Current mood: contemplative

Hi Everyone,

Late yesterday afternoon, the old lady who lives in the house next door to me, was robbed. It's an evil, heinous thing to do to anybody; take something that isn't yours. To invade the home of a sick old lady and rob her of all her worldly goods is about the most cowardly thing a person could do.
She isn't a nice old lady. She used to be, until dementia, paranoia and physical frailty overtook her. But she did not deserve being swindled. She called me around five o'clock crying and I was shocked. In recent weeks when I've tried to check on her, she either didn't recognize me and threatened to call 911 or DID recognize me and told me my pet monkey was keeping her awake.
I don't have a pet monkey, but I digress.
Her tears and complete incoherence concerned me and my mate Tony, who was in town from Hawaii (via Vegas Baby) hitched up his pants (he lost his belt in a casino, a whole 'nother story)and we raced to my neighbor's house.
It was a bad, sad story. Two guys claiming to be from the gas company arrived at her front door. While one distracted her in the back yard with some imaginary gas leak, the second guy gave the OK to another bunch of guys and they pulled into her driveway in a moving van. Within seconds, they were hauling away a good portion of her possessions.
Another neighbor saw them and mercifully called the police. As I write this, the guys have not been caught but hopefully they will be. I was shocked how quickly they relieved the contents of my neighbor's lifetime habit of hoarding.
She let me and Tony into the house and she boiled water for tea. She couldn't find teaspoons. All her silver was taken. Man! These guys were fast!
We sat down with her and drank tea out of her musty-smelling cups and just let her talk.
"They didn't take the most valuable thing I have though," she smiled shakily.
"Oh, what's that?" I asked.
"The screenplay somebody wrote about me in 1952."
Tony and I looked at each other and she toddled off, returning with a folder the burglars had found, opening it and deeming it trash, apparently, because they'd discarded it. The snap was broken and I opened the file to find dozens of old 10 x 8 glassy black and white photos of my neighbor. I am not into women but she was hot and gorgeous in her time.
"You did burlesque?" Tony grinned. "Nice pasties!"
My neighbor was apparently the one time queen of New York's pre-world war II strip clubs. The screenplay was about her love affair with a cop sent to shut her down.
She told us hilarious stories of strippings gone wrong, pasties that left red marks on her nipples. All the waiters in her club were gay men, she told us proudly. They adored the girls but never tried to cop a feel.
Police raids were announced in code by the waiters, who would shout "Ice! Ice!" and the bare breasted ladies quickly slapped on pasties.
Tony and I sat, enraptured by her memories...of New York in the 30's and 40's and for a brief moment in time, a woman lost from the present, remembered her past and appreciated that a world away, in a whole other time zone, two other men deemed her priceless treasure to be important.
I have no idea if she remembers anything of our discussion this morning but for Tony and me, the best gift we gave her was our time. And our attention. I am a writer and if my house was burning down, I'd grab my animals (imaginary monkey included) and my working manuscripts.
I have no idea why her movie was never made. Maybe it wasn't meant to be. I am glad she has her memories - when she has her memories - and me, I will never be able to look at an ice cube in quite the same way again.

Aloha oe,
A.J.

Currently listening : Destiny By The Brothers Cazimero Release date: 2008-05-20

Current mood: amused 
 

                                          

Hi Everyone,

The following conversation will be brief and may or may not remind you of discussions in your home:

Eeny: You hogged all the hot water. I had to have a cold shower!

Meeny: Well, didn't WE get out of bed the wrong side this morning!

Eeeny: Listen, you ugly bastard. It was the good side until I found all the hot water gone! How long do you need to shower anyway?

Meeny: You need to shut up. You're giving me a headache.

Eeney: You're telling ME to shut up? I hate you! You always leave the toilet seat up. What are you anyway, a freakin' Neanderthal?

Meeny: Who are you calling a Neanderthal?

Now this conversation is not taking place between a man and a woman but two men. Yep, men need to er…man up and admit they too, get male PMS. Technically speaking it is referrerd to as Irritable Male Syndrome, or as my Jamaican friend Basil calls them, "Lady Days."

It may not surprise you to learn he's been married and divorced four times.

