LA Stories: Rack Focus

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank God for unanswered prayers... I wrote this a few months before I met my boyfriend. I really wanted to share this story, because it's a good reminder that great lessons can be learned from relationships that don't work out the way we want. This helped me learn to appreciate the right qualities, and recognize my Soul Mate when I met him.
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Rack Focus is a camera term for changing the focus of a lens during a shot. Things that were far away suddenly seem crystal clear and close, and things that were very close somehow blur and obscure themselves. It's a cool trick, but it's also a total mind f*ck when it happens to you personally.



Over the last month I'd been dating an independent filmmaker. A very good one, too- creative, insightful, socially-conscious, kind. In getting to know him better, I discovered that the reason I'd never found the qualities I wanted in the actors I'd been dating was just that: I'd been dating ACTORS. They're lovely, but while I would stare at their beautiful bodies and faces, watching them shakerball yet another protein shake and pretending to be fascinated by the details of their work-out experience that day, I'd forgotten that actors ACT. They PRETEND to do stuff. I somehow blinded myself to the fact that putting on an Egyptian God costume does not make one an Egyptian God, no matter how well they fill out the headdress. *

*My actor friends- if you think I'm writing about you, I'm not. The fact that you're self-aware enough for that concern eliminates you. The ones I'm referring to are not my FB friends or blog readers. You're wonderful and have treated me well. Go back to your protein shake. ;)



This guy, a Producer, Produced. He made things happen- and he didn't brag about it. We chatted about a film festival and went off on some tangent about bats. He didn't mention he'd won the festival. It wasn't until I visited his home and noticed the gold records on the wall that we even spoke about his musical career.

Me: "Um, wow."

Him: "Oh- thanks. Those were a lot of fun."

Me: (looking closer) "Wait- they're gold but they say platinum on them?"

Him: "Yeah, they're technically platinum, but these were freebies from the record label and I didn't wanna spend money on some award that's just gonna hang on my wall. I think you have to frame them yourself, too."

Me: "Riiiiight. I totally hate it when I have to do that."



When I first met him, I wasn't sure if I was attracted to him or not. He definitely wasn't my "type," but then, to date, my "Type" has been a terrible choice. Once I was able to get to know the Filmmaker better, I'd become a smitten kitten. His home, his attitude, his acoustic guitar collection, everything was warm and inviting and authentic and real. I was completely blown away by how his mind worked and his ability to create and actually DO the things he set out to do. He writes, directs, produces, works equipment, on-set landscaping, everything. We watched a movie together and he sat at his piano and effortlessly duplicated the musical scoring. Suddenly I realized- my bar for dating had not merely been set higher, it had been moved to another PLANET. I'm so used to being dazzled by someone's (shall we say) package I stopped looking at the content. This man amazed me with his quality of character and actual substance. Granted, I have a puppyish enthusiasm for people but whereas I'm easily impressed, it takes a lot to inspire me... and I was inspired. Seeing all the Good this guy was able to accomplish for others reminded me that I want to work harder so I can do more Good, too. Jesus isn't that why I started writing in the first place? So I could provide a voice and make a difference? This guy is making a difference. I wanna play too.



Gradually, date by date, over sushi, stargazing/shivering in a hammock, curled up for a Netflix night or holding hands at the Arclight, I became convinced- THIS was who I wanted. I never once saw the man drink a single protein shake. It seemed like he was actually enjoying my company, rather than looking for another fan to worship him. (Again, something new to me.) He listened to my ideas, read my writing, encouraged my suggestions, and even gave me a shot pitching to his production company. He didn't need me, and I didn't need him- but it was really nice to feel brave enough to want someone again. And I wanted him to want me too.



In addition to all this, he was super respectful of my limits and my comfort level progressing with beginning a physical relationship with someone. I was looking for something real, and I wanted to be smart and take my time. We actually talked about it and seemed completely on the same page and kept things at a PG-13. He invited me to spend the night, and I did, sleeping so soundly in his massive soft warm bed. The beautiful shades of sunrise woke me up in the morning, casting stripes of amber and gold on his antique wooden furniture. I was startled at how natural it felt, and began to sense the beginnings of a closeness I'd not felt in a long time.

Slowly focusing in, becoming clearer as some stray dust motes dance lazy choreography trails across a 6am sunbeam. I swear my life has lens flares.



So when he called at 6:30pm on a Sunday and asked what I was doing, like, RIGHT NOW, and did I want to go to the Hollywood Bowl for some outdoor music, I leapt at the opportunity. I met the Filmmaker and his best friend in Studio City and we headed for the show.



The Hollywood Bowl had been on my Bucket List since childhood, when Looney Tunes would always set Bugs Bunny's operatic fiascos there. Bugs would swap places with the conductor and shenanigans ensued. As a child, I was given a snowglobe with some LA landmarks inside: Griffith, the Hollywood Sign, the Capital Records building and of course the Hollywood Bowl. Time and time again, I'd wind it up and gaze into the world of swirling glitter, watching it settle in the itty-bitty amphitheatre seats leading down to the miniature famous scallop shells, as "Cal-i-fornia, Here I Come" twinkled and chimed from the music box in my hands.



