Sunday, November 09, 2008


I cannot stop saying it!!!!!

President Barack Obama! The first African-American President! The "yes we can" man!!

At some point before the elections someone said to me "there is a buzz about the ticket 'Obama-Biden' because it is alliterative with Osama bin Laden." Undoubtedly this buzz was created by Republicans. But it does share a similar sound.

I think that a "sounds like" is just another bonus to the Obama-Biden administration. It's like reclaiming those alliterative syllables to the side of what is good and right. Phoenetic Karma.

A black man in the White House is overdue history. But that does not take anything away from this momentuous occasion!


I just cannot stop saying it.

Toodle On!!!!

Sunday, September 28, 2008


Not the moron in the White House, but the glossy monthly magazine from Women's Wear Daily.

In the last three weeks I have been to the hospital three times (plus a fourth to fill out some forms and pick up prescriptions). I have had a blood transfusion and minor surgery. Over the next three months I will be preparing for surgery again.

I have been recovering very slowly. If I wasn't so grateful to be alive I would be writhing from the tedium of not having the energy to do anything but sleep, lie on the couch staring at the ceiling or the television. (How many times can one view Law & Order repeats without permanent damage?)

I plan to write more about my experiences with illness and hospitals and doctors, and vampirism, given that I now have the blood of other people in my veins, but I can never write about anything until I have fully processed the experience. And I am still experiencing illness, albeit from the end of the of it- recuperation and recovery, that is.

I have had some energy to read and I have been renewing my love for fashion magazines. I am a Vogue girl mostly, but I often lean toward the more "arty" or "European" feel of Harper's Bazaar. I also like American Elle. (And you can't tear me away from the lurid Cosmopolitan, although I won't consciously seek it out or buy a copy.)

W I like mostly because of it's large format. The content is very fashionable, regardless of the subject or subtext of the photo session. Even without seeing the contac sheets or having inside information, you know that given the same shoot, Vogue would have chosen "prettier" pics, Bazaar the more surreal. But I love looking through W. Every issue is a treat, even if I don't like the season's designs or fabrics. (Not the case with this issue I should add.)

"Love/Hate" (pages 230-251) is stunning. I would wear all of the clothes differently, but having them presented so dramatically really makes one wishful to the point of angst. And the archetypal story is fascinating. We femme's really have "come along way, baby!"

It used to be feminist activists would say that using the female form and sexy looking females was degrading to women. The thinking of the movement was that porn and sexually appealing advertising would disappear. Now we are understanding that women can make a lot of money exploiting men's "little" brain.

Now he is suffering for his weakness at the hands of these uber-coiffed, endowment earning, metal and beaded armour laden lovelies.

Modern woman is a fierce, independently wealthy, stylish, dragon lady. She will take man's eye out with those nails, claw him into submission while having a cool cocktail, and put her emasculating footdown while he tries to relax by the pool, or pull him in it while she floats in perfectly groomed style and metallic casing.

Her softer (blonde) side, will use him as a fantasy soapy fantasy, drain him of pleasure in the hothouse, until she is able to coax him (after her dark alter-ego confronts) into the labrythine gardens. There he is straddled, subdued, and and buried under or transformed into a trunk.

Only the pompoadour's height and dissarray speaks of this secret.

I love the silver leggings in this feature. A truly breathtaking dress is Oscar de la Renta's green sorceress gown on page 262. I will dream of this dress tonight.

The only other thing I have to say is: Sorry, Kristin McMenamy looks like a TS. But it made the photo of D&G dress on 299 work all the better (it's mislabeled on the W website). And page 303 latex naughties. (I'd put a sheer lace skirt or dress of any style over the briefs and bra, and do boots instead of mules. I'd wear those gloves from the Love/Hate shoot and antique earrings and a cameo or antique brooch on a ribbon around my neck. )


Saturday, September 06, 2008


I walked down Hollywood boulevard the other day, from Vine all the way past Highland.

I moved to Los Angeles when I was 19. But before that, when I was 13 I ran away from home and came out to Orange County. I often describe this portion of my life as "Breakfast with Travis Bickle."

One of the reasons I disliked the movie Pretty Woman so much was that it was almost verbatim the daydream I had when I ran away. I was going to be walking down Hollywood boulevard and Richard Gere was going to see me and fall in love with me and whisk me away to his castle in the sky, or Beverly Hills. (And my fantasy was Richard Gere exactly, because of his role in American Gigilo.)

But the reality is much more Robert deNiro in Taxi Driver. And Jodie Foster is well represented in reality, with Julie Roberts the fantasy that keeps her enchanted and trapped. (One thing I struggle with is releasing my inner Iris -Foster's character- and her influence over my life.)

But even the Jodie Foster's don't inhabit Hollywood boulevard. You can buy a street girl's wardrobe on HollyStarFucker Boulevard, but you won't find the street girl herself for another mile or so down Highland, at Santa Monica.

Hollywood Boulevard is comatose. Gentrification has created a strange dead zone from Vine to Las Palmas. The paraphenalia and the wig and stripper shoe and slutty lingerie boutiques are neglected and deserted. Half the sidewalks are covered in construction scaffolding. The greasy pizza places are disappearing.

So were all the squats in abandoned derelict buildings, and the ignored spaces that street people inhabit. Even the new condos and Frederick's new location weren't enough. I was nostalgic for the sleazy enterprises that used to feed off the tourists and the commuter gatherings waiting at the bus stops.

(So, perhaps the subway may have something to do with the change?)

Highland was hopping with tourists that had come all the way to California to sit at a Starbucks and shop at a Skecher's. I was torn between pride that finally Hollywood Boulevard was getting some attention and renovation, and the feeling that soon we would be living in a world so homogenized you would not be able to tell one city from the next.

I passed several ghosts, including a little girl from the mid-west 29 years ago. And, at the corner of Las Palmas, not too far from the Scientologists, I saw a greatly aged Travis Bickle, pausing to light a cigarette.

He nodded at me absently when we made eye contact, and then seeing me truly, stared surprised, that our paths should ever cross again.

I wanted to tell him that he was not a saviour, and that he did not rescue me. He was going to snap in the middle of someone's scenario, and that mine had just been the best for him. A scenario where he was a vigilante hero, instead of a psychopathic assasin.

I wanted him to know that I knew. That I was on to him.

But instead I stopped and said hi, and asked him to meet me at Denny's for breakfast one morning soon. We both knew that we would never see each other again, but it was the right way to end things, to pretend that we would.


Friday, August 29, 2008


Superman flies. He's macho. He plows through air. Spiderman swings; Batman swoops.

