Here's something you might be interested in.
Jonathan the intern must be angry with me. I told him Craig and I would arrive in Hollywood to sit in the audience of "Love Song" and I let him down. It was totally my fault. The producers made us sit in the hot sun outside the theater on 3rd street for about an hour. Since I've had about four operations for skin cancer this year alone, I wasn't happy to spend a lot of time baking in the suffocating heat, even if interns were passing out cold bottles of water..
At one time, I would have given years of my life for the opportunity to sing on a reality show and maybe pick up a hot date in the process; but, those days are long gone. Last week, I was more interested in visiting the doggie bakery in the Farmer's Market, so we left the line and all of the cute girls Craig was flirting with, and went down to the bakery for the opportunity to pay $10 for a box of doggie biscuits made to look like Oreos.
I laughed hysterically when he told me that the producer had asked if he wanted to be a contestant. They must have been really hard up. He actually thinks he gets attention because he's still got "it," when in fact, everyone is just humoring an old lonely grandpa.
The clerk at the bakery, a young woman my daughter's age, was very friendly and got me talking about my dogs, which led to talk about animal shelters, which led to talk about how sorry we feel for abandoned animals...
After we left, I saw Craig stiffen when I said I wanted to cruise around Hancock Park. He hates driving around Hollywood and listening to stories about my good old days. It's too bad my daughter wasn't with us this time, she hangs on every word I have to say. She loves looking at my old haunts, and as an added bonus, my fair skinned, dark-haired daughter can dress up like Snow White and earn $200 for four hours of work by posing for photos with tourists in front of Disney on Hollywood Boulevard.
As we drove down Beverly Boulevard, avoiding the cars cutting in front of us and the jerk that honked the whole way down the street, the surroundings started to look familiar. My throat constricted as Ain't No Mountain High Enough by Marvin Gaye and Tami Terrell--one of Gene Page's songs--came on the radio. What unfortunate timing! The DJ might as well have stabbed me in the heart with daggers...
I peered up and saw the sign that said, "Highland Avenue," and tears streamed down my face. I miss Gene Page to the depths of my soul every day and would have given almost anything to make a left turn and find him sitting behind his desk in the weathered bungalow he used as an office.
Billie Jean came on the radio next, making me a wreck. I'd like to take those pills the soldiers who fought in the war will get. They make you forget the memories. If anyone thinks knowing someone famous is a good thing, I can assure him that it will break your heart. Since Gene died and died tragically (think Michael and Whitney), I think about his downfall every time one of his songs comes on the radio, and relive the details over and over again.
I got all excited as we approached a store called "Pavilion." It used to be the Alpha Beta where I shopped with my baby son. And then we turned the corner and my jaw dropped. I remember the street as being the prettiest street in Hollywood, but this was The Magic Kingdom on steroids.
After demanding that Craig pulled over, I stepped onto the sidewalk for the first time in thirty years. A young lady appeared in the window of my old apartment, probably in the process of making her own memories that will one day prompt her to revisit the old place.
I had thought nothing of living in a neighborhood where the houses look like wedding cakes and Mae West lived right across the street.
One time, I was doing temp work at Bowers and Ruddy on Santa Monica Boulevard. The kids my age were talking about how hard it was to make rent and how they had to live in Taluca Lake and commute to work.
Then one guy asked where I lived, and when I said "Rossmore Avenue," everyone turned and gasped.
I was embarrassed instead of proud.
And now I just can't believe I ever lived at the Chateau Rossmore. It was a fairyland compared to where I live today. And when my husband gave me crap which was just about every day, I had someone to rescue me. I'd hop in my little blue Honda Civic and drive to Highland Avenue where Gene was toiling away on 25-30 arrangements per week.
One night, I slept on the couch while he plunked away on the piano. Weeks later, I was driving around L.A. when a DJ got all excited about playing a song that had never been played before. He raved about his exclusive, but when the music started, I thought he was full of baloney. I'd heard the melody before; I could hum it. And then I realized that I hadn't heard the song on the radio; I'd heard Gene working on the arrangement late at night. The song was Upside Down by Diana Ross and needless to say, it tears my heart out whenever I hear it.
As usual, Craig saw a dog and instead of displaying good manners and allowing the dog to come to him, he grabbed the animal and started petting it. The older woman who held the leash was very tolerant and told us that the dog was eleven years old and had a hard life. He was a rescue, part husky and part border collie and his owner, her friend, had Alzheimer's Disease. She was at the house to walk him.
Nice friend. Nice dog. My mother-in-law had Alzheimer's and my heart bled for them.
Rossmore Avenue is as breathtaking and serene as I imagine heaven to be, sans the heavy traffic. As I stood on the sidewalk, I stared up at the fairy tale gate leading to the apartments and told myself, my ex is not there. He is not anywhere. Not Vegas. Not Hawaii. He died of a heart attack on January 18, 2007. On that day, I lost my safety net.
I wished that Tony Sepe, Barry White's general manager, would drive by shouting flirty comments out his window like he did in 1980. I wished my baby boy was still a one-year-old and not thirty-five. I wished my hair was reddish brown and turned auburn in the sun; and, that I still weighed 110 pounds.
