet and never will. Only a few of us, 6 billion or so, are actually breathing in and out and only temporarily. If this is so, why do we dread our extinction? It is such a natural progression of events. We should look forward to it. I walk the dog through cemetaries often. They comfort me. Everybody looks fine. They don’t have ingrown toenails or credit card debt. Sure, they can’t eat or have sex, but that’s a small price to pay for an eternal, ETERNAL, ETERNITY of freedom. I like being alive but I look forward to death because it’s something I can count on. Death won’t be taken away from me once I’m dead. The finality of death is our guarantee that we won’t have to put up with ingrown toenails forever. Or the thought that someone somewhere is torturing an animal. Someday I will not have to go to the dentist, or overhear a news broadcast. I will be dust, happy dust, drifting. I will not have to turn down invitations to play tennis, golf, pee-knuckle. I will not have to save receipts or canceled checks, fill out warranty cards. I will not have to dream. Acknowledging the temporary nature of existence jolts my priorities and concerns into clear focus. My To-Do list shrinks, my frustrations, resentments and worries evaporate. I am left with this moment only, and when my mind is clear, it is more than enough. In fact, I couldn’t take much more.   

Tough Enough

I had a nice day today because most of it consisted of heavy lifting. Did you know that we were built for heavy lifting and a lack of lifting is the no. 1 cause of depression. Take a look at your ancestral tree. We all have an Aunt Ella, running a farm at 92, finally collapsing during a hot day till of the North Forty, at 103.  I drove to Burlington and loaded a used refrigerator and stove into and onto my station wagon. I unloaded them and plugged them in. I cleaned them. I installed an air conditioner. I carried firewood down to the beach. I chain-sawed the dead branches off my pines. I sawed and nailed lattice under the deck. I recut a kitchen island to fit the new space. I dragged a dead old refrigerator out of the camp and put it into the car. I dragged an old freezer into the Quanset hut for future resale. Then, it’s five o’clock. Then, it’s done. Now that the physical labor is finished, I feel only regret. Any time you make improvements you are punished with higher taxes. You are also punished by the law of entropy, which suggests that any   improvements you make will eventually, if not immediately, begin to deteriorate, leaving you with twice as much work as before with only a slight improvement in your living situation.

I had a perfectly good single hot-plate burner and an ice chest. The ice chest stayed as cold as the ice I put in it. The hot plate had two, uh, speeds, — high and off. High worked fine. Off, even better.  I just went to the “new” refrigerator and it isn’t quite cold enough to chill the wine. The “new” electric stove has a very large pronged plug to which I am not familiar or accustomed. Must I rewire the “shed?”

Have I learned my lesson? No. I will now spend a few days, full days, asking for refrigerator and stove advice. Electrician? Refrigerator coolant supervisor?

And I did spend 250 dollars today on both refrigerator and stove. That is 250 dollars that could have gone toward a one way ticket to Morocco, where refrigerators and stoves are considered a nuisance. Better yet, the 250 dollars could have been spent as a nice French restaurant with friends, my daughter, brother. Two bottles of Dom Perignon. Where has my mind gone? It’s this horrible existence as a property owner! As the “owner” of houses, sheds, studios, whatever the hell they are, on an acre of lake front misery. 

Take me back to the freedom of an artist’s poverty. Now I understand.


thank you global warming (lyrics)

Last month my wife done left me

She took the car and the dog

But it don’t mean a thing next to

Global warming

I read about it on some blog

We’ll be surfing in Nevada

We’ll dive down to Beverly Hills

We can water ski in the arctic, you see –

Around all the oil drills!

Thank you GW thank you, thank you

Thanks for a nice hot day

Thank you GW, thanks to you

My troubles seem far away!!

Just last week I lost my job

So depressed I couldn’t see.

But in a few years in hot water to our ears

Why should that matter to me?

Notes From the Western Front

The Olympic Torch ….it was here?
Aka the flame of free speech sputters
SF: Where are your balls?

A few weeks ago the Olympic torch made its only “US appearance” in SF. The city fathers, fearing massive demonstrations as seen in France etc., took matters into their own hands. Of course, the Chinese community in SF is powerful and embarrassment was something to be avoided at all costs. Debts had to be paid. The United States is a country FOUNDED on dissent, yet today dissent is the first casualty under the wheels of political expediency…yes, debts must be paid.

The planned route was through the Financial District. That day I happened to be waiting for a bus at Sacramento and Battery, looked up and saw a horde of protesters RUNNING up Battery Street….frantically looking for that damn torch. They weren’t even close.

The city had a last minute plan. From the airport, they BUSED the torch to Van Ness Ave. (other side a the hill)…and skulked it up to the Marina, quick left on Doyle….and done. The hyperventilating mob of China-bashers didn’t have a chance…. a sign-wielding many-legged creature in search of a venue.

Way to go SF …. land of the free. The musket boys on Lexington Green would be proud.


ant-woman.JPGimg_0225.JPGWhy must I be pigeon-holed by Show Biz middle management? I’m an actress, okay? I can play Doris Duke or Jesus, the carpenter. I am perfectly comfortable in those roles and many, many others which I cannot reveal due to contractual agreements. I am building a bomb shelter in Vermont. I am also hob-nobbing with the beautiful people in Newport. I am not singing.  I don’t want to ruin my fun with nightclub clientele who shove wet napkins in my hand or tip-jar, with a song request/demand. The song is written in ink, the ink soaks through the napkin and on my hands. I itch my nose. Ink on my nose. I scratch my crotch. Ink on my cabaret gown. The song? New York, New York. Fly me To The Moon or Memories. period. that’s it. I like not singing New York, New York. I like not taking requests. I like not wearing long dresses or Marlene Dietrich garb. Just for a few more months. A few more hob-nobs. Another room on the bomb shelter. What’s the hurry now that I’ve finally recognized my “type” — grandma.