My friend Enigma has a great balcony for imagining supernatural Superheroine fantasies. The San Gabriel mountains beckoning in the horizon; the sunrise to your right, and the California coastline sunset to your left.

When it is dark, though, you look out over the endless sea of rooftops and the romance is the night. And a woman that doesn't fly, or swing, or swoop. She levitates, and floats, and walks on the air and dances with the breeze. She is as luminescent as light, and she glides over the city like a night bird, keeping watch over it's inhabitants.

She doesn't have to kerpow! or bam! because her charisma is so bright it incinerates the vampires and banishes the the bone rattling ghosts. And as for the demons, well, she knows them all by name, anyhow. And she knows that they only prey upon the willing. A pact with Hell must be mutual.

Like the spooky things that go bump, she waits until after twilight to ride out on the current of the night wind to survey and investigate.

I don't have a name for her (yet), my inner Superheroine, but she always finds her way to me when I am outside at night on Enigma's balcony.

Until next time, TOODLE ON!!!

EDIT: Sheer Brilliance (illuminates), and my evil alter-ego, Shear Brilliance (she cuts).

Sunday, July 27, 2008


This week was San Diego Comic Con. My next post will be on that adventure, but I have a few corrections/omissions from my previous posts.

Beauty did my hair and make up for the photo session that my profile photo comes from. I meant to mention that in my last post. Since the pictures feature me bare breasted (from the waist up; the cleavage I use as my profile photo was cropped by the photographer who took the pictures) I think her contribution went largely unnoticed.
("You had hair in that picture? A face?", etc... ;o).

Also, Beauty did not choose her own blog pseudonym. I chose it for her.

Enigma informed me that she had NOT said that "lesbians aren't into bald pussy." She said SOME lesbians aren't. Trimming is big, but not full on wax jobs. She herself has nothing against bald pussy. Personally I would think brazilians (waxes, that is) would be bigger among lesbians than straight girls, because, well, you know. I mean, really, you know! Giving a guy head you might get the occasional stray hair in your mouth, but going down on a chick that isn't waxed, you are going to get a few stuck in your teeth for sure.

Rolo is the friend I went with to the Rocky Horror 30th Anniversary at the Hollywood Bowl.

In addition to my much anticipated trip to Comic Con this week, I was busy puking my guts out and feeling like sixteen angry, vice-grip wielding gnomes were running amok in my abdomen torturing me. There is a stomach flu going around that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. I am a bit behind on everything right now. After I post on Comic Con I will continue my Back In LA series with "Dildoes and the DMV". You don't want to miss that post!!!


Thursday, July 17, 2008


Beauty and I are hanging out at Starbucks during her break. When I go to the restroom everyone stares at me. At first I think I must be looking extra fabulous, but when I look in the mirror I remember that the skin around my eyebrows is super red and unnaturally shiny. My eyebrows themselves are perfectly shaped, but much darker than usual.

At this moment I am truly an L.A. lady. Maybe not as a scary as the women you see in the grocery store, in unflattering flourescent lighting, that have just had botox injected, chemical peels, or too much plastic surgery. Blank, stepford wife expressions on their faces, skin stretched too smooth and made translucent. Women who can afford the treatments but not the time to recuperate in private. Or women that couldn't afford good treatments, and now have to live with the results.

I have really sensitive skin, and Beauty is the only person I trust to wax my eyebrows. As red as the skin gets, it will fade in a few hours. And my eyebrows look perfect. I've had aestheticians leave blisters and redness that didn't fade for days, and without happy results. My eyebrows are difficult to shape properly. Especially this time. I haven't seen Beauty for over a year, and I've been tweezing them myself.

"You took too much off the right one," she told me before handing me the mirror. "You need to lay off with the tweezers for awhile and you will have to fill it in with a pencil. I can't fix it."

This is a much bigger travesty to Beauty than it is to me. She is thorough and very careful. She abandoned the idea of doing body waxing because, as she put it, "who wants me down in their bikini area, plucking every stray hair and trying to get the shape exactly right?" Even Brazilians were out of the question for her. She is just too meticulous.

In the bathroom at Starbucks I ponder the effect of the dark tint and dramatic shape of my eyebrows. They transform my face. There is a "rule" that heavy eye make-up signals "look at me." Heavy lip make-up signals "listen to what I am saying." If you really look at advertisements you will see that rarely are eyes and lips both accented. If blush on the cheeks is the only obvious make-up the signal is "innocence" or "freshness."

Made-up eyebrows, though, are about expression. The expressiveness of the face is accented. Ironically, this fits the image I have of Beauty. She expresses herself visually in every way. Her home was always a stunning arrangement of colour and style. As painted and adorned as the high profile women that comprise most of her clientele. Beauty herself always dresses stylishly and with a lot of colour. And she does everything with panache.

Even as a child, she has told me, she constantly rearranged her room and re-painted it often. She was always playing dress up, and I know from experience that having her do my make-up before we go out is a guarantee that I will look like a superstar. She also paints on canvas, does numerous crafts and hobbies (most of her Christmas gifts are homemade: candles, gourmet food items, knitted hats and scarfs, dream pillows, etc.) and is a fantastic cook.

Beauty is one example of why people in this town fear another strike. During the writer's strike many of Beauty's clientele cut back on services like waxing. While her celebrity clientele continued to make regular appointments, her bread and butter, women who work in the industry "below the line", dropped off to the point that Beauty had to make drastic changes to her life.

Beauty has throughout the six years that I have known her, worked both in Los Angeles and up north in her hometown. Once a month she would drive up north and to take care of her clients there. During the writer's strike, after trying to find a job in a salon down here, she applied at a spa in her hometown and got the job. She sold her condo and moved back. Part of the decision was that she'd felt a pull to be with her family and friends again. She now commutes to L.A. once a month to attend to her clients here.

"I wish they would all move here," she tells me over coffee. "I love L.A., but I miss my family and friends so much. Especially when they keep moving away," she adds, giving me a dark look. "You are back for good aren't you? It's going to suck if I move here and you disappear again."

Beauty has fallen madly in love with a man she met here shortly before she moved. Now she is really torn. She wants to move back, but feels uncertain about doing it just "for love." Even if he is "the one"- and it seems likely that he is- she wants to be sure that any decision she makes will satisfy her whether the relationship succeeds or fails.

We talk about owning our decisions completely. If you take full responsibility for a decision, it can never come back to haunt you, even if it doesn't work out.

Her break is over and we say good-bye. I won't see her again for another month.

"I missed you," I say as we hug. "Thank you for making me beautiful again."