The above conversation happened between me and my brother. His girlfriend, who acompanied him on his visit to me wisely kept her mouth shut as we sniped at one another. It was all forgotten by the time we'd had our second cup of coffee but she tiptoed around for a good hour until then. Poor thing. She still looks traumatized.

Men get stressed. Men bottle things up. And then we act like nine year old girls over things like hot water, no gas left in the car and somebody stabbing his disguting cigarettes out in my tropical plants on the balcony.

But I digress. Yep, you too can be the proud paramour of a guy who loses it over incidentals. It isn't just gay guys who get those…well, hormonal fluctuations. My lovely friend Heather mentioned this yesterday and I thought it was about time to address this issue since well, it's my day to blog again. I mean, I probably owe apologies to millions of people by now for bad attitudes on my er…lady days.

But I won't. I will bottle it all up, carry it deep within me, all with a smile on my face until the next time some wiener cuts me off on the freeway. Yeah, them we'll see about how ladylike I can be. Now pass me the Happy Pills, please.

Aloha oe,

A.J.

Currently listening : Jukebox - Deluxe Edition By Cat Power Release date: 2008-01-22

                                                   
Hi Everyone,

Almost every couple I know has a spoken agreement - mostly in jest, but clearly understood - that given the chance to bed some famous person of their fantasies, they get a free pass.
My partner and I have never discussed a Freebie List. I didn't think we needed one. We're still in that red-hot new phase...or we were until, as I blogged the other day he told me he was crazy about the character Jack on the Torchwood series.
Jack, he said, kisses with his whole body.
Well, since there seems to be only one guy on his Freebie List I suppose I could have taken it in good stride but I am A Greek-Australian man. That means, I think like an Australian, but my emotions are Greek. Gay Greek.
I needed revenge. "Oh, no, A.J," my partner moaned. "I am not watching Rock Hudson and Doris Day movies. I've seen 'em all...I-"
I laughed in his face. No, Rock and Doris weren't going to cut the mustard this time. I needed a real man to give my partner something to think about.
I needed The Sagat Revenge.
If you haven't heard of the French gay porn superstar or seen him in action, then you haven't lived. A Youtube video has surfaced of him recently, kissing a woman but there's no question the guy is gay. And yet, even kissing a woman, fully clothed, he is damned hot. Well, partially clothed. For Francois Sagat, underpants are practically formal wear.
A casual check on the Internet will show you this guy is Freaky (his word, not mine). He has the craziest blog in history. Loads of hot photos and inexplicable videos. Weird music. Very few words on the page and most of them seem self-loathing. Oh, and he does not allow reader comments.
So, he's definitely out there and seems to revel in simultaneously being naked, then skewering his own image. You can't Google any article or photo shoot with him where he doesn't start ripping his clothes off and touching his bottom.
But I digress.
"Oh no," my partner moaned. "Not Sagat."
Yeah, Sagat. And since it was my choice and I couldn't choose, we had an entire Sagat night, the Best Of Francois Sagat volumes 1-3.
My partner of course was intrigued. "Let me get this straight. He shaved his head because he was balding and he tattooed the hair that's on his head now?"
Yep, got it.
"I'm not thinking I get the Sagat thing," my French-Canadian man said finally. "Maybe I should watch that one scene I liked...you know, the one in the living room with all the antiques...just for research purposes."
In my case, revenge was sweet.
But the Freebie List in most cases is just that, sweet. It fuels bedroom fun. A couple of days ago, a female friend who has a Freebie List called to tell me her husband was working on a TV series with the actress who tops his Freebie List.
"What if she likes him?" she asked me. My friend's husband is one hot tamale. I mean, HOT.
"Erm...well, maybe she's gay?" I suggested helpfully and my friend shrieked.
"She's going to want him!" she fretted. "Why, oh why, did I suggest a free pass? I'm tearing up those goddam freebie lists." I could hear the rustling of paper and lots of shredding.
"You've got an actual list?" I asked.
"Yeah," she panted and the ripping continued.
"How long is it?"
"Mine is two pages long." Two pages! "His list has five names. Four of them are hers."
I had to cover the mouthpiece so she wouldn't hear me laughing.
"Not funny, A.J. I can hear you." My friend sounded a bit down. "What do I do?"
What we did was this. Yesterday, I drove her to Fredericks of Hollywood, bought her some very nasty underwear and we moved on to the Pleasure Chest for a tub of Honey Dust and some naughty toys.
"I've never seen anything like this," she kept saying and I took her home, set the mood with candles and music and a good bottle of wine and I left her to wait for her husband after covering her whole body in the Honey Dust. I instructed her on how to use it on her husband and left her lying on the bed. Waiting.
I was starting to worry that maybe her husband might have a heart attack when he walked into the room, but my fantasy is to die fucking, so I decided it might be his, too.
I took her kids out for pizza and a movie and by the time I called to check if the coast was clear, my friend was purring.
"We're going to start calling this our Sagat Revenge," she giggled. "My hubby says he could get used to this."
Who needs a freebie list when you've got Revenge?
Aloha oe,

