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Very sedentary day, yesterday. I may have gotten up from my desk a couple of times. (The operative word in that sentence is “may.”) To pee. To prepare food stuffs. (I seem to be back into my food-as-fuel mindset. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.)

Mostly I worked. I’m way behind on my revenue generation.

Also I argued with imaginary people who live in my computer in an enchanted country called Facebookistan.

And I flirted with L’s handyman.

Not sure what it was I found so attractive about L’s handyman who emigrated from Malta at the age of seven and so has a really intriguing accent – Southern Mediterranean lilt, New Yawk City vowels.

His name is Frank. He’s a little older than me. Until 10 years ago or so, he was an engineer at IBM but got laid off in one of the regime changes. He wasn’t ready to retire, so he made a late-life career change. A lucrative one: He charges $50 an hour, and he’s not a particularly fast worker.

“But what I really want to do is travel,” he told me, eyes atwinkle.

“I want to travel, too!” I all but shrieked. “Let’s travel together!”

In the old days when I was young and gorgeous, I was often criticized by various men of my acquaintance for what they termed my “predatory” hookup style. It was unseemly in a girl.

But when I like it, I like it.

Flirting with Frank brought me back to that time in my life.

There’s the bed, I wanted to say. And when we’re through, we can book the airplane tickets.


The big debates in Facebookistan these days are (1) whether climate change played a role in the devastation wrought by Hurricane Harvey and the devastation that will be wrought by Hurricane Irma and (2) whether it was shortsighted of Obama to push DACA through by executive decree.

Note that I vote “Affirmative” on both issues.

I never waste my time arguing climate change with people who won’t accept it. I was a latecomer to belief in climate change myself, but the tree ring studies finally convinced me. It’s real. It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference whether you believe in it or not: It’s gonna happen.

The DACA stuff…

Well. I think immigration reform is a very good thing. I think if you come to the U.S. when you’re seven years old, you deserve to go on living in the U.S. with full rights of citizenry.


This is something that ought to have been legislated.

The fact that the Democrats were unable to push it through the House of Representatives as legislation is something I attribute entirely to the ineptitude of then-Speaker Nancy Pelosi, a sorry excuse for a career politician.

It ought not to have mandated as an executive decree.

The executive branch of the government is not responsible for enacting what amount to laws.

I felt so strongly about this issue, in fact, that I didn’t vote for Obama in 2012.

It bespeaks a certain hubris on Obama's part, on the part of the entire Democratic Party in fact, that they just blithely assumed that whoever won the next election would be in concert with a controversial agenda.

The ends don’t justify the means.

That’s not my righteous indignation over Machiavellian stratagems boiling over, by the way. It’s a pragmatic analysis. It’s just too easy to undo executive orders. You cannot rely upon them to enact sweeping changes.

This apparently is too subtle a point for the Obama fanboys and fangirls who live in Facebookistan, and I got roundly lambasted for bringing it up.

Not that I care.

But really, it would have been a more productive use of my time to push Frank down on my bed.
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Larry McMurtry is one of my favorite fiction writers. He's understated. In his latter novels, he often appears to be glib and officiously cozy in a peculiar Fannie Flagg-ish way, but it's a deliberate choice: McMurtry writes, for the most part, about people whose lives are absolute train wrecks, and the banal prose style serves to underscore just how disconnected from the true realities of their lives these characters are.

The Evening Star is McMurtry's sequel to Terms of Endearment, a tough novel that was adapted into one of the 1980s' biggest cinematic sentimental tearjerkers. Terms of Endearment itself is not exactly a sequel to Moving On -- a novel I absolutely adore -- so much as it is a kind of... expansion into the life of one of the novel's minor characters, fat, smart Emma Greenway who allows herself to be defined by that first adjective and tries as hard as possible to ignore the second.

At the end of the novel -- should I flash SPOILER-SPOILER-SPOILER here? Nah. Everyone knows Terms of Endearment -- Emma gets breast cancer and dies.