She laughs and gets in her car. I walk to the bus stop, startling passer-bys with my red clown eyebrows. By the time I get home the redness is gone. I raise my eyebrows as high as they will go and do my best Norma Desmond.

"Alright, Mr. Demille, I am ready for my close-up."


Tuesday, July 08, 2008


I make everyone that I write about choose their pseudonym.  My teamster friend has chosen "Rolo", pronounced "rah-low", not "roll-low."  Don't ask me why.  

I have been friends with Rolo for about 12 years now.  We used to be neighbours.  Rolo is a teamster in the film industry.  Teamsters are the first to arrive on set and the last to leave.  Other set workers usually have call times that are divisible by 12-- 5:42, 6:12, etc.  Teamsters usually have to arrive on the hour.  They get there on the hour and use the twelve minute increments before the other crew arrives to prep the trailers.  Or they need to be in the shuttle by 6 AM to pick up all the people from wherever parking is and get the crew to their stations by 6:12, etc.

A friend of mine who works at the studios in accounting tells me that he loves Teamsters because their paperwork is almost always meticulous.  That is because, once they have arrived on set and gotten everything moved, set up, etc, they have a lot of downtime during filming, and they can fill out their paperwork.

Being on set is funny in that there are always at least two groups of people: those that are working and those that are prepping or waiting.  While hair, makeup, grip & electric, etc, are working, the camera loader, actors, boom operator, etc, are not working- or they are prepping.  Every film set is a small community and has a life of it's own.  They are all the same, but they are all unique, depending on the cast and crew, what type of film, the budget, etc.

Rolo and I have developed a ritual over the years of meeting once or twice a month for "bitch & gripe & piss & moan" sessions.  B&G&P&M is really two separate monologues.  I usually go first (natch) and then Rolo.  We go to Starbucks and drink chai tea lattes, often going to different and new locations.  Since being home for a year and drinking "real" coffee, I have lost my taste for Starbucks.   But it is such a tradition for us that we decide to go the Starbucks that started it all, in our old neighbourhood of the North Hollywood (NoHo) Arts district.

Like everyone in the film industry, Rolo is concerned about the possibility of an actor's strike.  The issue is on-line sales and use of film and television productions on the internet.  This is the same reason the writer's went on strike a few months ago.  Right now the greedy studios and producers get all the royalties.  

Rolo feels like there is so much money in the film industry that there is no reason for unfair or unequal treatment.  Because the writer's strike pushed production back, he is still working on his television sitcom, but the season's wrap party is that night.  The wrap party was booked in advance, before the writer's strike.  

Rolo is also telling me about a new product that he encountered recently.  The Real Doll.
This is the ultimate in blow-up sex dolls.  Rolo reports that the doll has all three orifices and the skin and weight of the doll is life like.  The tongue does have motion.  

I ask if there is a male doll and he says yes.  It costs more, but it has all the parts as well, including the movable tongue and three different cocks: one flaccid, one partially hard, and one completely hard, and it does have the ability to "spurt." I think I've found the answer to my self-imposed celibacy and inability to successfully manoeuvre relationship issues.  

I ask Rolo if it was the doll used in the movie Lars and the Real Girl?  Rolo doesn't know.  Neither of us have seen the movie.  He says that the dolls are mostly popular among men that work alone in extremely isolated places.  And that usually the dolls substitute for a significant other back home.  I say "yeah, sure, significant other is right."  We laugh.

The NoHo Arts District has a lot of theatres and acting workshops.  In the past we have encountered Howard Stern, Juliette Lewis, Hal Linden from Barney Miller, and a slew of lesser known character actors.  We are near some big porn studios and strip clubs, and a dance studio that is popular with exotic dancers that actually dance.  

On this day we see a recognisable Lane Bryant plus size model, two girls that we determine must be either strippers or porn actors, and the actor that played the Mayor during Season Three of Buffy (he became a giant snake with three heads while giving a speech to the graduating class).  Like most actors, in person he looks too thin and has a lollipop head.  When people ask me what makes stars different from other people I tell them it is how big (physically) their heads are.  And because the women especially are so thin, we call them lollipops.

While the strippers are waiting in line we watch them--Rolo more closely than I-- and we make plans to visit Jumbo's Clown Room.  Jumbo's is a sleazy strip club in Hollywood on Hollywood boulevard east of Western.  The girl's often dress up in costumes.  I have never been there--although we did try to go one night when we were out partying but they had just closed the doors.

Eventually our monologues wane and we sit in silence, just people watching.  I realise that I have missed the uneventful rituals of afternoons like this more than I have missed the consistent sunshine or the easy wealth of the city and its' celebrity industry.

As we leave Rolo comments on the heat and the humidity.  I have the same reaction to Angelenos comments about weather as I do about mid-westerners complaints about traffic: I laugh.  The thermostat had reached 100 degrees that afternoon, but after the soggy mid-west-where there are days you feel like you are breathing hot water- I haven't even noticed.  

I inhale the smoggy, wildfire smoky, hot desert air and smile.  It's good to be back.


Sunday, June 29, 2008


I am at The Hair God's house, hanging out while he waits for his client.  I have known The Hair God for about nine years, since we worked on an ABC MOW (movie of the week) together back in 1999.  He is one of those people that from the moment we met, I knew we would be friends for life.

At the time he was seriously addicted to drugs, but within a year he would check into Betty Ford and become sober.  Over the years he has completely turned his life around- filing all of his back taxes, paying off debts both financial and emotional, and becoming one of the best hairdressers in the film industry, and in my opinion, the best colourist in the world.  When he isn't on a show he takes selective clients, mostly from the industry.

The client we are waiting for is his signature client, Makeup Xtraordinaire.  Her hair is her signature. They change the colours and patterns every time, and it is always different and always amazing. She is on his business cards and in some circles he is known not as The Hair God, but as "the guy who does Makeup Xtraordinaire's hair."  She is a make-up artist and on more than one occasion a celebrity client has tried to copy her hair colour and design.

While we wait we talk about sex (what else?) and in particular gay sex.  The Hair God is shocked to learn that I do not know what glory holes are.

"In the bath houses--" he begins.

"Well, see, how could I know, they won't even let women in to bath houses," I interrupt.

He raises a disapproving eyebrow at my interruption.

"In the bath houses," he begins again patiently, "there are holes in the walls at waist level.  You can walk by them and see if a cock you like is sticking out and get fucked.  Or if there is a nice hole on the other end you can fuck it."

The Hair God doesn't go to bath houses anymore, not since his sobriety.  But it seems likely that glory holes are still a popular attraction.  IMO, gay sex is just male sex without women involved.  Most men, gay or straight, like indiscriminate, unattached sex, or at the very at least, the idea of indiscriminate, unattached sex.