I'd seen the Bowl while hiking, too, still from far away- about on par visually with the size ratio of my snowglobe- so distant, so unreachable. Still very much behind glass and a thing for cartoons and fantasy.

And suddenly, there is was. Or rather, there I was: walking up the winding pathway which deposits you BAM right there in the perfect spot to take it all in. From our seats, I could see the stage beautifully- there was the exact spot Bugs always stood. There was the place the conductor got trapped in the tuba. And wayyyyy up there in the hills, beyond the twinkling lights, was the place I'd hiked and dreamed of this very night.

Rack Focus: It had become real, in the form of an amazing concert next to amazing people. I had my Filmmaker and his friend on my right, and a fun stranger on my left who kept sharing box wine in delicate plastic cups with us. The show was beautiful, and a genial sense of happiness and community permeated through the crowd. We were all the swirling glitter. For an hour or so everyone shared this magic snowglobe existence, and I was elated to check Hollywood Bowl off my bucket list in such a sweet way with a man I was so excited about. Sure, he seemed a little "off" that night, but I attributed it to the uncertainty of PDA in front of his friend. No big deal- I hoped to make up for lost time later.



The Filmmaker had received the tickets from an actress he'd directed before, who was now a performer in the band. When she texted him after the show to see if we wanted to meet her backstage and say hi, we took her up on the opportunity. We'd made it 80% of the way out of the parking lot, but this was too good to pass up, so we turned around and made our path back upstream, where we met her behind the Bowl.



She'd seemed so tiny and far away onstage, and yet, here she was.

Rack Focus: this glimmering 6-foot-tall Music Goddess barefoot in a seafoam green gown. She was gorgeous, and I instantly sensed a connection between her and the Filmmaker, who had seemed uncharacteristically nervous and distant throughout the evening yet lit up in her presence. Especially when she mentioned that she'd be quitting the band and moving back to Los Angeles. This girl is an amazing musician, a talented actress, wickedly smart, and phenomenally beautiful. She was also really, really exceptionally nice and gave off the same aura of kindness and do-goodery that the Filmmaker does. I began to wonder how well they knew each other, but that thought was cut short when the Music Goddess was joking about Hollywood crushes, and how she had a huge crush on an actor. I thought of my old stand-by Hollywood Crush, Jake Gyllenhaal, WHO SUDDENLY WALKED AROUND THE CORNER AND APPROACHED OUR GROUP. He was friends with the Music Goddess (of course,) and chatted with us amicably for a bit before ducking out. Another bucket list item checked off for me.

Again, Rack Focus effect- from a small image on a screen and a tiny portion of my imagination/fantasy, there I was instantly face-to-face in reality with something (in this case Jake Gyllenhaal) which had formerly seemed so unattainable and far away. at one point he'd tilted his head back and laughed, and it was just like when his characters laugh in the movies. I grinned too, enjoying the blur of Hollywood and Real Life backstage at a place I'd only seen on postcards.

As we walked (and I floated) back to the car, the Filmmaker's friend jokingly asked me what I would've done if Jake Gyllenhaal had asked me out.

"I would've simply had to tell him sorry, I was out with someone," I said, gesturing towards the Filmmaker.

"Yeah," the best friend replied, "but it's not like you two are dating..."



It was as if I hadn't realized a knife had been plunged into my heart until I felt it violently twisted and wrenched.



Rack Focus: Everything close and clear suddenly became blurry and wrong.

In the brief moment between the opening of the wound and the start of the bloodflow, I chittered happily away, blowing it off. Denial is kind that way. It wasn't until the Filmmaker mentioned how amazingly funny the Music Goddess was that it really began to pour out.



Uh oh. So she's funny too, hunh? ...This might need some stitches.



Temporarily bandaging my rip with a smile, I continued to wrap my injury with the excitement from the night as we dropped off his friend and grabbed a milkshake and a burger. We were talking, we were laughing. He was looking me in the eye for what seemed like the first time that night. Maybe things were OK.

He invited me back to his house. Delirious from blood-loss and giddy from snowglobe life, I went with him. And life sped from a PG-13 to an R before I really knew what I was doing.

Let me repeat: What I was doing. Me. My choice. Looking for some way to prevent hemorrhaging.

But it was too late and I bled out in a pair of apathetic arms.

As close as the lens was, I realized I couldn't regain his focus.

Later, the words "not quite on the same page" would tumble from his lips, and even though he held me as he slept (as HE slept,) I knew the knife had gone too deep and it was over, like a leaking snowglobe that lost its glitter.

I kissed him goodbye in the unmistakeably cold grey light of a foggy dawn and slipped out the door.

He suddenly seemed very far away.

LA Stories: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Los Angeles

My mom nodded and cried when I told her I was moving back to Los Angeles. My father pursed his lips together in that disapproving manner, and my brother literally facepalmed. Hadn't LA completely kicked my ass 18 months ago? Hadn't I JUST settled down, gotten my bearings and begun to heal? The dust from my divorce had barely settled and the scar tissue was still fresh. I had a Florida job, I had built a Florida life... but I'm a California Girl with a California heart.




And the heart, having broken and regrown anew, needed to go back to California.

