How To Pack Your Memories So You'll See Them Again

Part of the nightmare of moving is finding things stuffed into other things which in turn leads you to finding other things that you forgot you had.  Ultimately you realize you have too many things.

And that your vocabulary needs work if you can't find a synonym for the word 'things.'

I found all these pictures hidden in an album I forgot I had. Because I have too many things.

Exhibits A through D:

A. My sister and I appeared in our hometown newspaper holding balls. Prophetic.

B. Then my sister decided to grow her cheeks in earnest:

C.  This is one of a handful of pictures from a time when my hair was not stick straight. I was in the 9th grade and can't believe I thought this looked good. I'm hoping I was drunk during this era, which would also explain my math grades:

D. Lindy and I have avoided being in weddings our entire lives. The ugly dresses, the expensive gifts to a bride and groom who you'll lose touch with in 6 years and who will ultimately divorce after one of them sleeps with the babysitter. Not to mention no one can afford lobster at their reception.

But this was the one and only nuptials we agreed to participate in. Our father's 4th wedding. And that was because he paid our airfare. And wrote us each a check. And promised me a new car if I didn't swear.

I still have the same old car.

Could my Dad look any more grim?

This Is Why My Sister Never Lends Me Money

If you have a younger sister you know your only job in life is to torture her. My sister Lindy used to be younger than me but as I age she becomes older and older as I bask in the denial of The Vain and The Botoxed.

This is Johann, one of our relatives on my Dad's side. I've been telling my sister since she was a zygote that I often get pictures of her and Johann confused when I go through our photo albums:




This is a picture of Lindy when she was 2 and a half. It's because of this photograph that I keep telling her she's adopted because we don't have any little man trolls on either side of our family:

God paid me back for all my emotional abuse by making her look like this when she was 13:

And like this when she was 38:

God is a spiteful man. Sorry feminists, but...

...MOST DEFINITELY A MAN.

I'm Trying Not To Throw Myself Off The Balcony

Because once in Niagara Falls, another comic and I were walking across a bridge with a huge drop and he turned to me and said, "Do you ever think about jumping off a bridge when you walk over one?"

I hadn't but I figured if this comic was that crazy then I'd better agree with him in case his second question was going to be, "Do you ever think about throwing someone off a bridge when you walk over one with them?"

There's a name for this phenomenon but I can't remember what it is. It's the uncontrollable, unconscious desire to hurl yourself into an abyss. It should be called 'You Need A Psychiatrist And Don't Forget To Take The Meds They Give You Because You Have A Death Wish.' My comic friend then said, "Sometimes I want to throw my wallet in, just to satisfy the need not to jump."

Let's not get crazy, buddy. Back then I had a Gucci wallet.

Another comic friend had a sister who committed suicide by getting into a barrel and rolling off the American side of Niagara Falls. I was horrified and asked my girlfriend the obvious question, "Where on earth did she get a barrel?"

Surely they don't SELL them at the Falls. Maybe on the Canadian side. I've noticed that all the American draft dodgers who escape to Canada are never seen again. EXACTLY.

Admit the dizzying photo below makes you want to jump off this blog:

P.S. Did she bring the barrel with her?
P.P.S. These are legitimate questions that people should offer the explanation to without me having to ask. Instead of being all That's Personal and It's None Of Your Business.
P.P.S. Sheesh.

L.A. Sign Of The Times #87

Amoeba is known as the world's largest independent music store. Their window displays are a trip. If you visit Los Angeles and don't stop here, you won't be able to buy music you've never heard of.

The Mystery Of The Two Windows

While I was looking for apartments, I kept getting a picture in my head of a window at the end of a kitchen. And a picture window in the living room next to it. I had no idea why or what it meant. I would see apartments all day long and come home and have that vision pop into my head at random times. I wondered if it was going to be in a house I would own. (Even though I've never in my life wanted to own a house.)

I continued to look for apartments and then one day saw one I really liked. The manager left to get me an application and while he was gone I looked out the kitchen window. Then rocked to the side and saw this:


It was the EXACT picture that had appeared in my head, the kitchen window on the right, the living room picture window on the left.

Sidebar: The first dog my sister and I owned was an AKC dog named Fago Marigold's Mental Image. We had picked out a puppy but the breeder said, "You're not puppy people." Our dog, eventually named Kiko, was 9 months when we got him and we nearly cut off his balls by accident so we were probably not "9 month old dog people" either.

