Odd letters in the box these days.  Many fine ones almost timed, it seems, by some angel with a stopwatch.

 

Last night, at the end of a festive Starz homage to Hunter S. Thompson, we were grateful to hear Harry Dean Stanton's goodbye letter to HST AND...melodramatic yet contemporary drum roll, please....singing 'Danny Boy' a capella.  Now if I'd seen/heard that months ago, it might account for my dormant blogging.  Oh yeah - this is a blog, I guess.  I tried to gussy it up and say missives but it's just another buncha burped out words on a lit screen that flies out and around to a few places. 

 

Funny.   Someone with a very busy website and a very local artistic career wrote something like, 'Well, I looked up her site and so what?'   That's kind of like telling me my small rescue Shih Tzus don't look like breed standard.  Of course not.  They're puppy mill rescues.  Same for my site.  I don't want banners or lights or buttons or bows.  I quit putting dates down when some folks began to kind of show up where I was performing.  This might be the goal, a clever reader would surmise.  Ah.  One would think.  But not the same few people following me all across the fine land.  Comprende vous?  Ah, oui.   

 

I haven't ever made a CD or a DVD and only have the diary of the years I was on a network show to patch up and maybe write about.  Mostly though, it's a fly on the wall account of a few years famous.  So.  To the guy who thought my site was substandard.  Here's the deal.  It's as much as I care for it to be.  As is - except for my literary sloth - my career.  I am nearly 50  - as are you gathering from your photo.  (If I erred to the side of age, forgive me.)  Seems that you taking the time to send that indicates that some form of bet must've reached you.  Like someone said, 'Betcha can't find Brett's site.'  You know.  Something strenuous and cruel - like that.

 

Forget about it, dollink.

 

A masterful, kind, wise, big soul passed on today - Mr. Peter Boyle.  He kind of showed people something new every time he took a stage or even sat down to talk.  He was loved and respected and it does not seem like twenty years passed since I met him. 

 

Mandalas are growing themselves even inadvertently in life.  Period.

We finished the longest six shows ever done.  "Moochers" is supposed to debut in January on CBS.  Since it's Dr. Phil's show and I am only the host, I reckon when they tell him all six'll be on, they'll be on.

 

Found out a couple I used to know is getting a divorce today.  I admired them and their marriage.  This is a tough town for marriages.  They have kids and took time for each other and I actually learned some things from them that I planned to use one day.  Am now.  But now they're breaking apart - It's Hollywood, so the man has already moved in with someone VERY young.  The woman is mostly at her attorney's office.  She's basically a tougher woman than I am - has a lot of spine and brightness and great posture.  (Seriously.  I admire that and am trying to acquire it way too damn late.)

 

So he's leaving.  And she'll get something large.  And although I haven't seen them since 'the golden plastic years', I wanted to let them know.  Hmmm.  How cruel or right is it that we are where we are - we broads, I mean.   In Hollywood.  Not all.  By any means.  Anxious show ponies....I've seen the scared aging beauties wondering, nervous in stride and demeanor to find a stable -- maybe that's why I want to have old horses at the farm.  To finish out.  Unhampered by work or anything but being a horse.   

 

I had no idea how bad it was to be beautiful til I got here.    Like those geishas.   Numerically sublime numbers of spouses congregate - almost incestually - at the same seven restaurant tables.  And, remember - no matter how exfoliated, dermaplaned, vaporized, kudzued, cream puffed or crammed up our asses the beauty things, beauty gets seen, judged remiss, shelved, bonused out and left.  Except a few.  And I bow to them.  

 

As for me - right now, I have the kind of happiness that is so deep and pleasantly unfamiliar, I could be irritated that it's taken me this long to pay attention to Things That Really Matter.   Such things are not things Oprah or Dr. Laura can tell us.  Nor can a priest or pentagram fancier.  Maybe some of those molecularly refined asteroid people at Tom C's 'church' can come forward with new names for what takes ages to fully believe.  I don't know.   I dug the Nicene Creed but how cool would it be to go to church that didin't have to have Sunday school for the kids because the literature was so fanciful, kids are all into it.  WOW!  We're from PODS and we landed in volcanoes and the more talented and rich we are, the more God loves us?  EXCELLENT!

 

Oops.  Not sure if that will be construed as satire or ACTIONABLE CONDUCT to the voodoo chanters down at the Celebrity Centre.  (Yes, that's how they spell it.) 

 

I am a sophisticated Episcopalian, secretly mystic, and truly charismatic only in the company of kids or animals.  (When I am more quiet.  Go figure.)  But I also dig what Mom said years ago.  "I love Unitarians.  They believe everything!"

 

I have some friends who write from time to time - here.  Thank you.  I have known you by letters alone, some by phone, too, now and thank you for the last five years I've had this site.  For the umpteenth time - first site person split, 2nd one lost a lot of info and 3rd one passed away.  I have come to believe that my site's SUPPOSED to be a bit remedial. 

 

But if you're going to be 7th grade about it - at least say it to my face while we're cleaning erasers on the brick wall of the school.

 

Oh.  A secret to a Magnificently Beautiful Woman and a Famous one who will not likely read this:   

 

Dear Miss "AJ",

 

Ah, your wonderful, enviable, lucious mouth.  Yes, that mouth.   That mouth men would die for or that could move mountains, I am not sure what lofty comparisons I could make.  Metaphors fall short of your mouth and nearly every other part of you.  Your life is lived, by choice and fate, circling, cycling the rim of public consumption and private bliss.  Your power is awesome and yet could be tripled from a surrender only deemed needed when we read the words, 'I do not fully trust anyone.'   That great mouth.  La boca bonita.  Ah!  It could've stayed closed and wondrous!.   Because, ah yes, far away roving siren, there is at least one other human on earth who didn't need to hear those words.  And maybe that one other person's worth not saying it all. 

 

If this is too oblique, screw it.  The vagaries of blogging are only becoming more necessary. 

I miss Earl and Joel now.  They both died this year.   Young.  Too damn young.  They were big losses for Earth School but gains for Heaven and besides - somebody's got to break in the pool tables and textile stores up yonder.  And if I ain't joining you, at least send me the catalog.   And Joel - I see the birdbath every day now.  

 

Now Dasher, now Lindsay, now Chopstick Nicole,

now ChingRosieChong, now Courtney of "Hole",

now Anna Nicole and Blittney Spears,
and Beyonce and Bushniks and Bagdad tears....

from a wag of the tail and a move of a stitch

a skirt pulled too high, a thong that hitched...

 

Oh hell, you send 'em in.  That was me and Leon just riffin'. 

 

Last night....very true -- a gypsy lady at the nail salon had her granddaughter in tow.  Ten.  A ten-year old who was a gypsy already - they picked my purse as I watched!  The girl's name was Cinnamon.   She was selling Christmas pins.  For four dollars.  Geepsee.  They had Romanian - is that thad mone here now?? - accents and the balls of Tom Arnold at a titty bar.  The girl had bills down her camisole and the woman was almost pimping her.  Send something out.  More of it.  I know you do - the rays of prayer make more noise than the sacred promised ones of  

 

In the wayLike ewit I am kind of brown and grey under this fifteen year blonde experiment.  Restylane and Botox and special stitches, oh my!  They unplump and fade.  And somewhere there are beauties who neither condemn nor condone the Jolie/Pitts and who hoe and sing and have book clubs.  I know 'em, too.  Okay a few ho, too, but that doesn't make 'em stupid.

      

 

Goodnight Mr Calabash (he was neglected for years) wherever you are.