The Evening Star, a true sequel, picks up a decade or so after Emma's death and focuses on her mother Aurora, a monstrously self-involved River Oaks socialite, and her relationships with her three grandchildren, horribly damaged by their mother's early death.

The ending of this novel contains one of the most transcendent and emotionally moving passages I've ever read.

Aurora's youngest granddaughter has a baby; the baby gets dumped on Aurora. Aurora is very, very old by this point, and so close to death, she has finally evolved the capacity to love. And she loves this baby. The baby knows it too. They spend many hours together. She plays the Brahms Requiem over and over again.

Quick, confusing flash forward to a New York City street 25 years or so in the future. Aurora's great grandson -- now a Gen X-er with all the baggage that entails -- is walking down a cold autumn street, fretting about something or other. He has completely forgotten about Aurora. And somehow he wanders someplace where the Brahms Requiem is playing, and the music triggers a tidal wave of emotion so intense he can barely function. All he knows, listening to the music, is that someone loved him once and that he has lost that person forever. Standing on that busy Manhattan street corner, he begins to weep, and he can't stop.

And there the novel ends.

Past 12 hours have been something like that for me: Like something got triggered in me yesterday, and now I'm weeping. But I have no idea why. It's odd. I'm really good at connecting the dots to form emotional subtexts when I'm talking with friends about their feelings, but I've never been able to make the slightest sense out of the muddle that is my own emotions.

I better do something to calm myself down by tonight though. I'm meeting S2 for dinner and a movie, and comfort is not part of our social contract.
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I don't actually look like a raccoon.

This is makeup designed to make me pop under inside lights in front of a camera. I saw a photograph of myself taken in the studio and I did indeed look like Dame Margot Fonteyn or perhaps an elderly Natalie Portman.

The makeup doesn't work as well in full spectrum sunlight, but this is the apartment building I grew up in, so I couldn't resist the opportunity to pose.

The Jeopardy auditions, it turned out, were right down the street.

I thought I did fairly well on the written test. There were a few answers on the written test I didn't know, so I made obvious joke answers thinking, If I amuse them, they'll remember me. I did very well on the actual game playing part except for once when I spaced out after regurgitating the correct response and had to be prodded into burbling, "I'll take Astrophysicists in Tutus for $600, Alex!" The buzzer turned out not to be an issue – I just watched the lights and tuned out everything else.

I aced the perky interview part.

Will I make it to the show?

They audition 2,000 people a year for approximately 300 slots. I think it all depends upon whether the producers decide a quirky sextagenarian is the right fit for the Jeopardy TV demographic. I really can't call that one. I don't think I've ever seen a quirky Jeopardy contestant – although, of course, it's not like I actually watch the show – so I have to think my chances are slim.

But hey! It was a fun way to pass the morning.

I passed the afternoon interviewing potential Interdates, which wasn't nearly as much fun. In the interests of brevity, I'll only describe one. Guy named Marty.

Now, looks actually are completely irrelevant to me -- I mean, really! I have fallen in love with men who by conventional standards were extremely unattractive -- but I do register differences between profiles and reality. Thus, when someone describes himself in their dating profile as "fit" and it turns out they're actually shaped like a hippopotamus, it's irksome. It creates cognitive dissonace. I mean for God's sake! Just say you're above average in weight, okay? It's not a deal breaker.

Marty's photograph did not look like Marty. Marty looked like a hippopotamus.

Marty described himself as "fit." Marty is not "fit."

Marty's schtick is his lifelong love affair with Central Park.

Well, okay – I love Central Park too. My best friend Roberta and I spent every Saturday together between the ages of 10 and 14 walking in Central Park, weaving complex stories about the more interesting looking strangers we'd see there. Nearly all of these stories involved matricide and incest. We made up names for ourselves: I was Allegra or Dominica; she was Cecily or Fiona.
Roberta was a child star exploited by her alcoholic parents. We had a tendency to alter the mundane details of our dialy lives in our constant chatter to one another – something far more innocent than lying – so these were things I deduced many years later. Roberta would be absent from school for months at a time while she was out with various touring companies of The Sound of Music, which was fairly commonplace at the elementary school I went to: Jay North, another classmate, missed a whole year when he did Dennis the Menace in L.A.