I wished everything was the way it was back then.
http://sandiegoreader.com/users/photos/2012/oct/19/33872/
http://sandiegoreader.com/users/photos/2012/oct/19/33874/
http://sandiegoreader.com/users/photos/2012/oct/19/33875/
http://sandiegoreader.com/users/photos/2012/oct/19/33876/
http://sandiegoreader.com/users/photos/2012/oct/19/33877/
Jonathan the intern must be angry with me. I told him Craig and I would arrive in Hollywood to sit in the audience of "Love Song" and I let him down. It was totally my fault. The producers made us sit in the hot sun outside the theater on 3rd street for about an hour. Since I've had about four operations for skin cancer this year alone, I wasn't happy to spend a lot of time baking in the suffocating heat, even if interns were passing out cold bottles of water..
At one time, I would have given years of my life for the opportunity to sing on a reality show and maybe pick up a hot date in the process; but, those days are long gone. Last week, I was more interested in visiting the doggie bakery in the Farmer's Market, so we left the line and all of the cute girls Craig was flirting with, and went down to the bakery for the opportunity to pay $10 for a box of doggie biscuits made to look like Oreos.
I laughed hysterically when he told me that the producer had asked if he wanted to be a contestant. They must have been really hard up. He actually thinks he gets attention because he's still got "it," when in fact, everyone is just humoring an old lonely grandpa.
The clerk at the bakery, a young woman my daughter's age, was very friendly and got me talking about my dogs, which led to talk about animal shelters, which led to talk about how sorry we feel for abandoned animals...
After we left, I saw Craig stiffen when I said I wanted to cruise around Hancock Park. He hates driving around Hollywood and listening to stories about my good old days. It's too bad my daughter wasn't with us this time, she hangs on every word I have to say. She loves looking at my old haunts, and as an added bonus, my fair skinned, dark-haired daughter can dress up like Snow White and earn $200 for four hours of work by posing for photos with tourists in front of Disney on Hollywood Boulevard.
As we drove down Beverly Boulevard, avoiding the cars cutting in front of us and the jerk that honked the whole way down the street, the surroundings started to look familiar. My throat constricted as Ain't No Mountain High Enough by Marvin Gaye and Tami Terrell--one of Gene Page's songs--came on the radio. What unfortunate timing! The DJ might as well have stabbed me in the heart with daggers...
I peered up and saw the sign that said, "Highland Avenue," and tears streamed down my face. I miss Gene Page to the depths of my soul every day and would have given almost anything to make a left turn and find him sitting behind his desk in the weathered bungalow he used as an office.
Billie Jean came on the radio next, making me a wreck. I'd like to take those pills the soldiers who fought in the war will get. They make you forget the memories. If anyone thinks knowing someone famous is a good thing, I can assure him that it will break your heart. Since Gene died and died tragically (think Michael and Whitney), I think about his downfall every time one of his songs comes on the radio, and relive the details over and over again.
I got all excited as we approached a store called "Pavilion." It used to be the Alpha Beta where I shopped with my baby son. And then we turned the corner and my jaw dropped. I remember the street as being the prettiest street in Hollywood, but this was The Magic Kingdom on steroids.
After demanding that Craig pulled over, I stepped onto the sidewalk for the first time in thirty years. A young lady appeared in the window of my old apartment, probably in the process of making her own memories that will one day prompt her to revisit the old place.
I had thought nothing of living in a neighborhood where the houses look like wedding cakes and Mae West lived right across the street.
One time, I was doing temp work at Bowers and Ruddy on Santa Monica Boulevard. The kids my age were talking about how hard it was to make rent and how they had to live in Taluca Lake and commute to work.
Then one guy asked where I lived, and when I said "Rossmore Avenue," everyone turned and gasped.
I was embarrassed instead of proud.
And now I just can't believe I ever lived at the Chateau Rossmore. It was a fairyland compared to where I live today. And when my husband gave me crap which was just about every day, I had someone to rescue me. I'd hop in my little blue Honda Civic and drive to Highland Avenue where Gene was toiling away on 25-30 arrangements per week.
One night, I slept on the couch while he plunked away on the piano. Weeks later, I was driving around L.A. when a DJ got all excited about playing a song that had never been played before. He raved about his exclusive, but when the music started, I thought he was full of baloney. I'd heard the melody before; I could hum it. And then I realized that I hadn't heard the song on the radio; I'd heard Gene working on the arrangement late at night. The song was Upside Down by Diana Ross and needless to say, it tears my heart out whenever I hear it.
As usual, Craig saw a dog and instead of displaying good manners and allowing the dog to come to him, he grabbed the animal and started petting it. The older woman who held the leash was very tolerant and told us that the dog was eleven years old and had a hard life. He was a rescue, part husky and part border collie and his owner, her friend, had Alzheimer's Disease. She was at the house to walk him.
Nice friend. Nice dog. My mother-in-law had Alzheimer's and my heart bled for them.
Rossmore Avenue is as breathtaking and serene as I imagine heaven to be, sans the heavy traffic. As I stood on the sidewalk, I stared up at the fairy tale gate leading to the apartments and told myself, my ex is not there. He is not anywhere. Not Vegas. Not Hawaii. He died of a heart attack on January 18, 2007. On that day, I lost my safety net.
I wished that Tony Sepe, Barry White's general manager, would drive by shouting flirty comments out his window like he did in 1980. I wished my baby boy was still a one-year-old and not thirty-five. I wished my hair was reddish brown and turned auburn in the sun; and, that I still weighed 110 pounds.
I wished everything was the way it was back then.
http://sandiegoreader.com/users/photos/2012/oct/19/33872/
http://sandiegoreader.com/users/photos/2012/oct/19/33874/
http://sandiegoreader.com/users/photos/2012/oct/19/33875/
http://sandiegoreader.com/users/photos/2012/oct/19/33876/
http://sandiegoreader.com/users/photos/2012/oct/19/33877/