I had another apartment to see that day and it was also terrific. The manager gave me an application and said he would need to see my bank statements or a tax return. I didn't carry those around with me - obviously - so said I would return in a few hours. But I had a feeling the universe was trying to save me another application fee by putting this snag in the transaction. I knew in my heart I was supposed to have the first apartment. That's what the vision of the Two Windows was all about.

When I got home, the first apartment manager had already called and told me I got it. (He said when he saw my credit score he had to get me into the building) (It must have been high) (Or maybe he was?)

Remember the story of the Nic Cage movie and the angel played by Don Cheadle and how he told Nic the answer would come to him, and then my phone rang and it was from the town my Dad died in? I knew that was a message. The answer would come to me. And I knew it was my Dad "calling" to let me know it was a message. He and I believed in the metaphysical much more than the reality most people hang onto. Our way is more comforting but requires more faith. Although sometimes I run a quart low on that.

This is the view from my living room window.

This is the view from my 3rd floor balcony. In back of the pink house, those pale ash colored buildings, Paramount Pictures, are three blocks from my apartment.

I had so much extra stuff I was able to furnish my balcony.

Which is really ridiculous. I'm only showing one half of it because if I show you the other end, also furnished and decorated, you're going to call Hoarders on me.

Kid Bashing: It's Not Just For Felons Anymore

I got these off Twitter and in honor of the outrage many mothers are feeling over the Casey Anthony outcome, just know that you're not all so perfect yourselves. Although I doubt you're all killers. I hope.


-X is hanging out with daddy this morning. I got TWO hours to myself today!!!!!


-I swear, if these kids don't go to sleep soon I'm going to give them tranquilizers.


-I'm going to tie one of my children to a railroad track.


-the incessant crying to be picked up makes me want to lock myself in my bedroom.


-It's taking every bit of strength not to scream SHUT UP.


-omigod they've been home 20 minutes and I'm already calculating how long til bedtime.


-And if this little girl does not stop whining, I think I'm gonna scream. Or find some duct tape.


-Why do children have to move so much? Ditto talking.


-These damn kids. I don't remember signing up for this. Was I drunk?


-Anybody want a 6 year old girl? I've got one I need to get rid of.


-I'm stuck in the house with 2 kids and hubby. Sooooo bored.


-My son's been crying for the last 10 minutes about not being able to wash his hands himself. (He can). Any teens needing birth control?

L.A. Sign Of The Times #86

Papaya King is determined to get noticed.

Eat your heart out, Pink's.

I've Either Got My Mouth Open Or My Eyes Shut

This is my Dad's mother and me at their home in Illinois. My grandmother was probably thinking "Doesn't this child ever shut up?" 

And no, I never shut up.



As you can see I was made for a life in show business because when the camera is on me, I close my eyes. I love this picture of me and my Dad because it shows I was a fashionista even when I was a little girl.

Another Ridiculous Thing I Did For A Guy

Going through the two million things I own and have to pack has rocketed me back to some memories that make me groan. For example, the disappearance of Book Four in the Basic Reader series of children's books that belonged to my father's family.

It happened while I was living in NY and dating The Doctor. When we met I had just moved to NY from Paris and was on Food Stamps. He thought that was hilarious. The girl from Paris was on Food Stamps.

I kept the books on a table in my living room and one night he saw them and said he had them in his family too. They brought back so many memories for him. He was elated to see them again.

That cliche about what do you get someone who has everything really applied to The Doctor.

I mean, the guy had his own plane.

Sidebar: He once flew me back from New Orleans during a storm while I drank Jack Daniels straight from the bottle in the back of the plane. I was drinking the Jack not because I was afraid of the storm, I was eventually too shitfaced to be scared, but because I overheard him tell the copilot that not only was I a girlfriend BUT YOU SHOULD SEE THE PICTURE OF HIS OTHER GIRLFRIEND.

He also had a chauffeured stretch Mercedes and a 10 room apartment on Park Avenue. His shirts were all bespoke, his shoes and belts were always Gucci and he favored Armani.

So for his birthday I gave him Book Four.  I thought I'd come up with the perfect gift for him. And I was right. He loved it. Gushed over my thoughtfulness, my generosity, my creativity.

The Doctor and I went out for three years. After we broke up BECAUSE SOMEONE COULDN'T STOP CHEATING ON ME, we remained friends and a year or so later I asked him whether he still had Book Four.