The Miles family lived in a series of residence hotels all up and down West End Avenue. I remember watching Roberta's mother, Mrs. Miles, dye Roberta's hair in the sink. Miles mere and pere wouldn't let Roberta eat anything but lettuce and cottage cheese. Now, my mother used to abandon me for days at a time, throwing a five dollar bill on the kitchenette table for food. But I'd never spend that money on food. I went for days without eating. Instead, I'd save up that money for Saturdays, and Roberta and I would gorge on candy.

Years later, when I went back to NYC to see my grandfather, I visited Roberta. She had changed her name to Cecily Denham in an effort to make sure her parents could never find her, and she now weighed 300 pounds. Her hair was still a bright, buttery yellow though. Also, she was married, lived in a one room studio with her husband who weighed a little more than she did, and the entire rooms was stacked with toys.

At one point, the husband said shyly, "Would you like play with us, Patty?"

"Sure," I said.

So we spent a couple of hours playing with the family of dolls that lived in the most elaborate of the F.A.O. Schwartz dollhouses. They were Mr. and Mrs. June and Ward Cleaver-Doll! Wally Doll and Beave Doll had more brothers and sisters than the Brady Bunch! They lived a happy life together doing exotic things like going to the grocery store and cooking meals!

I stopped answering Roberta's letters when I got back to California.

My mother forwarded her last letter to me in Portland. In it, Roberta informed me that she'd just been diagnosed with uterine cancer.

I never answered that letter either.

But I digress...

Anyway, I told Marty I wanted to see to see the Alice in Wonderland statue. Since we had met up at the 72nd Street entrance, this wasn't exactly a stretch – just across the Park. I could tell he wasn't pleased.

As it turned out, he had planned the Marty Life Exegesis for the Ramble, which we eventually got to too.

The Marty Life Exegesis turned out to be a monologue about how New York City in general and Central Park in particular were the best places on the planet!!

"Look at this!" said Marty, gesturing at the lake and the big fountain opposite. "They call this the Central Park Riviera! It looks like the Riviera!"

"Have you ever been to the Riveiera?" I asked.

"No! Why would I when I have this?"


Marty made some stock market investments a few years back, which allowed him to retire from architecture.

"What do you do all day?" I asked.

"I learn!" said Marty.

All day long when he's not meeting potential hookups from the Internet Dating Site, Marty is learning! He's at the library at 9 A.M. every morning, checking out edifying books! He watches CSPAN! He knows more than I do, which means he got to lecture me a lot about stuff I actually know pretty well!

At the beginning of the hour, I misunderstood the rules and kept trying to turn the lectures into conversations.


Pretty soon, though, I learned my place and shut up.
Now, I have to say the Ramble is probably my least favorite part of Central Park. For one thing, it is a notorious gay cruising spot, and though I like gay bars, I actually don't like Greyhound bus station restrooms or other venues where the agenda – I don't care who you are; I just want you to suck my cock. They make me squeamish. Call me square!

For another thing, it is filled with wildlife that is really commonplace but that New Yorkers go absolutely apeshit over, like they just saw a snow leopard or a fucking giant panda. I mean, Marty – it's a raccoon, okay? It's not on the endangered species list.

Being dragged around by this guy and given a lecture on wildlife got really old really fast.
"You want to get something to eat?' he asked after about an hour or so of the Fabulous Central Park Tour.

I flashed him a big bright smile. "I wish I could! Unfortunately, I've got stuff to do at home. So should we talk about this? You're such a smart guy Marty, attractive too, but I'm not feeling the chemistry here. Are you?"

"No," he said, his mouth twisting.

"Well, okay then! That's probably why I'm not feeling it either. But I like you! We should hang out, be friends."

"Yeah," he said stiffly. "Sure. I go walking in Central Park every day. Can you imagine that there are people live in Manhattan who don't go walking in Central Park?"