The comparisons were painful- my brother likened my situation to a desperate gambling addict at a slot machine, pumping quarter after quarter into a one-armed bandit. "Maybe THIS time... OK maybe THIS time..." Others compared it to a battered spouse going back to her abuser. "But they swore they were gonna change..."






The first time I went to LA, I was a starry-eyed dreamer full of hopes and expectations. This was wrong of me. Just like a 15-year old assumes they know how to drive because they've ridden in a car, it doesn't amount to jack shit when they're actually behind the wheel. This was the case with Los Angeles. I came in all excited with my learner's permit, got seriously distracted by my passenger, lost focus and inevitably crashed and burned.






Let me be clear: I do NOT blame my passenger. Let me be clearer: it is not Jay's fault that I got as bad as I got, sinking deeper and deeper into depression and self-abuse. It is not the city's fault, either. There are many factors in catastrophic disaster, and just as I cannot fully assign responsibility to my passenger or the road itself, as "the Driver" and captain of my destiny, I must assume responsibility for my collision with said destiny.






We'd left Florida under bad circumstances, in the wake of job layoffs, my parents' divorce, my best friend moving away and the birth of my brother's second child. I felt a severing of ties and knew that the relationships I'd cherished at home would be forever altered- and so I begged, and begged- I'd waited 8 years, after all, for HIS jobs to work out, for HIS stars to align... he was reluctant, but I eventually wore him down, and convinced him it was the right thing to do.




Husband by my side, (so I thought) he went kicking and screaming, but "we" went to LA.




(note: I was the one who waited. I chose to depend on his timeline. And I begged him until we finally left. Realizing my hand in sculpting the impending disaster has been good for me- he never even wanted to go.)






When we arrived, the inevitable fissures ruptured, and as our relationship crumbled, I crumbled too, blaming the environment the whole time. "LA Ate My husband," was the potential book title. The more he pulled away, the more resentful I became, and it surely showed in my demeanor and physical appearance.




Behind closed doors, my stress was consuming me. I'd complain to him that my gums were bleeding, my hair was falling out. He'd take a slant-ways glance at the clumps of hair in my hands and shrug it off, telling me it was normal. Then he'd go back to his video games. Yes, this was a dick move- but it was NOT the city's fault. And it was my fault for not recognizing his apathy for what it was. It's my fault for trusting him to be right.






No WONDER I wasn't getting jobs. No WONDER none of the opportunities I'd been expecting had opened up to me- I was sick, I was hurting. I didn't want to be around me, my own husband didn't want to be around me, so why would anyone else? At some point I must've decided to win my husband's attention by needing him, which drove him further away, but I was stuck with the cosmic kick-me sign I'd taped on my own back. And where Jay didn't notice, the city surely did.






As the months wore on, and he left, I was pumping nothing but bile and acid through my own veins. The self-sabotage and body abuse I'd indulged in became the only ritual I could count on- the only thing which seemed in my control. I was desperate, scared, hungry and angry- and the city could smell it on me. The more I made myself bleed, the more the sharks attacked.




You get what you give, so naturally, a string of horrible situations snowballed after Jay bailed. Out of subsequently hotter frying pans and into increasingly raging fires, I think I was probably trying to kill myself the same way someone commits Suicide By Cop. I was taunting Los Angeles, subconsciously begging it to end my pain before I had to take matters into my own hands. Los Angeles responded in force, by starving me out and frankly, just sucking Everything which could possibly go wrong went wrong- because I needed it to.






I was terrified of my surroundings, and everywhere I looked I found scary ranting homeless people, random strangers bleeding on sidewalks, murder scenes (hello neighbors!), and poop on the sidewalks. And off the sidewalks. Pretty much everywhere I looked I saw shit. Why? Because I was looking for shit.






When I was giving off all that bad energy, I attracted bad things. When I came with my hands outstretched and empty, expecting things to be placed in them, I was left wanting. When I was scared, I was scary, and scary things became my constant companions.






I crumbled and burst into flames and exploded and burned and shattered and ended. My brother came, scooped up my remains and brought them back home.






Then, I got better. I got lots better. It took about a year and a half. It meant lots of home cooking, sunshine, and exposure to unconditional love from my family, who held me while I cried. It took some wonderful friends who restored my trust in men by sleeping by my side until I learned to sleep alone again. It took a LOT of levity- mostly at work, with my comedy roles, and making others laugh until my own genuine laughter was resparked. In concentrating on others, even just for a little while at work or spending time with my pals, I finally got out of my own head. I was resting, I was eating. And I was healing.






I took an amazing get-your-shit-together seminar by Landmark Education, which helped a lot. I spent some time at a Buddhist Retreat. That helped a lot too. I spent a couple nights in a treehouse, and attended a ful moon sweatlodge ceremony in the forest. That helped a LOT. I dated some really beautiful boys and learned about what I like and what I don't like when it comes to relationships. Ohhhmigod that helped too.






I remember sitting on MY couch in MY home, laughing at a really awesome and completely inappropriate joke on a comedy show when I felt a familiar glow strike up in my heart, like a pilot light had suddenly been ignited. "Hello Ember. I know you."