AJ

Current mood: breezy

Hi Everyone,

Remember that song? Anyway, I can't help hearing it dinging around my brain as I think about my friend...he MUST remain anonymous since he is extremely embarrassed and a well, a bonafide celebrity to boot. Let's call him Mook.
He was talked into auctioning himself on Ebay for charity. The rules were clear. Whoever won the auction, which entailed a three hour evening with him, would pick the time, the activity and in somewhere in the small print it read: This is not a sex date.
Now Mook did this with good intentions. Highest bidder would be giving money charity AND covering all expenses on the date. Mook started to panic a week ago and called me.
"Not one woman has entered the contest. They're all gay guys! No offense A.J, but I do not want to go on a date with a guy!"
I believe somewhere along the line a female or two bid for his er...affections, but a wealthy man in Malibu won the contest and last night they were schedule to go on their dinner date. Yep, dinner. That was it. the millionaire was checked and vetted by the program moderators who were relieved the credit card was legitimate and that reservations had been made at a swanky beach side restaurant.
Mook, who'd feared dinner a deux in the guy's leaky dungeon still freaked.
He took a couple of slugs of whiskey and called me from his hall closet an hour before blast off last night.
"Time to jump out of the closet, dude," I joked.
Mook hung up on me. Five minutes later he called back. "I'm sending a limo round to your house Llewellyn. You better be ready."
"But I'm doing book edits," I squawked.
He shrieked, "Fuck edits!" which assured me he meant business.
My Australian/Hawaiian friend Tony who has been going back and forth between Vegas Baby and my place in L.A. on business meetings, decided he just had to come to dinner too.
"Don't bring that crazy friend of yours," Mook warned down the phone.
Crazy friend? Which one? They're all crazy. He should have been more specific.
Tony and I downloaded the menu for Ivy By the Shore from the Internet and drooled over our choices as we sipped champagne in the back seat of the limo, cruising down Malibu Canyon. It was my second time ever in a limo (boy am I not livin' large) and I have yet to fulfill my fantasy of sex in the back seat of a limo...
But I digress. We arrived at the restaurant and found Mook in the bar, trying to take an apple slice out of his Appletini with his tongue. It landed on his nose just as his date arrived.
"Last time Kiefer Sutherland was in here, he made a bracelet out of drinking straws," a woman sitting next to me said.
The Winner arrived. he oozed money. If I had to describe him I'd say he's exactly the type I'd be petrified to date. Tall, balding, dressed impeccably, piercing eyes and with the sort of confidence an otherwise not especially handsome man has because he knows he's disgustingly wealthy.
If The Winner was surprised to see the date of his dreams with an entourage, he didn't show it. Maybe he expected it, since Hollywood celebs are supposed to have entourages.
"I think I'm in love," my Am-I-gay-or-am-I-not pal Tony whispered to me.
"No, you are not," I retorted. "You're in love with his black Amex card."
"Yeah, I think you're right. He doesn't give me wood unless he's holding it. That's telling, eh?"
Geez, Louise.
Mook sat glum and petrified through most of the meal. It didn't help that his date would take a forkful of something, then lick each tine suggestively, whilst gazing heavy-lidded at him. He also had a ghastly habit of helping himself to everybody else's meals...until you felt the urge to hide your plate under the table.
Still, about mid way through the meal, Mook spotted a girl across the restaurant and assured the night wouldn't be a total loss, roused himself out of his torpor and entertained his big-spending winner with funny anecdotes about his last movie. Most of them involved him and loose women in Vancouver on the set of a TV show he did...his intention clear: I am straight, buddy.
Tony and The Winner struck up a decent conversation on business and The Winner even engaged me in fairly decent repartee on the state of publishing.
Mook found some common ground too and by the end of the evening, we were all positively chummy.
Tony, who debated going off to have a night cap with him declined in the end, because as he told me, "I am most certainly going to find his dick in my arse at some point and I don't think I'm ready for that" and came home in the limo with me.
The Winner sent us home with chocolate cake, gave Mook a hearty hug and as Mook took off with his new girl toy, The Winner walked out to the valet and handed in his ticket.
"How was your evening, sir?" the valet guy asked him politely.
The Winner, not knowing Tony and I were right behind him, sighed.
"I never get lucky on those celebrity date things. My friends at the gym all swore Mook was gay. Why do guys b.s. so much?"
The valet guy looked frightened at the prospect of having to play amateur psychologist and took off running for The Winner's car.
Tony held me back, so The Winner wouldn't see us. "Let's give him some dignity," he whispered, which I thought was very kind. We watched him drive off in his Rolls and Tony shook his head.
"Guys do b.s. a lot don't they?" Before I could respond, he said, "And I thought women were hard bloody work."