We turn our conversation to more socially acceptable topics as Makeup Xtraordinaire arrives.  It has been eleven weeks since she's had her hair done and her roots are showing.  This is the longest she has ever gone without getting colour.  (The Hair God was on a long show out of town.)

First her roots must be bleached in order to be ready to accept the new colours.  An emergency call must be made to the local beauty supply for cuticle sealer-- you can't shampoo hair for three days after you colour it.  You can use vinegar to close the cuticle, but a good sealer is better.  Thankfully the beauty supply delivers and they bring it right over.

Because they both work in the industry, the looming threat of an actor's strike is a hot topic of conversation.  There is a lot going on that isn't in the news.  For instance, during the writer's strike the studios cleaned house.  Many support staffers were fired or laid off-- custodial, secretarial, food service-- and many were close to retirement.  The Hair God believes the studios did this so that they wouldn't have to pay benefits.

In the film industry there are people that work "above the line" and everyone else works "below the line".  Above the line are the people in the head credits- the producers, actors, and some high level production jobs like Production Designer, etc.  Most of the people I know work below the line and many people feel that that the studios want another strike so that they can clean house some more.  Gotta keep the profits for the no-talent, uncreative, suck-ass producers, and the greedy, ego inflated celebrities.

The industry makes so much money that there really is no reason for all of this greed.  But so many people in Hollywood (the industry, not that actual city) feel that there entire self-worth is based on how much they have.  And if someone else has more, well, than they want more too.  There are a lot of really neurotic personalities in the upper echelon of the film industry, and a culture of extravagance and entitlement that is truly appalling.

During colour application food is ordered and the depressing talk about the strike is 86'ed.  Makeup Xtraordinaire hand feeds The Hair God as he applies the various shades and wraps each section of hair in foil.  I laugh at how easily they do this.

"What?" The Hair God asks me.

"I wish I had a picture of Makeup Xtraordinaire feeding you chips and guacamole without missing a beat."

All three of us laugh.

"We've been doing this for over 13 years now!"  Makeup Xtraordinaire responds.

The process takes almost 8 hours from start to finish.  But it is worth it.  The palette and patterns reminds me of an acid trip.  I dub it the LSD design.  The colours are true and bright and perfectly layered in six sections-- three top to bottom, and three horizontally- the left side, back, and right side.

I want to be part of the creative process so I sweep the floor and clean up while Makeup Xtraordinaire preps for photos.

We go outside to take pictures and really admire the colours.

"This is the best one yet," I proclaim.  

"Every time is the best time," Makeup Xtraordinaire agrees with me.  "It's always different, always a surprise.  We've never done the same thing twice."


Wednesday, June 25, 2008


My friend Enigma and I went to the beach on Monday.  We went in the morning, before the crowd arrived.  It was a hot day in most of Los Angeles.  The wind was really strong at the beach, which made it a very sandy experience, but nice and cool.  

We went to Leo Carillo, but we couldn't go in the caves because the tide was too strong.  We had planned to do a ritual to release some old karma and obstacles (mostly from old relationships, what else?).  One thing Enigma had wanted to do was burn an old love note.  We were going to cast a circle and all that.  But then it was so windy, and we couldn't go in the caves for cover.

Enigma started taking photos and I went to sit on some rocks and just let the pounding surf cleanse me.  I believe that if you sit on the beach long enough, everything will be taken out of you but yourself- the only thing that needs to remain.  The sound of the earth's heartbeat is like natural meditation.  You cannot hold onto anything unnecessary when you listen to the surf.

I found myself almost unconsciously collecting little stones that were within reach and creating small circles and patterns with them.  Witchcraft is not a religion at the beach, it is a conversation; a dialogue you have with sun, sand, wave, and wind.

"Is that for the witchcraft Circle?"  Enigma asked, as she sat down beside me and admired my handiwork.

"You know, we probably don't even need all the ritual," I answered.  "Let's just let all of these big heavy burdens be something so insignificant that we just throw them in the trashcan as we leave."

Enigma felt like her note still needed to be burned with ceremony.  We decided to go in search of an alcove or protected area after we had absorbed enough of the beauty before us.

We chit-chatted idly. I always learn stuff from Enigma.  For instance, lesbians always wipe their mouths after they eat pussy.

"Most guys love the dripping cum mouth."

"Really?" She asked me, incredulously.  "Why?"

"They love getting their load all over everything.  Like you are over filled with their manly juices.  They love shooting off on everything- breasts, ass, face, mouth."

"Will most guys kiss you after you go down on them?"

"Most, yeah."

Lesbians are also not into bald pussy.  Trimming is big, but not shaving or waxing.  Enigma does sleep with men occasionally.  But it is just sex, never anything emotional.  

"Breeder sex is kind of boring," she informs me.  "I have toys all over my house.  And sex between two women is never a 3 minute affair."  Later that day I will almost trip over a dildo in her apartment.  She's not kidding.

Flocks of pelicans were out hunting.  They would fly overhead and then dip down to just inches above the waves, flying low and slow, wings steady.  They looked like Star Wars spaceship cruisers.  They were unearthly, stunning, and perfect.

We couldn't stay for long, we both had other things to do that day.  When we got to the car I remembered Enigma's love note.

"It's just something to throw away," I said.  "We don't need the ritual.  There is no past or future at the beach, just now."

"Yeah," she agreed.  "I don't want to make a big deal about it anymore.  That relationship is over."

There is no bullshit in life that can't be released by a couple of hours watching the waves and wildlife of the beach.  

Enigma wadded up the note and dropped it in the trashcan without hesitation or ceremony.  As she did, another flock of pelicans flew overhead in perfect formation.  As one unit they descended on the waves and hovered, low and slow, wings outspread and steady, but otherwise motionless.  We paused to watch them until they flew out of sight.

"Wow," Enigma breathed.

"Yeah," I agreed.

We got in the car to drive home. And since we'd left all of our burdens and bullshit from the past at the beach, we were able to carry some of the magick of the morning back with us to the real world.


Sunday, June 22, 2008


I wonder if I can ever get all of the different parts of me to fit into one location.  I miss my hometown, but I like myself better in Los Angeles.  I like my life better here. I just needed to slow down I guess.  

My friend "The Lizard" took the photo below.  We had an informal memorial for someone we knew that died 20 years ago (6/08/88).  This included watching videos of said departed friend, worshipping in the church of mystical botany, lying in the grass in the backyard looking at the stars and planets, playing video games, and taking pictures of my breasts.

I also learned how to play the D chord and the first few bars of Led Zeppelin's THANK YOU.  