I didn't know how, I didn't know when, but I knew I needed to go back to LA and fight for my new dream as my new self. I was finally brave enough to want something again.






California hadn't changed. Not one bit. But I certainly had. In dissolving to ash and Phoenixing my way out of the crematorium I'd constructed for myself, I'd become rebuilt of sterner stuff. And I was ready.






Like the chain event of bad stuff which had kicked my ass before, a completely unexpected chain event of good stuff happened as soon as I was ready and Babe Ruth'd my intentions. I suddenly had the means to go west.






And so I went back swinging- I was changed. I'd been behind the wheel, I know how to drive and I know how to crash. The absolute worst had already happened, and I was no longer afraid. When someone is fearless (for whatever reason) the Universe responds to that, too. I was full of fresh stories, fresh ideas- I came with my hands full to GIVE to the city, to contribute. I was the opposite of the negative me, and I have had the opposite of the experience I went through.






A HUGE part of What Helped was accepting responsibility for what was happening and how I was responding to it. I'd become highly reactive, pinging off at the slightest "boo." Making decisions based on pressure and fear lead to some horrible decisions. Blaming my ex for EVERYTHING (especially the horrors that happened to me AFTER he left) was a waste of energy. I realized my shared part in the demise of our relationship. I realized how much better off I was without someone who would treat me like that and abandon me in the condition in which I was left. I realized how toxic I'd been and stopped blaming Los Angeles for giving me exactly what I was begging for. I stopped hurting myself, and made a point of learning how to protect myself against ever making those mistakes again, or depending on anyone else for my happiness.






If I'm going to allow an absolute idiot to determine my mood, that idiot will be ME.






I became calmer. I became strong. I was over my grief- I'd mourned the miscarriage of my marriage and my dream, and all that remained of my disaster was anger. Harnessing my anger as a fuel was invaluable- and figuring out how to let it go was... well... priceless. But that's another story.






LA's my friend now. The city has opened up like a hand to hold, receiving me with the same embrace I felt when I collapsed, broken, into my mother's arms. But like my mother nurtures the broken, LA favors the bold. It is a city designed for the fearless, and living within her parameters means I'm now eligible to play the game.






Amazing stars aligned themselves to provide for me- everything I needed, from a roof to roommates to furniture to jobs to a new car- EVERYTHING has lined up to bring me where I am now- which is happy, on my own steam.






Naturally, this is the exact moment I met my soul mate, in the right place right time, like a welcome home gift.


...but that's another story too- one I can't wait to share with you.







I don't need to be famous- I don't need to be rich. I DO need to write, and I need to be in California.




The advice I'd offer to the starry-eyed dreamers of the world who want to chase their LA dreams is this: come out, by all means. Crash, burn, and LEARN. Take responsibility for what happens, and definitely don't take any bad luck personally.
You can change your stars, as soon as you accept that you ARE the stars.

LA Stories: The Rainmaker

"What was the best sex you ever had?"
...Apparently, this is a terrible question to ask a significant other. Especially if the answer isn't them. In my case, though, I'm a firm believer in honesty being the best policy- especially when that honesty brings such a smile to my face.

They say it never rains in Southern California, but it pours, man, it pours.

This is true.

There's so much smog and desolation in the air- all the shattered dreams and lies hang above the city like a veil of sadness. The longer the valley goes without rain to wash the pollution away, the harder it is to breathe. Things get too tight and too dry- the strangling days. As a Florida girl, I'm used to moisture- rich, wet healthy air in my lungs. The end of October marked a massive drought for the City of Angels- we'd gone months without so much as a cloud, and the radiant new clear sky which follows the briefest of showers was a distant hazed-out memory.

The desication was killing me- months with no reprieve. I knew I'd be heading home soon, but distant longing for a breath of fresh air 3,000 miles away wasn't enough. I felt mummified- at the end of a long night of work, I could taste the salt on my own skin. I was practically girl jerky. I wanted- I NEEDED- clean air. I needed to breathe. I needed clouds and frogs and puddles and umbrellas and rubber boots with whales on them. I needed RAIN. I also needed other things, and the gentle-voiced guy behind me in line at Wardrobe seemed like the man for the job.

I'd seen him around- tall, soft-spoken with liquid chocolate eyes and thick wavy dark hair. The kind of hair you wanna wrap in your fingers right before your hand spasms into a fist of ecstasy. But I'm getting ahead of myself... "I'm willing to bet you're into martial arts," I said. "Yeah," he shyly grins a million-watt smile at me. "Kung-fu, for, like, 14 years. Why?" I explain to him that with 14 years of Tae Kwon Do under my (black) belt, I calls 'em as I sees 'em. We chat for a while. Martial Arts, Martial Arts movies, Chuck Norris, horror movies. I wasn't expecting him to have a personality, but by the time we'd turned our costumes in I was pretty impressed. Southern boy, pilot's license, air force dads in common, the same horrible taste in movies I value so highly. He's... how you say... a Good Get.