"The mind boggles!" I said.

"You made that joke –" he said.

At some point, I'd gone off into a funny German accent – Greta the Dominitrix. It was the part of the Central Park Tour reserved for the Mel Brooks jokes. What can I say? I was still surfing on that Jeopardy audition high!

"Oh. Right. Gee, I hope I didn't offend you – I make an awful lot of politically incorrect jokes –"

"It's the opposite of what I am," he said, glaring at me.

Took me a couple of seconds to get this.
"Oh! I see! You're a Dom!"

Well, why didn't you write this in your online profile, fuckface? Tht way I wouldn't have had to waste an hour of my life that I'll never get back.

He leered at me, obviously enjoying my discomfort.

"Ss sure, we can be friends," he said. "You're very bossy though. You're going to need to tone that down."
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The Jeopardy people wanted Five Fun Factoids about me. Here's what I wrote:

1. I'm a cite in the Oxford English Dictionary. No, really! I am. Apparently, back in 1995, in an article I wrote for Entertainment Weekly, I was one of the first to use the term "fan fiction" in print.

2. In 2009, I ran away and joined the Culpepper and Merriweather Circus.

3. I'm writing a novel about the winter in 1932 that John Steinbeck lived next door to Joseph Campbell, and Joseph Campbell fell in love with John Steinbeck's wife. (Gotta pimp the current project. Who knows. Literary agents may be watching the show.)

4. In 1976, a security guard at the Temple of Karnak smuggled me into his Coptic village on the banks of the Nile in the trunk of his car. I spent a very blissful week there and was smuggled back out to Luxor again in the same fashion.

5. I've ridden my bike in just about every part of the UK, the Netherlands, Belgium, France and Italy.

I left out all the parts about my glamorous life as a model, the various celebrities I blew in elevators and utility closets, the really famous guy who took me to Marrakech, my brief stint as an exotic dancer at a club called The Condor in San Francisco and the Mafia guy who fell in love with me there, and sundry like that. Didn't think those fun factoids were a good match for the Jeopardy audience.

Met up with BB last night. We got rather consciousness-altered and it turned out the event BB wanted to attend was taking place next week instead of this week, so instead we speed walked through the East and West Village. Last time I was anywhere near this part of town was in the early 1990s when I used to stay with Alice, but of course my real memories date back to the late 60s and early 70s. Place is well nigh unrecognizable – Bleeker Street, in particular, has metamorphosed into a kind of mini-Times Square.

(I forget the name of the author who prophesied in the 1970s that the speed with which things in the modern era had begun to change was going to drive people insane, but I felt that a little last night. Suspect that the much written about generational ADD that afflicts practically everyone under 30 is actually a coping mechanism for the speed at which everything is changing.)

BB and I did the logorrhea thing where we babble-babble-babbled to the point of incoherency, dropping the point in mid-sentence and hoping the other person was too stoned to notice. This is fun up to a certain point, but then I passed that point and thought, This person likes me well enough, but I am more-or-less an amusement, and I am tired of being amusing.

We have a pretty solid friendship at this point, so the revelation didn't make me grumpy or bitchy.

I have Internet Dating Site interviews lined up for this afternoon, but honestly? I think I may bail. It just seems like a lot of work. Really, the best way to meet someone is to be seated next to him or her at a party. Cassandra is the only person I know who actually gives parties and come to think of it, Clark and I are discussing the possibility of my spending that July week when Nadia and Dee are away in Germany at the Home for Wayward Wimmen. Clark and I initially met when we were seated next to one another at one of Cassandra's parties.

Off to regurgitate the names of Venezuelan baseball players, and look perky enough so the game show producers decide to give me a chance to humiliate myself on national TV!
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Unmistakable lilt of spring when I left the house at an ungodly hour this morning to score cat food for the pusskers. I think spring is something you can only really appreciate if you live somewhere that has a real winter. Wasn't the temperature, which is still below freezing. Something in the slant of the sunlight.