Aloha oe,
A.J.

Currently listening : Flesh + Blood By Roxy Music Release date: 2000-03-14

Current mood: bitchy

Hi everyone,

One of my best female friends called me late last night, crying. My first instincts were to get dressed, jump into my car, find the man who did this to her and beat him to death. I'm a protective guy, especially when injustice involves one of my peepettes.
My brother, who is still visiting me from Paris has been in an increasingly surly mood because he is missing French table wine and the filthy, stinky cigarettes he can't buy here in the US.
He thought the idea of beating up a total stranger was also a fab idea...and then my gal pal told me her tale. She'd had a date via Match.com and the guy seemed to be everything she wanted... After several lengthy phone calls, they made a date. He actually showed up! He rolled up to the Beverly Hills restaurant they chose in his shiny red Maserati, he was as hot as she'd hoped and their conversation over dinner positively sparkled.
She was in the middle of a hilarious anecdote (I believe her take on the quality of her adorable social skills) when he dabbed his lips with his napkin, smiled, and excused himself. My friend took advantage of her companion's absence to squaff a few bites of food. They were in a very expensive restaurant and the food sublime, but she was doing that girl thing, not eating much in front of him. She sipped at her red wine and happened to glance out the window.
Her date was jumping into his horrible little sports car and zooming off! Without her! Sticking her with an $89 check!
Quelle horreur!
My brother who has been boring me stupid with his endless, "Well in France...everything is better" crap look stunned when I told him the guy was French.
"He can't be a proper Frenchman," he scoffed. "They don't do things like that." I stared him down. "Well, all right, maybe they do. What's with people who like to eat and run, anyway?"
And this is the reason I am relating all of this.
We attended a friend's birthday dinner on Saturday night. I don't mind saying the name of the restaurant because it is the most pretentious place I have ever entered and never will again. It's called JGelina and it's down in Venice.
First of all, the place is so dark and such a maze, you need a tour guide to find your table. The dishes are expensive and minuscule. My $16 shrimp dish had exactly three shrimp in it. Ka-ching! I almost wept when we'd agreed to eat "family style" and I was forced to take only one pass on the plate. There were 12 at dinner and dishes kept coming out, but most I couldn't eat because I don't eat meat or chicken. I did get two [tiny] pieces of squid and felt like a food hog. All night long, forks danced in the air at our table and one of the guys ordered bottle after bottle of wine. I was worried about how much all this was costing us, since I was a designated driver and couldn't drink.
Then the restaurant staff started hassling us to vacate the table because it was the only large one and there was another party waiting for it.
My half-starved Francofile brother gave the hoity toity hostess a piece of his mind and she backed off. A couple of people pleaded early mornings and left the table, not dropping down a dime for their share. Two other friends arrived late, ordered fresh dishes and another bottle of wine and suddenly vanished. It was hard to tell at first since the restaurant was punishing us by refusing to bring candles to our now very dark corner. It was only when they didn't reapond to questions that we knew they'd gone.
I stabbed a few fingers in my starving quest for a bite of food before the waiters took everything away. By the time the check arrived, there were eight of us left, seven of us picking up the tab to include the birthday boy. To say it was the most expensive meal I never ate is an understatement.
When I left JGelina, I was absolutely famished and broke. We drove by the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, those wonderful, lovely sexy golden arches.
My Hawaiian friend Kel, who was nuzzling his wife in the back seat screamed, "Shit! food! I want dinner!" We hit the drive through and Kel and his wife thoughtfully purchased me a filet of fish sandwich and large fries.
"This is even better than French food," my brother said from the depths of his chocolate shake. The absurdity, the sheer irony of having to stop for fast food after an expensive restaurant dinner was not lost on any of us.
The old "eat and run" routine did bring out some funny stories about the protocol of paying and we convinced each other that one day, this story too would be funny.
It already is.