We exchange info and keep in touch- a few days later I'm cooking him dinner at my place, and the next week we're at his place. Credits roll after a horrible shark-themed horror film concludes. I'm explaining that I'm leaving town soon, that I don't want a relationship, I just want... wow. Yep, that was a kiss. And a really good one, too. He tasted like pure Amazing. Like the first sip of coke in a lifetime of water. I lost any sense of anything other than the sensation of his mouth and his body pressing against mine. My stomach full of butterflies and white noise, I stopped talking at that point. I wanted my mouth free for more important things.

It's a funny thing, being touched by hands so soft you melt away yourself. I'm completely used to being the loudest. The brightest. The funniest. Because I have to be. I'm generally alpha-female in any social setting, so when I was able to shut off the carnival in my head and relinquish control, the silence was stunning. The vacancy left by the cessation of my own nonstop chatter left a calming clarity, and space. And I ached to fill this space with him.

He has a greek god's body, wrapped in velvety smoothness covering taut muscles. Lean, strong, warm and safe. Touching him reminded me of those magic spheres they sold at gift shops- I was amazed tiny purple electrical lightning wasn't visible in the narrowing gaps between our skin. Taking his clothes off was Christmas morning- marble-smooth skin covering a physique carved by Michelangelo. He was the most beautiful of all creatures. And he was naked. And he was mine.

Relinquishing control is usually hard for me- but I surrendered quite willingly to him. For the next however many hours, I wasn't paying attention to hours. I wasn't aware of anything other than sensation, warmth, and being held and loved and moved and touched. I fell asleep after, next to him, after he held me and kissed me goodnight. His bed was the softest white cocoon of infinite thread count, his pillows all-enveloping marshmallows. For a chronic insomniac, I collapsed easily and quickly into the deepest sleep I'd known in a long, long time.

That night, buried beneath his downy gossamer covers, I dreamed of white clouds turning gray. Building, rising, tumbling together, friction, electricity mounting, escalating, creschendoing and BOOM exploding into rumbling, echoing thunder. I dreamed of rain. We were deep within the belly of his apartment complex, sandwiched between multiple levels of concrete and wood- there was no way I could have known, but somehow that night, IT RAINED.

HE F*CKED ME SO HARD IT RAINED.

The skies opened up and pure, clean water fell through- the stratosphere burst and deluged the night air, refreshing, replenishing, cleansing away all the bad dreams and anger. I woke up the next morning to a new day in every way. Kissing him goodbye on my way out, I opened his door prepared for the harsh morning sun and instead was greeted with all the wetness a girl could ask for.

He f*cked me so hard it rained. And for that, I thank him. I walked casually down the sidewalk, all soaked and Gene Kelly with every lamppost and puddle, to my car. I got in and joyfully turned on my windshield wipers for the drive.

I've never been so wet in my life.

Red Flags & Cockrings: Ruining Peter Cetera

We all have guilty pleasures, and when a friend recently asked me what mine was, I smiled the bittersweet smile of someone with a secret...
The answer rings out in heart- and yet, before now, I have only shared this with one other person: My super secret guilty pleasure is this:
my favorite song of all time, the one that always melts me in my gooey shmaltzy hopeless romantic center is Peter Cetera's "Glory of Love."

Yep. That's right.

I'm finally confident enough to not give a f*ck about it possibly being the cheesiest song ever written- It is the Theme from Karate Kid II and it captured my soul. I simply adore it- the melody is so sweet and the lyrics speak to my core, which is apparently made entirely out of kitten whiskers and marshmallow. I heard it for the first time growing up in Omaha, and when I heard a song about a man being a knight in shining armor (from a long time ago) I would've been running around in the woods wearing a cardboard suit of armor myself. As the music floated from construction site radios through the woods and into the ravine where I chased imaginary dragons, I began to wonder if someday I would meet another knight in shining armor who would keep the woods safe with me.

(I was a strange child.)

The following is the true story of how this innocent, romantic love song was absolutely ruined for me... It was some birthday or other in the 2000's, and I was feeling hopeful. I'd been with my boyfriend for a few years and had only recently been comfortable enough to open up to him about my love for this song during a conversation about how we didn't really have an "our song." Regretfully I knew it couldn't be "Glory of Love," because as much as I would've loved to attribute those lyrics to our relationship, he had already weaseled out of several opportunities to "be the man who fights for my honor." Non-confrontation was his method of choice, and he had yet to display any qualities I'd describe as "heroic."

He'd cheated on me twice at that point, and as much as I stubbornly tried to fit that square peg into the round hole, I could not apply the Greatest Love Song Evaaaaar to us. But, as now, I was then- super romantic. I wanted it to be our song. Because we never really let go of those fantasies. Unfortunately, as turned out he had a fantasy of his own...

I am actively trying not to throw up in my mouth as I recall what happened next...


The night of my birthday, I was going to spend at his place. I was in my early 20's, but I still lived at home and strict parents made this a rarity. He assured me he had a super romantic night planned, and I was all aflutter with the anticipation the evening. He lead me to his bedroom and set me down, sitting upright on the waterbed my parents had given him to use.

He then blindfolded me, kissing me sweetly and turning the lights down. I heard the familiar sounds of a CD being opened and his CD player opening and closing. The familiar electric whir of the disc spun, and even before I heard the first notes, I knew: he'd bought "Glory of Love," and was playing it for me on Romantic Birthday Night! "EEeeee!" I said, reaching for the blindfold. "Wait," he said. "Not yet..." I then heard some unfamiliar sounds. Something being taken out of a small cardboard container?

