When I was Thirteen…


…I entertained dreams of being on Star Search– think American Idol but BETTER, for all you youngsters who never heard of it. But the farthest I got was playing characters in the school play, who more often than not had numbers after their names (ie. Scrubwoman #1, Menorah Candle # 3, etc.).

Last week we went for Ethiopian food with our friends the Thieles. Here is a pic of me with their son Owen. I’m now officially the president of his fan club. I’m actually having buttons made as we speak. I had to restrain myself from doing my Flo Ziegfeld “You’re gonna be a big staaahhh” routine.

Check out Owen’s song “Stripped Down” on iTunes. It was written by his dad, Bob Thiele Jr., along with Ruby Stewart and Dillion O’Brian. He’s also blogging for The Huffington Post.

Did I mention that this kid is thirteen? Does that make you want to put down the Guitar Hero and the cookies, or what?

Actually- I’m going to hold on to that cookie, thank you very much.

Junkies, Tramps and Cheese


I attended Rachel Resnick’s release party for the paperback of her book Love Junkie, a memoir about her journey through sex and love addiction. It was held at Frank Pictures Gallery at Bergamot Station and included a staged reading of selections from the book. Lush paintings and photographs by Emma Ferriera provided the backdrop.

Rachel is a friend, so I know that she is a profoundly generous person, but what struck me upon hearing the reading was her no holds barred generosity as an artist. This is a woman who really opens a vein when she sits down to write. Judging by the outpouring of love for her at the party, she seems no poorer for it.

So what does a love junkie do with all that love, anyway? Is it like being a dope fiend in a poppy field?

Also- I’m putting this one to a vote…

My really, really high-waisted Grey Ant pants (bought on sale because huge bell bottoms are so last season- whatever- skinny jeans are a calculated assault against women with big asses)…

A. Bold fashion move that brings to mind Farrah Fawcett in her finest hour
B. Unfortunate fashion blunder involving a potential CT


Wagner Gone Wild


Scott and I saw two amazing things this week and I couldn’t help but draw parallels between them. We attended an 826LA benefit screening of Where the Wild Things Are and we saw Sigfried at the LA Opera.

Max wears a wolf suit; Sigfried wears a bear suit. Max bites his mother and sails off to mythical lands in search of kindred wild spirits; Sigfried kills his scheming foster father and wades through an ocean of fire to find love. I could go on.

Of course, this distinctly male hero archetype isn’t unique to these two stories. I’m tempted to launch into a whole feminist analysis of how a female figure must always be sacrificed (or sacrifice herself) in order for the male hero to succeed in his quest, but my reaction to such narratives has taken on a different kind of emotional resonance now that I have a son.

I found Where the Wild Things Are deeply sad and affecting. When Tariku lashes out, Spike Jonze’s take on Max keeps popping into my head. I look at my son and I remember how lonely and scary a place childhood was a great deal of the time. I think the movie nailed that anger and frustration, while at the same time showing the transcendent feats of imagination that can emerge as a result.

And Sigfried might simply have been the most gorgeous, visionary thing I’ve ever seen on a stage. Scott and I sat through the nearly five hours and would happily have stayed for more. We were even scheming about how we might see it again, but I think we’ll just have to wait to see the final installment of The Ring Cycle in April. The LA Opera slays. Run don’t walk.

I’m haunted by both the movie and the opera, with imagery from each superimposing itself over my daily life. Man, I love it when art does that.