Aloha oe,

A.J.

Currently listening : Pu'uhonua By Amy Gilliom Release date: 2001-06-19

Current mood: animated

 Hi Everyone,

This is is a duplicate of my very first post today for 7 Wicked Writers www.sevenwickedwriters.com and since we are all writers of fairly wicked prose, I have to say one of the driving forces in many romance novels and yes, even the gay ones like I write, is jealousy.

In art and life, jealousy can be a dandy motivator. In my Phantom Lover series, my hero Kimo is the target of jealousy from others who covet his mystical, magical power. But he is a demigod and I am a hapless hack who tells the tales he dictates even when I'm sleeping.

I suffer jealousies too. Just yesterday, my lovely man who lives in another city, sent me an email and asked me if I could track down a copy of the DVD of the TV series Torchwood. "I am in love with Jack," he wrote. "That man kisses with his whole body."

What? What the heck is he saying? That I, AJ Llewellyn do not kiss with my whole body? What do I kiss him with? Half my lip and a pinkie finger? I read and reread that email and yep, that insensitve Canadian crumb really wrote that to me. I debated how to respond and decided the truth was most appropriate.

After a long walk with the dog, I came back with my funnybone a little less dislocated and wrote, "Hon, bad news. Jack is dead. Yep, hacked to pieces. Shame, eh?"

He wrote back: "Oh, that is sad. Can you find the DVD for me anyway? Kisses…"

I wrote back, "Sure." What I didn't add and it burned my fingers not to, was: Don't hold your breath, you clueless Canuck! The fat lady's sung!!

Now, in fairness, I probably am guilty of similar transgressions. I have mentioned more than a passing fantasy about Francois Sagat…but that didn't mean I wanted my man to run off and learn to make love like a porn star…although come to think of it…

Ahem. As I was saying, here's the thing. I am jealous of a fictional character. My love rival isn't real but hell's bells, I write fictional gay man and I know how compelling they can be. A fictional gay man can't complain about the toothpaste cap being left off or the sheets being hogged or your food being poached in classy restaurants. A fictional lover is perfect. They don't say, "Hey, babe, you got bad breath there." They're too busy kissing you with their whole bodies…

A fictional man doesn't scrutinize every word, every unspoken word for a hint of trouble. They don't criticize, judge, fart or fumble a perfect moment under a full moon. No, they kiss with their whole body.

Now the guy in question who plays Jack may not be gay but I don't give a crap. My man covets what he does with his mouth and I sure wish I knew voodoo because I think his lips would look very pretty with a severe case of canker sores. Mmmmm…

My man and I have not discussed this issue in person and probably won't. He probably thinks, oh, AJ is such a clown. But he has no clue that unlike Lord Byron who once said, "Jealousy dislikes the world to know it," my jealousy is out there on its own…and I am forced to maybe think about laying off the cupcakes. I mean he has mentioned that but I thought it was in jest. So I now find myself thinking about how to improve myself. I am not perfect, and I do tend to believe jeans and Aloha shirts are formal wear, so maybe I can learn a thing or two from that rotten, stinking bastard Jack and that ever-ready bunny body of his.