The Lizard usually has animal friends in the neighborhood.  In the past he's befriended a bluebird, pigeon, dove, crow, racoon, squirrel, possum, rat, and lizard.  At this house he's got a red squirrel that takes hazelnuts from his hand, and waits for him in the afternoon.  

It's been really hot, 110 degrees, but I still love being back.  


Friday, June 06, 2008


I went to see the eagerly awaited SEX & THE CITY movie last weekend. In my other life I am Candice Bushnell (the author of the real Sex and the City columns that the show was based on). Actually, I think I am half Candice Bushnell and half witch. Or something like that. Anyhow, I love her.

Before I tear this movie apart, let me say that I did enjoy watching it, if only to see the Girls again. And that hunky Smith. My friend that I went to see it with really liked it and disagreed with me that the script was awful. I think all the other women in the theatre probably felt like my friend.

It doesn't appear that Bushnell even went to the New York premiere. There are no photos of her attending, and you know she would have worn something fabulous. After seeing the movie I think I know why.

Michael Patrick King wrote the script, and it was Big's wedding in the movie, not Carrie's. She'd been with the man for ten years, she would have had an armed escort waiting to take him to the Library for the wedding.

No labels? Please. Carrie deserved nothing less than to walk down the aisle in that Vera Wang dress. And that crap with Miranda being responsible for Big's freak out? Pretty please with f**king sugar on top. Did Michael Patrick King get divorced recently or something? WTF was that? It wasn't even in character for Miranda or Carrie.

Here's my script: Carrie decides to give Big his wedding. She buys the label-less suit from the vintage shop. The date is set for sometime in the future. The struggles and joys the other cast members are going through take up much of her time, as she is not focusing on her wedding that much. She shrugs it off when the girls try to bring it up.

Carrie, not Big, gets cold feet. It just doesn't feel right to her. She backs out. She and her friends go to Mexico. She tries to live without Big, but it just isn't working out. The real clincher comes from an email photo of Louise's wedding dress. Carrie cries when she sees "Saint Louise" in her beautiful bridal gown.

The shoes left at the apartment worked well in the movie, and they would work in my story too. But when she sees Big back there they argue and Carrie let's fly that it just didn't feel right without the fairy tale wedding. She is as shocked at this revelation as he is. She didn't think she needed the big wedding if she had the Big man. But in every woman there is a Princess in a Vera Wang gown with a long train and fabulous pair of Manolo's.

Big slips the shoe on her foot, and then whirlwind wedding preparations-- montage of the decorating, dresses, etc-- intercut the library filling with each thing as it is chosen, including the guest list- intercutting people appearing in their seats.

Stop the montage for the wedding party, and end with the happily ever after.

Goddess, Hollywood needs me...


Friday, May 23, 2008


That's right. I have no problems anymore. For 42 years I have had problems. They never stopped coming. It didn't matter if I had that job (that not having was the problem before I got it) or the right guy (ditto last paranthesis) or more money or a better place to live.

Problems were like bunnies. One, and I was okay, but inevitably it would go into heat and another would show up. Then they would start breeding.

Often the same problems kept showing up. Or showing up in different disguises. Having a new problem was often a break in the tedium. New problems made me feel like I was having a "breakthrough." Just a little push more, and I would never have another problem again.

And I was right... kind of...

I do love the chronic, but that is not what happened either. I've tried the stay stoned/ drunk/emotionally numb/disconnected/stuffing my mouth (stuffing my pussy)/Prozac route before. (Usually only a couple at a time, not all at once.) None of those things get rid of problems. Usually the bunnies were really breeding faster, just more out of sight.

And then there is positive thinking. I do believe in the power of positive thought and the laws of attraction. Thinking "positively" about problems does not solve them or make them go away. It makes you more optimistic. It draws better energy to you. But you are still solving a problem.

I've been writing a lot of affirmations lately, and I like doing them. Formulating an affirmation puts me in touch with what I really want and what goals I am truly motivated to pursue. But I realised the other day that writing them is also a way of demonstrating that you do not feel you possess them. You are essentially working on a problem.

"Well, what then?" you ask. "Did you win the lottery, find the fountain of youth, and draw down Adonis as your personal love slave?"

Those are all worthy goals, but they would have brought new problems with them. (That Adonis is a really ladies man. The fountain of youth is unpredictable. And even the lottery doesn't gaurantee financial security- or financial serenity.)

I eliminated my problems by eliminating something that I thought I really needed: Judgement.

Why is something a problem? Especially a problem that has been encountered before? If loyalty and friendship were based on visits, problems would win hands down in my life. They show up and stick to me through thick and thin.

I have problems because I choose to make them so. Because I judge them as unworthy or unwanted in my life. Which means that I am attracting things that I do not want or situations that are unworthy of me. And fundamentally, that comes down to a lack of Love for myself. Because I judge myself.

I am now, and have always been, doing the best I can. I may not have met other people's standards, or the standards that I set for myself (usually based on judgements about other people, and the belief that they didn't have problems), but I have always done the best I can.

Everyone is doing the best they can. If we could do better we would. Maybe we are blocked by some emotional issue we can't get passed, or some situation that we have never learned to master in our lives, but we are all doing the best we can.

There is also the judgement of past "failures" and the belief that we will not be able to do better in the future. Or that we will do worse.

I am doing the best I can. My power is in the present- in this moment right now. In each moment thoughts, choices, and situations will come to me. In each moment I have the choice to release past failures, to affirm a positive outcome instead of creating a negative one through worry, and to have faith that I will guided as each new moment comes to me.

But you don't have enough still haven't lost all the weight... remember last time you did this? remember how that turned out?... He'll say no, he always says no... She won't come through for you... you will just screw it all up like you did before...

Yes, I've been homeless; been dumped; been ignored; failed publicly; humiliated myself and others; behaved badly; gotten into debt; asked too many favours; blown my chances; burned my bridges. Thanks for reminding me of all that. Now I see how it never helped before to try to solve my problems, or re-live them. Some things are going to happen no matter what. So, thanks, little problem creating brain. You've said what you came to say. Now you may shut up. Another part of my mind has something to say:

There is no money problem. Money is not a problem. Whether I have what I think I should have or not, it is not a problem... There is no problem with my body. My body is beautiful no matter what my weight is. And I know that it will only become more beautiful the more I love and care for it, so there is no problem...Perhaps I should learn from that last situation, but I know that I will guided to the best possible outcome. And even if things don't work out the way I want them to, it still won't be a problem. Just a new situation to work out using love and compassion for myself...