Then I heard another familiar sound. A zipper and jeans falling to the floor. Hrm. This didn't quite seem right... As Peter Cetera sang his hopeful lines about being strong when we're together, and true love, and my childhood memories of the knight in shining armor came shimmering back from my mind, he lifted the blindfold off.

He stood in front of me, with his dick inches from my face, wearing nothing but a cockring and an expectant smile.

"Well? What do you think?" he asked proudly, arms akimbo like a pornographic Peter Pan.

I didn't want to embarrass him or appear ungrateful, but while I searched for the right reaction, some part of that fantasy shattered and a few confused tears escaped my eyes, rolling down my cheeks. I had no words as the little girl in the woods in her cardboard armor stared up in horror. I mentally bid her to run and hide- I had no clue what to do with him.

I wasn't expecting to be presented with the expectation of a blow job... on MY BIRTHDAY. TO PETER CETERA.

"Nooooo..." I think I must've said, quietly. I remember turning my face away and apologizing- I couldn't understand why I was crying so much- I didn't realize I was grieving the murder of yet another expectation. He kissed me, hugged me, put his pants on and kissed me and hugged me more. He said he understood, he just thought since I liked the song and he liked blow jobs, it'd be fun for both of us.

"It was a sweet thought," I said. I think even I convinced myself I meant it, at the time.

He made a few more attempts at romantic gestures over the next several years. Although a bit of a showy spectacle, he did manage a very sweet proposal. He continued to ignore Valentines' Days, with the exception of filing for divorce on a February 14th. But we never spoke again about Peter Cetera, or "The Glory Of Love," or the infamous Cockring Incident. In fact, I hadn't listened to that song in ages, which is sad since it had been such a high benchmark throughout the years I'd lowered my standards.

I played the song today, after my friend reminded me about guilty pleasures, and as I watched the video on YouTube, I smiled. After all, after 14 years of Martial Arts, hadn't I become my own Karate Kid? Somewhere in a forest in my mind, a little blue-eyed knight pops cautiously from behind a tree. Come on out, Small One. Dust off your armor- we have some dragons to chase together, just us.

LA Stories: VeilFire

The best part of feeling a little heartbroken is that it's proof-positive that up until very recently, your heart wasn't 100% broken.
And if it wasn't TOTALLY broken before, and it was brave enough to reach out, then it's probably not irrevocably broken now.

So, like the Death Star, it will again be Fully Operational.

As artists, we tend to wear our hearts on our sleeves. This is a terrible idea, but Jesus I really think it's the only way I wanna be. Even though I'm strongerbetterfasterharder, I chose to maintain that character trait. I wear my heart on my sleeve. It keeps my other organs from getting sh*t all over it. Yesterday I was reminded that yeah, in terms of my ex, I got a little gut punch, but I also dodged a bullet. I love that quote from HIMYM: "I made the greatest Train Dodge since 'Stand By Me." ...Well, not that first kid, but the other kids."

And that's how it feels at this point. Of course it initially hurt to hear that my ex was engaged, but it was no surprise. He had to propose to her to justify what he did to me. ("See, it was worth it, right?!?") Someday I'll wish them well, but yesterday wasn't that day. I've been on an amazing adventure the last 2 years, but sure I'm still allowed to feel the feels I feel. That's because I'm not a f*cking monster. I'm allowed to miss the good parts. Then I remind myself that he definitely sucked a dude's dick. Keeps it really simple that way.

After a really good chat with a really good friend, watching the sun set through a thin sliver in the Universal Studios Employee Parking Garage, I cried out all my sad and felt much, much better. Getting past the raw emotion that honestly, I hope I always feel, because it is a spiritual rocket fuel, and listening to a rational voice asking me if I wanted him back after everything he did to me made it very easy: No. Aw FUCK NO. We made speculations about the success of an marriage between a homewrecker and a liar. And then I felt better.

I had a trio of besties meet me at my apartment, and, true to form, they came bearing vodka and incendiary devices. Aaron, Arica and Chelsea arrived and scooped me up. I'd been planning on driving my Celica to California myself, and as such had loaded it with everything I needed to Get Rid Of but couldn't simply throw away. Some of these items I'd already given to Chelsea for various art projects- I'd been on a big "let's do constructive things" kick, but this last item in particular was a Big Ticket Item and needed proper care and handling. And fire.

It was my wedding veil- which I'd found in a box at my mom's right before I moved.

It's been in the trunk of my car, waiting for something special. Fortunately, we had something very special in store. Aaron drives and spirits us away to Chelsea's Thotful Spot, in a recreational area hidden within the city of Los Angeles. We park at a distance and, already giddy from the night air, bound across the streets to an open gate. The heat of the day had dissipated, and the sleek coolness of the night breeze, smoothed even more by a brief skim over a green lake, greeted our flushed faces. I breathed. And it felt so good.