Maybe I need to do none of these, but like I said, jealousy is a dandy motivator. So excuse me whilst I go practice kissing with my whole body…the list of things to do with my day suddenly got a whole lot more interesting.

Aloha oe,

AJ

Currently listening : The Voice of the Sparrow: The Very Best of Edith Piaf By Edith Piaf Release date: 1991-07-30

Current mood: inspired

                                                                   

"I was a superstar at 14 and a has-been by 16. I had a brief fling with fame again when I was 24, but obscurity beckoned me once more. But like I told my agent back then, I want a small career, big life."
These were among the first words Janis Ian said when I met her last night.
The 60s folk music icon sat cross legged on a table telling her life story to a bunch of riveted fans. Nobody moved. Nobody scratched, coughed or fidgeted. It was like witnessing the Second Coming.
I am on the committee of my local library's Distinguished Speaker Series and since our small group came on board in January, we've shaken things loose and found some wonderful authors to participate in these monthly events. Earlier in the year we had former child star Jon Provost who came to discuss his book Timmy's in the Well. Jon was a doll, more interesting for what he didn't say than what he did. He didn't say much because his wife completely took over and answered every question for him…
Last month, we scored a major coup in luring the reclusive but reigning queen of crime, best selling author Faye Kellerman. Our selling point? The library. We found the same thing when approaching Janis Ian. We hardly dared hope we could get her since she is in the middle of a whirlwind tour promoting her new autobiography, Society's Child. What we have found is authors, I mean major literary talents willing to come to the library and talk to relatively small but packed audiences about their work. And it is a beautiful thing to see.
It took some doing getting into Janis' schedule and she arrived with a bad cold but after I ran through a mike check with her, I took her, her partner Jan and road manager Deborah to a small private room so they could relax.
This was all prearranged but they didn't do much relaxing. Between setting up their table to sell her book and accompanying CD, Janis demanded to know where the Library Donation jar was. We all looked at each other. Within seconds, she'd whipped out a jar she carries with her to all her library events and plonked it on the refreshment table.
The audience drifted in. The scent of patchouli, the moon in the seventh house and Jupiter's alignment with Mars were there in spirit with the oldest living hippies in the universe pouring in.
What I find fascinating with each new author is the caliber of their fans.
Last night, Janis Ian, a gentle, diminutive pixie of a thing found people who wanted to know how a 14 year old could have had such searing thoughts on things like interracial love, atomic war, prostitution. They wanted to know where she got her inspiration for her biggest hits, like At Seventeen and Society's Child. Within minutes, I knew we had a group of people who are simply in love with words.
I'd like to share with you some of the highlights:

On writing her autobiography: The first time I was asked to write it, I was sixteen. I thought it was ridiculous. My agent said, 'Listen girlie, lesbians won't be hot forever!' The second time I was asked, I was 56. I am now 57. I called 20 best selling writers and they each told me something different. But I have been writing since I was 9. That's how old I was when I started keeping my first journal.
I had no idea where to start. So I listened to one friend who told me to Google my name. I did. Almost nothing about me was true. I spent three months Googling Janis Ian. I even read that I was dead! I would go to bed at night, hardly able to wait until I woke up in the morning to read what interesting things I'd been doing the night before. Then, I forgot about all the research and I just wrote.