Because I don't have problems. Whether I am tin-can Sally on the Hobo express, or flying high in a private jet to Monaco, one thing that will not be in my luggage is problems. I am simply not having them anymore. Whatever it is, no matter how often it shows up, all I have to do is keep releasing and coming right back to this moment.

I still have my goals, but achieving them or not achieving them will not be a problem. A tornado or an earthquake will not be a problem. I began smoking tobacco again since I moved back here. This was a big PROBLEM for me. I don't have to have a problem to make better choices in my life. I no longer have a problem with them, whether I quit or whether I continue to smoke.

My health issue is getting better. I am glad. But it is no longer a problem, whether I fully heal or not. My "let's create a problem" mind loves to keep pointing these things out to me, but I keep telling it "thanks, but I don't have a problem anymore." I just have stuff I am dealing with. The best I can. Right now.

Far from making me lazy about fixing what I used to consider my problems, now I feel like they are easier to deal with. They don't hound me. I do not attach my faith or love or appreciation for myself and my life to the outcomes of situations in my life. I make choices and I live with them. But I do not live with problems anymore.

On that note: It appears I am going back to L.A. I had to make a choice about my situation economically. Initially I felt that I had to solve a "problem", but I realised that really I just needed to make a choice. Not an easy choice, and one where neither outcome was appealing. So I did the best I could. And that is the new situation I am in.

Looks like I will be leaving in mid-June. Staying centred in the present continues to bring up more possibilities than trying to work out all the details through worry and projection into the future. So it seems like things could change rather rapidly. But I have plenty of tasks ahead of me that serve me whether I stay here or go back, so I am focusing on those tasks.

None of them are problems.


Friday, April 25, 2008


I guess I should have called this "NOT FILING TAXES WHILE BLACK." But you get my drift.

Back in the early 1990's Wesley Snipes was pulled over by the Los Angeles Police Department for "driving while black." I don't recall the whole story (I actually read the entire ACLU report on the incident) and I tried Google-ing it, but there are too many stories about his recent trial and sentencing, and the academic papers on "driving while black" only mention it briefly.

If my memory serves me, he was driving with a friend, another black man, in a relatives car. He was pulled over because the car fit the description of a car used in a robbery. Even after the officers recognised him, they detained him because the car wasn't registered in his name! This was before cell phones, and they couldn't reach the vehicle's owner.

Snipes was held in a detention cell. Of course, he was asked to sign many autographs at the station!!! I think he got a verbal apology when it was all straightened out. Something along the lines of "don't let the door hit your ass on the way out."

That was within a year of the filming of BOILING POINT. I was lucky enough to meet Mr. Snipes on the set of the Hollywood Roosevelt hotel. (He is one beautiful man, btw. There are some actors and models that the camera loves so much they are a disappointment to meet in real life. There are others, and Snipes is one of them, that the camera does not do full justice.)

Now, there are plenty of people discussing the legal ramifications of his suit. I am not qualified to do so. I do know several people personally that do not file taxes for the reasons Snipes asserted in his trial. But I do not fully understand it, despite several friends patiently explaining it to me. (One even gave me a DVD! It is just too complicated!)

Anyhow, I want to discuss the fact that Mr. Snipes is a black man. And there are too many people still in power who are racist. Period. I used to know this guy, a black man, who told me that in the South "a black man with his head bowed is a nigger, and a black man with his head up is a threat." (Sorry to use the "n" word, which I would like to see disappear from all lexicons, but I am quoting.)

Some years back Snipes was going to purchase some land near the Nuwaubian's. As a white person, and a very pale, blonde (well, when Our Lady of Loreal wishes me to be) with blue eyes, I do wince a little bit reading that I am "the devil" in the Nation's literature. But really, I think given the history of slavery and oppression in this country, it is understandable. More understandable than white people who are racist against black people. And as for the rest of the Nation's beliefs, they are no more out there than Scientology.

And let's not forget that Scientologists actively attacked the U.S. Government, specifically the treasury, and have had many on-going wars with the I.R.S. Regardless of the "Church's" propaganda, they didn't add the cross or claim to be a "real" church until they needed tax-exempt status. Tom Cruise and John Travolta need not fear persecution for being part of white man's "cult."

Black or white, like so many cults, the sexual appetite of its leader was the hidden monster. (This is a whole other post-- on why the clergy of so many religions, the Catholic Church being the biggest, the Mormon Fundamentalist Church being the most recent, have leaders that molest children, or engage in other types of sexual exploitation.) Malachi York was convicted of child molestation, and the compound near the land Snipes was thinking of acquiring, was shut down.

But Snipes, even though he never professed (as far as I could tell from Google search hits) to be a follower of Nuwaubianism, immediately it was assumed in the media that he was. Guilty of trying to buy land while black, I suppose. Snipes eventually purchased land in Florida (where he was convicted). Too bad. Jeb Bush doesn't seem that far from a white sheet and burning cross. (Although the Bush family seems to be pretty tight with Arabs. But I think that has to do with wealth. The Uber-rich seem to be a race unto themselves, regardless of colour or nationality.) And, I'm sorry, maybe it is a stereotype, but it sure seems like half of Jebby's white constituents still use the "n-word", and not because they are singing along to rap music.

And brother Bubba up in the White House seems to be making it clear that no one is allowed to mess with his war money. Look at what happened to that pesky Eliot Spitzer, and he's a white man! Make no mistake, those little "economic stimulus" checks don't even cover an-about-to-be-foreclosed homeowner's monthly mortgage payment. But they sure have everyone out there filing their taxes! Bubba has led the bankruptcy of our country, and he is going to make damn sure the IRS knows the coming and goings of all his peasants-- er, citizens.

I hope Snipes wins his appeal. If he goes to jail then I think every single lender and CEO involved in the Bear-Stearns bail out goes to jail, too.**


**And let Spitzer off the hook, too.

Tuesday, April 08, 2008


My favourite television show of all time is Xena. (Yes, I do know that I am geek. ;o) In the show, Xena, a penitent former warlord, tries to clean up her old karma by using her skills as warrior to defend her former victims against her former colleagues. Xena wants to make amends and be a "good" person.

Xena was the only mortal who could fight with and negotiate with the Gods. Even after she gave up her evil ways, Ares, the God of war, was still in love with her. And a little afraid of her. The show was campy. The show was low budget, and the effects were unbearably bad. It's main audience was lesbians and 8-year old girls, and a few men with a crush on Gabrielle, her sidekick/lover. But Xena had a fierce heart. She was un-apologetically powerful, regardless of whether she was using her power for good or evil. There are few female role models like her.