"Pair up," Chelsea said, and two by two we held hands and made our way down a somewhat steep hill covered in row after row of bright white rocks. Like layers of shark's teeth, they gleamed up in the moonlight. I smiled seeing Arica and Aaron work their way down, Aaron in his famous boots and Arica in a borrowed pair of my shoes. The shoes are a gift from my mother, who would have an instant coronary if she had seen what we were up to.

Chelsea holds my hand. "Sorry guys," she says, "I got dibs on the stilt walker." I laugh and we pick a path down, sure-footed as cats all nimbly pimbly and high off a moonlit adventure. We reach the bottom of the slope and a dusty dirt path awaits. I don the veil, which also luminesces in the magic night, and feeling the breeze blow the tulle behind me like a forgotten useless ghost, we walk down the aisle, staying hand in hand.

Eventually we arrive at the Tunnel- kindling is gathered and Chelsea lifts the veil from its position over my face and kisses me. This is the second time in my life this has happened. I was grinning like a fool on both occasions, but this time there were no tears. The filmy gauze is spread over the kindling, and I pour some extra flammable 3-in-1 glue over it as an insurance policy.

Sparklers are administered- the very same sparklers I'd entrusted to my friends the day I left California, promising to come back. They'd been kept, because my friends believed in me. Aaron takes my phone to document the event, and Arica, Chelsea and I each use our sparklers for a different sort of Independence Day.

The veil goes up beautifully, the flames glinting on the Swarovski crystals hand-placed by someone who also loves me.

I thought of the woman who made the veil as it burned. I thought of my wedding. I thought of my ex.
And I felt... love.
Giggling beneath the streets of Los Angeles with sparklers in my hands, I felt so much love.
The veil had to go. I had to let go of that last little piece to get past the emotional hurtle of the day, and I let it go in spectacular fashion.

The little pyre blazed, mirrored by the tiny fireworks on our hands, until not single scrap of tulle was left- even the bag I'd brought it in- everything burned, burned, burned until the hurt from the day was gone, replaced by the warm glow of love. Only the embers remained.

Hello Ember. I know you.

You are the same ones burning in my heart.

But the ones inside me aren't a brushfire threat, and eventually the embers became ashes. After a quick vodka shot, for the safety of the City of LA, and also because it was the right thing to do, we peed on the ashes. All four of us. So hard to do that while laughing so hard. It seems to match the same sentiment my ex ultimately had for our wedding, so perhaps that'll be my toast to them after all. Mazel.

By now I'm intoxicated by night and moon and breeze and fire and oh yes maybe a little vodka- we have a DD, but we also have the park to ourselves, so we plop down by an emerald green lake as the wild geese call out to one another. I can hear their sounds reverberate through our tunnel, reminding me that eventually every living thing, veil, goose, good intention or lie, eventually becomes ash.

All we have is the exact Now.

Someday I will be ash too- and I'm so fucking grateful for every moment I spent surrounded by the love I felt this night. We chat, we share, I am again blown away by the artistic talents of my friends as the most amazing pieces are shyly passed around on iPhones. A nosy turtle periodically pokes his head above water to listen in until our inevitable laughter frightens him off. No one looked at a watch, but suddenly we all collectively knew it was time to go.

Denny's to-go, a shared bottle of wine back at my place, and some sweet goodnights at my front door. It was a really good night, friends. If I am ash tomorrow, I will be thinking not about pain, or regret, but about how grateful I am to have been allowed this opportunity. And if someone pees me out, I hope they're having fun. It's only fair- and it feels AMAZING to have your giblets that warm.

Colder

A little sparrow died right before our eyes at work today.

It had dive-bombed out of the heights, inexplicably, and struck a passing car of the rollercoaster as it whipped its loop 30 feet above our heads. My friend stood in abject horror over the body while I found a pot of flowers and matter-of-factly placed them between the dead bird and park guests. I surprised myself with this "show must go on" mentality, but I realized distracting the guests would be better than allowing them to mill about and stumble upon the tiny feathered tragedy, so I began to approach the nearest family and engaged them in conversation.

But that... isn't ME... is it?

It doesn't SEEM like me- Id've bet cash money on Jaime to be traumatized by this hollow-boned corpse, unable to keep a theme park smile on her face. I'm certain I would've insisted on burying the bird or DOOOOOING SOMETHING, but this Me Now seemed uncharacteristically pragmatic. I asked if there was any chance any vets on property might be able to save it, and when the answer was a definite "no," I moved on. No hope for the dead? Focus on the living. Make sure it doesn't sadden anyone else.

Does this make me cold? Am I some sort of monster? I checked: no. And I have the last 3 years to thank for that- I had to toughen up, and get a little harder so I'd stop breaking, and today that was evident. I've come close enough to death, wallowing in some dark phase, and I am changed by it, but for the good.

After all- isn't cooling the blade part of the process of forging steel? The sword doesn't STAY cold- it stays sharp. Like ashy residual fingers of mold flavor a cheese, a perspective on darkness enhances the light. Death has touched me, but it did not claim me. This isn't colder- this is stronger. This is better.