On Sex: I was worried because when people write their autobiography, they write about sex. They write about who they slept with, why they slept with them, would they sleep with them again, was it any good when you slept with them in the first place…but I haven't slept with anyone interesting or famous. My lawyer said, 'make it up' and I did think about saying I had sex with a Kennedy. I mean most of them are dead so they can't deny it. Of course, I didn't do it.
On writing Society's Child: [this was one of the first questions she was asked. Janis wrote this iconic song as a teenager. Here are some of the lyrics]

ONE OF THESE DAYS I'M GONNA STOP MY LISTENING
GONNA RAISE MY HEAD UP HIGH
ONE OF THESE DAYS I'M GONNA RAISE UP
MY GLISTENING WINGS AND FLY
BUT THAT DAY WILL HAVE TO WAIT FOR A WHILE
BABY, I'M ONLY SOCIETY'S CHILD

I got the inspiration for this song on the bus. I grew up in Orange, New Jersey. We were a Jewish family in a black neighborhood. There was a black and white couple, only a year older than me and they were sitting on the bus, ignoring the glares. I thought at the time it was horrible. You should be able to love who you want to love. Now as I am older I do understand why black parents don't their children to fall in love with white people and vice versa. You don't want your kids to struggle, to face that kind of bigotry. Incidentally, my mom didn't care who I married as long as they were Jewish. They could be black, white, male, female, just as long as they were Jewish.

On Being 57: Once you get to 50, honestly you have to ask, what else can you do to me? I've seen it all. I've lived a full life. But I write. What I want to do when the touring is over and I am back home with my partner and my two dogs is write. A writer writes. You just do it.
[Janis Ian glanced at the cover of her book and the smile on her face was wistful]
So that's my book. I hope I've done my songs justice.
You have Janis, you have.

Aloha oe.
A.J.

PS. Janis Ian's donation jar brought us $75.63 and her personal donation from proceeds of her sales brought us another $78. All of this will be used to purchase books and DVDs for our library and to fund our children's prorams.
She also donated two books and two CD's. She asked us if we wanted them autographed but her partner quickly nixed the idea saying that patrons would steal them.
Me, I got to hug Janis Ian goodbye last night. I hope some of that woman's grace and grit rub off on me, even if she does have a cold.

Currently listening : Best of Janis Ian: The Autobiography Collection By Janis Ian Release date: 2008-07-22

Current mood: determined

Hi everyone,
I have a day job that for a writer sounds like a dream come true. I get paid to read. All day long, I read, read, read other people's screenplays. My job is to crush other writers' dreams. But occasionally, just occasionally I find a gem I cannot in good conscience, send to the gallows.
As a Coverage Writer, my job is to do that. I'm supposed to be the passionless executioner.
But what happens when you read something that colors outside the lines so well, you have to risk putting your own neck on the chopping block?
For the first time in two years that happened to me this week. I read a screenplay that I am surprised even made it to my desk since it came in scary packaging and wasn't even formatted to industry standard.
Then there was the content. It is everything Hollywood hates.
Historical. Big no no.
No action or violence. What, are you kidding me?
The lead character is a woman. You're smoking crack. Right, AJ?
I opened this screenplay and from page one, I was hooked. It was about Mary Wollstonecraft, the world's first feminist writer and I was captivated by her passion and her huevos (yeah, women can have those).
Then there was the writer's period detail such as Mary W's refusal to wear a powdered wig to the opera.
I have read sci fi screenplays that have stupid things like people racing cars on the sun – how? – but this screenplay intrigued me with fantastic dialogue, famous poets, drunken writers. Man, she even describes the smell of London streets three hundred years ago...I'm thinking, Hello, Oscar.
How could I type: PASS on my cover sheet?
Since I had to go into battle for the writer - and my reputation at the studio - I assembled my arguments like chess pieces.
I came up with a list of top ten starlets who could play Mary W. Good thinking, AJ!
There's a sexy sub plot of a love story - Wollestonecraft's daughter Mary and her scandalous marriage with that roue Percy Bysshe Shelley. Another list for these characters. Ha! You got 'em now, AJ!
There was nudity! YEESSSS!
And wait! Mary W. covered the French revolution! King Louis's head actually tumbled onto her shoes. We love blood!
I championed this screenplay mightily just by typing CONSIDER in the appropriate box. I wrestled with my conscience over that one and felt I had to go one step further.
My best friend in the office, Charlie, begged me not to do it.
"Career suicide," he kept muttering. "You won't even get a job in the mail room after this."
But I did it. I put my ass on the chopping block and typed: RECOMMEND.
I sat and waited for the first bomb to drop.
I fretted for a day and kept plotting my insanity defense. I wanted to use the screenplay's attention to authenticity as my trump card. It didn't take me long to find a Yahoo group with the niche interest of Wollstonecraft and a general post to the group sent back 50 responses in a mind-boggling avalanche of information.
Yep, the story was true and our gal defied tradition, going bare-headed to the opera. The scandal! The drama!
As predicted, my boss wasn't happy. I'm not supposed to interrupt his golf game with an actual, workable screenplay. I came back from a meeting with another writer and found a Post It on my desk lamp.
See Me.
Yeah, I knew I was about to get ripped a new one, a couple of them actually, so I assembled my arsenal of arguments, grabbed a donut out of somebody else's mouth and went to the front lines.
The result was this. My writer did not sell us her screenplay. But her gorgeous writing got her noticed and I will fight to the death to get her a pitch meeting.
I am not allowed to contact her and coach her but I hope one day she knows that a man sitting in his office in Hollywood read her baby and loved it.
I hope she never loses her passion. I hope no writer does, because it's a fucking hard business being a writer and it's awfully hard to keep hearing, NO.
I guess what I want to say is this.
I fully believe love finds a way and this screenplay was a love letter to a literary goddess. If there is a God, and there is really a heaven, the guardian angels of writers everywhere will help this screenplay find its Green Light.
And I will just reassemble my arguments, keep tilting at windmills and go back to the trenches for it.