I identify with Xena. A lot. Especially her quest for redemption. In my life I have seen and done many things that the "average" person has not, except perhaps in books or movies. Not all of those things were "good." In my quest I do not carry a sword, but rather a pen (or keyboard, I suppose). And I do not try to defend so much as translate. And to shine a light in the darkness that I know so well.

Xena spent her time roaming the earth, looking for people who needed defense against injustice. Protection that only a former predator could provide. I spend my time roaming my thoughts and feelings for their origin. I have had to develop a self-awareness that borders on self-obsession. I must always be looking for the pillaging warlords: the addictions, the unhealthy desires, the angers, the disappointments, the anxieties. My former colleagues. Those things that wreaked havoc on my world. And led me to do bad things.

Which brings me to the myth of the "good" person. What exactly is a "good" person? Is it someone who has never done anything "bad" or behaved badly? Because if that is the case, I am definitely not a "good" person. And Xena, well, she should have just gone home to Amphipolis and taken up bartending. (Although there is another post, trying to live in the "normal" world when one has been a Warrior Princess. )

Or is Xena a better person because of the fact that she was once "bad" and is now trying to make amends? And where is the line of "bad" when one can no longer turn back? Where one can not ever hope for redemption?

Xena had much clearer lines drawn for her than the rest of us do. A warlord pillaging and burning a village is a pretty clear villain. But what about those marauders inside of us? Many of the behaviours that I have had to squelch in myself are just more-extreme-than-the-average-person's, or less damaged person's, responses to the same situation. However, my motivation for avoiding certain behaviours is often because of the suffering I feel, not because of some noble or rational reasoning.

Which leads me to another line of questioning: Is someone "good" because they do things for the right reason? That they never behave badly? What is badly? Where is the line drawn in the sand of good and bad? How much do we take into account those things that we cannot know about the other person? Or those things that we know all to well?

The further I travel down the path of self-awareness, the more difficult I find it to condemn others. And I do believe that what is present in one of us is present in all of us. The truly enlightened will say that all of us have the potential to be Mother Theresa or Hitler. But there are limits.

I believe that all behaviours come from a desire to feel good, or to feel like a good person (which is essentially the same thing). If that is true for me, that must be true for the people that I think are truly evil. And if I were to have met "bad" Xena in the real world, I don't think I would have admired her at all. Even after she turned "good." And Xena is nowhere near a pedophile, or serial killer, or fascist dictator.

But just confining the question to everyday behaviour: how someone treats a waiter, as the old saying goes; or, how someone expresses their anger; or how well they perform their job. Is it someone who is always cheerful? Always happy? Always doing something for others? Always behaving in a way that everyone finds acceptable?

If the answer to any of those questions is "yes" than there are no good people.

In the show Xena's main nemesis was Callisto. During Xena's "bad" days she had killed Callisto's family. Callisto was not able to forgive Xena until after Callisto was dead, and by then Callisto had wreaked such a vengeance on Xena-- killing Xena's son, for one thing-- that not until the second to last season was Xena able to forgive Callisto. And only through extraordinary circumstances. Callisto had been rescued by Xena from Hell (Tartarus) and had become an Angel. And Callisto's soul was to be reborn as Xena's daughter. (I mentioned the show was campy, right?)

When it really gets down to it a "bad" person, or a "nasty" person or an "evil" person (pedophiles and killers and rapists aside) is really someone who does something bad to us. Personally. That person who treated us so badly-- that ex-spouse, former friend, angry neighbour-- might be considered "nice" or "good" by other people. And something I know all to well is that we might be considered the bad, evil, nasty person by some people, and the best friend to others.

I started writing this piece because it seems like lately the Universe has been on a quest to point out my bad side to me. Every time a friend or acquaintance relates to me a story about something someone has done to them that is "bad" it is something that I have done in the past. And the crappy things that other people have done to me lately, if I examine my own karma, I see where they have done nothing to me that I have not done to someone else.

We are all Xena, and we are all Callisto. We are all innocent villagers and we are all also pillaging marauders. At the end of the series the only redemption for Xena was that she willingly sacrifice her own life so that the souls of some of the people that she had wronged might go free.

Perhaps sacrificing the idea of the "good" person is the only way to set our own souls free.


Tuesday, March 18, 2008


I don't have permission to re-publish this. It is so important I am taking the risk of blogger wrath. If you think Eliot Spitzer's downfall is just something that "happened", think again. It happened because of the Bush regime and their committment to making sure that the rich get richer, and no pesky, do-gooder politicians mess up the scam.

And people, please. It is the 21st Century. Sex happens. Men pay for it. Often. Many of them. Men that you personally know. Deal with it.

And as for politicians getting in trouble for soliciting prostitutes, please read the last paragraph of this transcript.


Eliot’s Mess
Posted By Greg Palast On March 14, 2008 @ 6:45 am In Articles, Podcasts No Comments
The $200 billion bail-out for predator banks and Spitzer charges are intimately linked
By Greg PalastReporting for Air America Radio’s Clout
March 14th, 2008
[To hear it, click on the link below…]

While New York Governor Eliot Spitzer was paying an ‘escort’ $4,300 in a hotel room in Washington, just down the road, George Bush’s new Federal Reserve Board Chairman, Ben Bernanke, was secretly handing over $200 billion in a tryst with mortgage bank industry speculators.Both acts were wanton, wicked and lewd. But there’s a BIG difference. The Governor was using his own checkbook. Bush’s man Bernanke was using ours.

This week, Bernanke’s Fed, for the first time in its history, loaned a selected coterie of banks one-fifth of a trillion dollars to guarantee these banks’ mortgage-backed junk bonds. The deluge of public loot was an eye-popping windfall to the very banking predators who have brought two million families to the brink of foreclosure.

Up until Wednesday, there was one single, lonely politician who stood in the way of this creepy little assignation at the bankers’ bordello: Eliot Spitzer.

Who are they kidding? Spitzer’s lynching and the bankers’ enriching are intimately tied.
How? Follow the money.

The press has swallowed Wall Street’s line that millions of US families are about to lose their homes because they bought homes they couldn’t afford or took loans too big for their wallets. Ba-LON-ey. That’s blaming the victim.

Here’s what happened. Since the Bush regime came to power, a new species of loan became the norm, the ‘sub-prime’ mortgage and its variants including loans with teeny “introductory” interest rates. From out of nowhere, a company called ‘Countrywide’ became America’s top mortgage lender, accounting for one in five home loans, a large chunk of these ‘sub-prime.’