I thought about this bird, this little palmfull of bright Being. To a sparrow, surely a roller coaster is a metal deity- dipping and diving, relentlessly charging, never hesitating, fearing no hawk. This sparrow died touching the face of God. It died doing what it loved, and hopefully passed too quickly to register fear. Its last action in this world was flitting out of the sky to tilt at the most epic of windmills.
It's sad and beautiful at the same time, and my prayer for it, and us all, is "we should all be so lucky.

Lost Boys

The very first day in my new Florida apartment was a long one- it'd been a short move down the street and most of it was done in tiny bursts of effort down three flights of stairs, into a Celica, over four speedbumps and in the door- but it was a hot summer day and I'd taken a moment to pant facedown on the couch with my front door open. Which, naturally, is when the screaming started...

Piercing the moist air of the afternoon like an icepick through an eardrum, a child's voice strangled out along with a muffled scraping and pounding noise. My door was open so I ran outside into the street which separates the two sides of our apartment complex buildings, trying to track the sound- it was the building directly across from mine. "MOOOOOMMMM!!! MOOOOOMMMMMMM!!! OH MY GOD MY MOM'S DEAD!!!"

A small cocoa-skinned boy came spilling down the stairs and into the light. He had a full-to bursting backpack on his back, and his red-rimmed eyes were full of tears. "What's wrong? What happened?!?" "MY MOM'S DEAD I CAN'T FIND MY MOM!!!" Other student-age kids were in the street at this point, laughing and pointing at the commotion. "Where do you live?" I asked the child, trying to get his attention as he literally raced in circles. It would've been comedic if it wasn't so soul-rending to hear him bawl.

He was too distraught to answer, and I couldn't discern which door he'd come from. "Who knows this boy?" I demand of the young passers-by. Two of them stop jeering long enough to acknowledge. I put on my Adult Voice and told them "You and you- show me where he lives." As they start to march up the stairs the terrorized child had come from, the boy suddenly charges ahead of us, still screaming. Upon reaching the top level, he begins pounding and clawing like an animal against a locked door. This explains the noises I'd heard earlier- the sound of his little body as he hurled it against the metal door and sank to the floor. "MOM!! MOOOOMMM!!!!" He's sobbing. "SHE'S DEAD!!!"

I try the latch, preparing myself to find a body, but I cannot get it to budge. Finally, FINALLY, other neighbors emerge cautiously, poking their heads into the hallway. "Who knows this boy?" I demand from them. They blink back at me like cattle. "Who knows this boy's mother?"I try, using my very best Adult Voice. Simple shrugs are all I receive- but there's no time to be angry- my little panic-attack poster child is practically hanging over the balcony, screaming for his dead/missing(?) mother. "Whoa whoa whoa" I say, grabbing the loop of his backpack before he spills over the edge.

I pull him off the railing, at which point he looks at me, inhales deeply, and screams with renewed terror "STRANGER DANGER!!!" Then he's off like a shot, down the stairs. I snap at the gawking children to follow me and we race after him in a parade of histrionics. He's in the street again- in traffic. I hem him to one side, arms spread wide like I'm herding a pigeon. "OK, dude, calm down- I'm sure your mom is fine. Do you have a key to your apartment?" "Hunh?" "Do. You. Have. A. Key?" "Noooooo!!! She's supposed to BE THERE- SHE'S NEVER NOT BEEN THERE!!!" "OK, I have a cell phone- let's call your mom, OK? What's your mom's number?" He doesn't know it.

He doesn't have a key and he doesn't know his mom's cell number.
None of his neighbors can identify him.
This child is at least 6.

I've decided by this point that if his mom IS alive, I want to punch her in the face for leaving her son in this dangerously vulnerable position. But I have to worry about that later, because he's now running down the street. "Hey hey hey! You see the office? See the office where the grown-ups work? We're going to go there AS A GROUP (I identify to the others) and get some police to help us find your mom. I'm sure she's fine, OK? The police will help us find her but we have to wait where it's safe."

"MOOOOOMMMM!" He's screaming again, but his voice is breaking as his spirit gives out- he is absolutely, unequivocally convinced beyond the shadow of a doubt that his mom is dead. He whimpers to me, "I don't want to die..."

At this exact moment, a car comes flying around the corner. I position myself instinctively between the child and the car, but it slows and stops in front of us. "What's going on?" The woman driving asks. "MOM!!!" The little boy shoves by me and loses his shit into the car window, crying uncontrollably. "I thought you were deeeeead," he manages through wracking, ragged breaths. "I was running late," she shrugs at me.

She doesn't seem phased or particularly moved. I'm fuming.

"He was running into the street," I point out. What I want to say is, "You're a horrible mother! How could you DO THIS to your child?!? You let the TV teach him to yell 'Stranger Danger' but he doesn't know your cell number?!?" ...but then I see how tired she looks.
I see her older model body in her older model car and she looks so drained. She looks like she's consistently had the weight of the world on her shoulders and has simply checked out.
There is no wedding ring on the hand which half-assedly comforts her son, and I suspect this woman has not been given a lot of help, if any, raising him. There's nothing I can say or do, applying knuckles to her face will not make a difference.

I take my White Privilege and go home. So I let it go- I must pick my battles wisely, and this is one I cannot win. Today. But you better believe I made cookies and marched them over to my new neighbor's Los Angeles apartment the week I moved in. Just in case.