Aloha oe,

A.J.

Currently listening : Hawaiian Tradition By Amy Hanaiali'i Gilliom Release date: 1997-04-22

8:09 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos -

Current mood: chipper

Hi everyone,

So my friend Tony, an Aussie living in Hawaii and travels back and forth between the islands and the mainland for his bakery business, flew into town last night because my brother was visiting from Paris. We all grew up in Australia, went to the same private school, ridiculed each other's regulations short pants, hats and ties. It's been 20 years since I graduated and 18 for them.

Time slipped away as we gathered Chez Llewellyn to have a glass of champagne and toast our continuing friendship. My brother's new French girlfriend was bemused by Tony's angst over his sexuality.

"She gives me wood," he informed me in the kitchen. Thanks for sharing, big guy.  

My brother's girlfriend informed me she is just discovering what a freak he really is. They just came back from Morrocco where he went to take photographs and she did not appreciate being treated worse than the camels. Nor did she enjoy the brothel my brother unwittingly booked them into.

"Babe," he kept saying, "It was the only place with running hot water."

As a man living in Los Angeles, (my boyfriend, who lives in Canada and has sworn me to keep him out of my blogs says LA is for people who believe in hell) I was eager to share some of the fine, ethnic cuisine I enjoy/

Tony the Tiger and my brother, the French Crumpet were adamant they wanted to go to Moonshadows, the restaurant where Mel Gibson got arrested for drunk driving last year.

I tried to tell them the food is awful (sorry, but it is) and that Mel hasn't shown his face there since that fateful escapade, but off we went to Malibu and the only people cluttering up the joint were other tourists. I was the only person not toting a camera. Everybody wanted their photos with a drunken Mel who was probably at home sucking up a lager in privacy and comfort.

On the way home, Tony wanted to stop at Macy's and get a new shirt for a business meeting today. His luggage went AWOL and he was concerned about the meeting.

"I have to look good, mate. I have to close this deal," he fretted.

We went to the one in Santa Monica and we invaded the menswear department like multicultural fleas and this is where our problems started.

My brother's girlfriend was aghast at the prices of things and began peeling off sale price stickers from one shirt to another with well-versed fingers. She even managed to switch whole tickets from one garment to another.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. Everything's bar coded and I think it might be illegal," I warned her.

She already thinks I'm an idiot because I am not dating some hot movie star, so she ignored me.

"'Old Zees," she instructed Tony, pressing a shirt against his body. Tony, grateful for any type of female contact, stared into her eyes. Poor fool. Store security descended on him and the upshot is he was charged with ticket swapping and is due in court in three weeks.

"That does it," he told me when we were frog marched from the store. "I've had it with women. From now on, I'm strictly dickly."

Aloha oe,

A.J. 

Currently listening : Destiny By The Brothers Cazimero Release date: 2008-05-20