Here’s how it worked: The Grinning Family, with US average household income, gets a $200,000 mortgage at 4% for two years. Their $955 monthly payment is 25% of their income. No problem. Their banker promises them a new mortgage, again at the cheap rate, in two years. But in two years, the promise ain’t worth a can of spam and the Grinnings are told to scram - because their house is now worth less than the mortgage. Now, the mortgage hits 9% or $1,609 plus fees to recover the “discount” they had for two years. Suddenly, payments equal 42% to 50% of pre-tax income. The Grinnings move into their Toyota.

Now, what kind of American is ‘sub-prime.’ Guess. No peeking. Here’s a hint: 73% of HIGH INCOME Black and Hispanic borrowers were given sub-prime loans versus 17% of similar-income Whites. Dark-skinned borrowers aren’t stupid – they had no choice. They were ‘steered’ as it’s called in the mortgage sharking business.

‘Steering,’ sub-prime loans with usurious kickers, fake inducements to over-borrow, called ‘fraudulent conveyance’ or ‘predatory lending’ under US law, were almost completely forbidden in the olden days (Clinton Administration and earlier) by federal regulators and state laws as nothing more than fancy loan-sharking.

But when the Bush regime took over, Countrywide and its banking brethren were told to party hearty – it was OK now to steer’m, fake’m, charge’m and take’m.

But there was this annoying party-pooper. The Attorney General of New York, Eliot Spitzer, who sued these guys to a fare-thee-well. Or tried to.

Instead of regulating the banks that had run amok, Bush’s regulators went on the warpath against Spitzer and states attempting to stop predatory practices. Making an unprecedented use of the legal power of “federal pre-emption,” Bush-bots ordered the states to NOT enforce their consumer protection laws.

Indeed, the feds actually filed a lawsuit to block Spitzer’s investigation of ugly racial mortgage steering. Bush’s banking buddies were especially steamed that Spitzer hammered bank practices across the nation using New York State laws.

Spitzer not only took on Countrywide, he took on their predatory enablers in the investment banking community. Behind Countrywide was the Mother Shark, its funder and now owner, Bank of America. Others joined the sharkfest: Goldman Sachs, Merrill Lynch and Citigroup’s Citibank made mortgage usury their major profit centers. They did this through a bit of financial legerdemain called “securitization.”

What that means is that they took a bunch of junk mortgages, like the Grinning’s, loans about to go down the toilet and re-packaged them into “tranches” of bonds which were stamped “AAA” - top grade - by bond rating agencies. These gold-painted turds were sold as sparkling safe investments to US school district pension funds and town governments in Finland (really).

When the housing bubble burst and the paint flaked off, investors were left with the poop and the bankers were left with bonuses. Countrywide’s top man, Angelo Mozilo, will ‘earn’ a $77 million buy-out bonus this year on top of the $656 million - over half a billion dollars – he pulled in from 1998 through 2007.

But there were rumblings that the party would soon be over. Angry regulators, burned investors and the weight of millions of homes about to be boarded up were causing the sharks to sink. Countrywide’s stock was down 50%, and Citigroup was off 38%, not pleasing to the Gulf sheiks who now control its biggest share blocks.

Then, on Wednesday of this week, the unthinkable happened. Carlyle Capital went bankrupt. Who? That’s Carlyle as in Carlyle Group. James Baker, Senior Counsel. Notable partners, former and past: George Bush, the Bin Laden family and more dictators, potentates, pirates and presidents than you can count.

The Fed had to act. Bernanke opened the vault and dumped $200 billion on the poor little suffering bankers. They got the public treasure – and got to keep the Grinning’s house. There was no ‘quid’ of a foreclosure moratorium for the ‘pro quo’ of public bailout. Not one family was saved – but not one banker was left behind.

Every mortgage sharking operation shot up in value. Mozilo’s Countrywide stock rose 17% in one day. The Citi sheiks saw their company’s stock rise $10 billion in an afternoon.
And that very same day the bail-out was decided – what a coinkydink! – the man called, ‘The Sheriff of Wall Street’ was cuffed. Spitzer was silenced.

Do I believe the banks called Justice and said, “Take him down today!” Naw, that’s not how the system works. But the big players knew that unless Spitzer was taken out, he would create enough ruckus to spoil the party. Headlines in the financial press – one was “Wall Street Declares War on Spitzer” - made clear to Bush’s enforcers at Justice who their number one target should be. And it wasn’t Bin Laden.

It was the night of February 13 when Spitzer made the bone-headed choice to order take-out in his Washington Hotel room. He had just finished signing these words for the Washington Post about predatory loans:

“Not only did the Bush administration do nothing to protect consumers, it embarked on an aggressive and unprecedented campaign to prevent states from protecting their residents from the very problems to which the federal government was turning a blind eye.”

Bush, Spitzer said right in the headline, was the “Predator Lenders’ Partner in Crime.” The President, said Spitzer, was a fugitive from justice. And Spitzer was in Washington to launch a campaign to take on the Bush regime and the biggest financial powers on the planet.

Spitzer wrote, “When history tells the story of the subprime lending crisis and recounts its devastating effects on the lives of so many innocent homeowners the Bush administration will not be judged favorably.”

But now, the Administration can rest assured that this love story – of Bush and his bankers - will not be told by history at all – now that the Sheriff of Wall Street has fallen on his own gun.
A note on “Prosecutorial Indiscretion.”

Back in the day when I was an investigator of racketeers for government, the federal prosecutor I was assisting was deciding whether to launch a case based on his negotiations for airtime with 60 Minutes. I’m not allowed to tell you the prosecutor’s name, but I want to mention he was recently seen shouting, “Florida is Rudi country! Florida is Rudi country!”

Not all crimes lead to federal bust or even public exposure. It’s up to something called “prosecutorial discretion.”

Funny thing, this ‘discretion.’ For example, Senator David Vitter, Republican of Louisiana, paid Washington DC prostitutes to put him in diapers (ewww!), yet the Senator was not exposed by the US prosecutors busting the pimp-ring that pampered him.Naming and shaming and ruining Spitzer – rarely done in these cases - was made at the ‘discretion’ of Bush’s Justice Department.
Or maybe we should say, ‘indiscretion.’

************Greg Palast, former investigator of financial fraud, is the author of the New York Times bestsellers [1] Armed Madhouse and [2] The Best Democracy Money Can Buy.
Hear The Palast Report weekly on [3] Air America Radio’s Clout.
And next Wednesday March 19, join Palast and Clout host Richard Greene on a dinner cruise on the Potomac River. For more information click [4] here.
And this Sunday, at noon, on WABC-TV New York, catch Amy Goodman, Les Payne and Greg Palast on Like It Is with Gil Noble. Tag: [5] Podcasts[6] Podcasts
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