"Book Four of what?"
"The books that were in your family, my family, you know, those children's books."
"Sorry, no idea what you're talking about."

That was a frequent theme in our relationship.

The Apartment I Shared With Mick Jagger

While packing up my current apartment I came across a picture that reminded me of my first apartment.

I was desperate and crashing with my friend Henry, who lived in Berkeley. He woke up one night and found me sitting at a desk naked, playing solitaire. The actual solitaire, with playing cards. I'd forgotten he lived there. So he drove me into San Francisco and I found a place on Ellis Street, below Polk.

The apartment was a furnished studio, on the ground floor. $110. a month. A stone cold drunk lived on one side of me and often knocked on my door in the middle of the night so he could crawl through one of my windows out to the fire escape and into his own apartment. Upstairs were a bunch of transvestites who used to push Seconals under my door so I could sleep at night.

I had this giant poster of Mick Jagger on my wall.  My friend Albert, a guy I went to school with in Paris and also a friend of Henry's, was visiting the States one year and took this picture. I used to keep the photo in a frame and every single person who saw it thought it was really me talking to Mick. The fact that he's on a stage singing and I'm standing in front of hanging beads didn't register with anyone. Also? That whole two dimensional thing.
I remember my shirt. It was black and had tiny red and black sparkles on it. I'm loaded down with all my Indian jewelry and wearing a hand-tooled belt I bought in Corsica.

Now I can't fit into that belt unless I wear it as a thigh tourniquet. Which could totally happen if someone happened to sever my femoral artery by accident and the belt was lying nearby.

This was the apartment I left after I found the heroin addict in bed with my gay hairdresser Eugene.

I abandoned my Calvin Klein sheets and the forest green hanging beads. And Mick Jagger.

The landlord was upset I was leaving. He offered to lower my rent to $100 because he said I was the best tenant he'd ever had.

I'm pretty sure I was, too.

L.A. Sign Of The Times #85

My Mother Still Talks To Me Like This

As I pack furiously, I pick through the millions of memories lining the walls and cabinets of this apartment. I've stopped to re-read some journals, a habit I picked up last summer. Inside each one is a lost treasure from my past. Faded, pressed roses from a Dominican boy named Frankie who I was absolutely nuts about, snapshots that I hadn't deemed worthy of a photo album, business cards, invites to weddings and parties. A ticket stub to see Raquel Welch in concert.

All rammed inside pages and pages of the torment that is a journal. It took me years to figure out that the reason all my journals read like Dostoevsky was because I never wrote in them when I was happy.

One of the treasures I found was this typewritten letter to my father. It's faded and yellowed and after folding and unfolding, it's ripped across the middle. I discovered it in my father's belongings after he died. He'd kept every letter, every card that both my sister and I sent him over the years. This one jumped out at me and I brought it home 10 years ago and stuffed it in an old journal from the time I moved to Paris. I had left San Francisco after a very failed love affair with a man who turned out to be a heroin addict and who I found spooning in bed with my gay male hairdresser slash good friend Eugene.

This is a letter I wrote my father soon after I arrived.
This excerpt sums up the relationship I've had with my mother my entire life.

 ("...living with mom is just not possible. from the moment i arrived she has found things wrong with me. my eyebrows are too thin, i am too thin, i use too much toilet paper...")

Yes, I know that's funny. Thanks for enjoying my pain.

Here's a photo from the cruise to the Bahamas that my Dad took me on when I left San Francisco, to get my mind off the Being Dumped By A Heroin Addict Who's Really Gay thing. I arrived in Paris looking like this. Minus the cruise ship.

I was anorexic. On my right arm is a silver bracelet that I wore over my elbow. For those of you unfamiliar with bracelet etiquette, below the elbow is where most people wear them. 

And look, I'm smoking a cigarette!! Marlboros, in the red box. 

I would kill to still have those sunglasses. KILL KILL KILL. The purse is an old lady cloth one that I found in a thrift store. It's hilarious that after all these years my shopping habits haven't changed a bit. I still covet the things that others have tossed aside. The Greek cross around my neck was lent to my sister, who gave it to one of her boyfriends. She had brought it back from a trip to Mykonos, Greece and gave it to me as a gift. Years later, as an act of contrition, she got me another one on a trip to Cabo, but it was all shiny and silver and small AND NOT FROM GREECE.

Girls are dumb.

I still use too much toilet paper.

End of chat.