Anyway, even though I am feeling Distinctly Unwell with killer sore throat that bloomed overnight and a residual creepiness left over from the weekend, my heart did a little skip jump.


Don't really have time to write about the weekend, but should at some point.

It was a mixed bag.

Hung out with Phyllis Friday afternoon and had a terrific time. Amazing that despite our very, very different backgrounds, we have such similar thought processes. We're both deductive thinkers – give us a little bit of information and we'll build a world from it. It may not be the world that actually exists, but it will be a logical world, entirely constructed from the premises we observed. Neither of us is big on regurgitating information from other sources.

It's not entirely a scientific technique. It assumes information we observe is valid – which is often not the case.

But it's proactive in a way that the thought processes of most people I encounter are not.

The upside to thinking like this is that I am very seldom bored. Just about everything interests me – from arcane metallurgical discussions to the Kardashians.

The downside is that very few people think the way I do, and thus I am always having to translate what goes on in my head into Other People-ese, the lingua franca of most of the people around me.

Hanging out with Phyllis was like breathing the atmosphere of my own planet – so refreshing. For five hours, I felt… visible.

Switched gears on Saturday to hang out with the Museum of Natural History guy. It wasn't awful – the physical part of it was pleasant enough, the equipment still works the way it should. But Peggy Lee started singing in my corpus callosum: Is that all there is?

He had consciousness altering substances and I partook. Was this a mistake? Clarke's consciousness altering substances were of the sativa variety. Very uplifting and giggle-making. Museum Guy's consciousness altering substances were of the indica variety. My body got very… heavy. I stumbled a little when I had to make my way to the bathroom to pee. He had a fireplace and we watched the fire. It was like yellow ribbons.

Eventually he started recounting his various misadventures on the online dating site – he's dated something like 50 women in three years. The longest "relationship" lasted six weeks.

He was married once too. After 12 years, his wife disappeared one day and resurfaced a few weeks later in Australia.

After sitting in a room with him for two hours, I only wished that I could disappear and resurface in Australia.

"Why do you think all your relationships have been so short?" I asked.

"They haven't been short," he said. "What makes you think they're short?"

"Well. I mean. Six weeks…"

"Women don't want a good guy," he said. "Women want bad boys."


"Women want bad boys," he repeated with some relish. "They don't know a good thing when it's looking them in the face."

"Well, I don't think women of my age want bad boys," I said.

"They do," he said. "You get hit on a lot by younger guys, right?"

"Yeah. So what?"

"You know why younger guys hit on older women online?"

"Uh… They're kinky and have a thing for crepe neck?"

"Because it's easy sex. They know they can hit on them and get laid, and they won't have to spend any money on them."

"How do you know that?" I asked.

He frowned. "I read it."

"Where did you read it."

He frowned. "I read things."

I sighed. "______. Trust me. Women my age don't want bad boys. Bad boys all have receding hairlines at 60 and really ugly tattoos. Plus they whine a lot."

"Women want bad boys," he repeated doggedly.

"And that's why they don't want you?"

"I'm a good guy."

"You are a good guy, _____," I said heartily. "But maybe it's not quite that binary. Maybe women want goodness plus other qualities too."

He glared at me. It was rather unpleasant being the poster child for all the mistreatment _____ had suffered at feminine hands throughout his life, and if I hadn't had my consciousness altered, if it hadn't been raining, and if it hadn't been such a helluva long way back to Lawn Guyland I would have left.

Practical creature that I am, I stayed. Oddly enough, the physical part was okay. I managed to summon the temple prostitude.


______ is a good guy, actually. But I do feel as though I just got back from a solitary stroll on Matthew Arnold's darkling plain. Will not see him again. His idea of dialogue is monologue; his idea of facts are opinions. I enjoyed talking with gemology with him, but my guided tour through the ______ museum was horribly depressing.

And is it really true that all of us Ladies of a Certain Age are like a line of ducks in a shabby midway booth, our fragile senses of self worth making us easy targets for predatory males of all ages?



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Every Day Above Ground

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