She’s tucked in her lift chair, chilled and uneasy, waiting for the tea and dry toast to work their magic. With a raised eyebrow and sardonic grin she says, “It ain’t easy gettin’ old…” She’s tired, though she’s been in bed since breakfast; it’s a long day by 2:00 and not necessarily a good one. There are good ones, though, ones in which she plays cards with other tenants, joins the sing-alongs, exercises from a chair and gets to Mass, even if it is a video projected in the community room. She enjoys a good movie and relishes her three squares. She uses a walker consistently now but still listens to rock and roll and finds it astonishing that I’m the age I am (as do I!). She’s almost 81, a widow for over ten years and a diagnosed dementia patient for the last two. She is my mother.

I left home – and her – a long, long ago.  I left hard and fast and with blind conviction.  There was no quibbling, no waffling, no weepy boomeranging. After too much family and just enough college, I left the state of Illinois in my little blue Porsche (my first car, courtesy of rock n’ roll) and didn’t come back for over three years. And when I did, it was all short stints with long spaces in between. My exodus was decisive and exhilarating, and for the first time since conception I felt unencumbered by obligation to anyone or anything but myself.

My mother referred to this as “when Lorrie ran away.” For me it was Necessary Freedom.

I am the third child, the third girl, in a family of eleven children. My two older sisters and I, by virtue of gender and placement in the family, became Little Mommies, caring for smaller, younger siblings while we were still smaller, younger siblings ourselves and while the responsibility and high task demand did lend a certain skill set found useful later in life, being truly “in charge” of an infant brother when you are six years old is, perhaps, too steep a learning curve. Particularly when there were several more brothers and sisters to come who would also require hands-on involvement.  I learned how to change diapers, feed a baby, wrangle a toddler, do laundry, make meals, iron a business shirt, clean a house, and run interference for a mercurial, often erratic, always confounding mother…and that was before I got to high school.

By the time I did get to high school, I was bone-weary of family life and chomping at the bit so hard my teeth hurt. Graduation couldn’t come fast enough and after a short summer, my departure for college was so swift that old high school friends tell me I vanished before anyone could say good-bye. I came home between freshman and sophomore years but spent the summer working in Chicago, and by the end of my sophomore year, was gone for good. My first apartment was a $90 a month single with lousy furniture and a stuttering landlady and it may as well have been heaven.

It wasn’t just the weight of trading too much childhood for Little Mommy-hood.  It wasn’t the just the burden of bearing up under my parents’ religion and their restrictive views of interpersonal relationships (re. boys, sex, dating, sex, commitment, sex, etc., sex).  It wasn’t even that the one-on-one time allotted to each of us in such a large group was spare and seldom satisfying.  It was that I could not find an honest way to consistently and compassionately tolerate my mother.

She was a true paradox. One minute clever and creative, the next enraged and irrational.  She was impossible to predict and easy to trigger. The moments when she laughed and dragged boxes of construction paper and lace doilies out to make Valentine’s cards for the entire neighborhood were golden and so thrilling that every kid on our street would tell me how lucky I was to have the mother I did.   She loved passionately and could make any day a party.  She played music, did a mean jitterbug and had a wildly romantic relationship with the handsome man who was my father. All of those things provided the Good that pushed against…The Other.  The Other was her dark side; those terrifying moments of fury followed by weeping or cold silence.  Rages that shook the house and scattered us all like terrified animals.  As a child, I would literally tremble at the sound of her stomping down the stairs to mete out some punishment for failings I could never seem to avoid. She was physical and vocal and unrelenting and when the controls snapped and life got the best of her, we all suffered.  And life got the best of her too often.  She had a good heart, she tried, I believe she sincerely tried, but she was simply overwhelmed.

So I stayed away and kept her away…she and my father didn’t even meet my husband until a year or so after we were married (we eloped), I was that intractable. But life is a surprising thing and it changes you.  You grow older and live longer and you begin see how difficult it can be when expectations are not met or you feel the sharp, twisting pang of disappointment and heartache.  You look around and realize that not all dreams come true and the promise of what life has to offer is not necessarily within reach. Life humbles and sometimes softens you. And as you experience more, you begin to accrue compassion for the stories in life you might not have previously understood or empathized with and that alters and expands your view.  It wasn’t until I got married and had my own child that I began to see my mother outside the childhood box I’d kept her in for most of my life. When I attached to my own child I began to have some inkling of what she went through, many times over, in her own role as a mother. When my marriage met challenges or I felt distanced by a distracted husband, I began to realize that some of what she suffered was the result of her own husband’s penchant for distancing. Basically, I began to see the human behind The Mother.  And I began to have empathy.

She was a third child herself, a brother and sister preceding her. Her mother died shortly after she was born and her father abandoned all three to be raised by her mother’s extended family of grandmother, maiden aunts and Irish uncles who loved and took good care and kept kegs flowing in the dining room. She claims it was a happy life – and I’m sure some of it was – but when my father died many years later, she cried about having been abandoned by all the men in her life, wondering plaintively how a father could leave his three children without a look back. Because regardless of her revisionist view of her childhood, she suffered for all of it.  She suffered for growing up without the immediacy of a mother’s love and guidance, she suffered for the raging alcoholism in her family, for the lack of intimate role models and mentors, and all this left her ill-equipped to be the wife of a loving but internalized and sometimes preoccupied man and the mother of eleven individuals who were wildly independent and self-possessed. As an adult, a mother, a wife, a survivor, I could understand what her story had been. It made me ache for her.  It made my heart open.

Many people I know, most of them women, are caring for or have cared for their aging or dying parents.  It seems a Rite of Passage for women in mid-life. It’s a task like no other and requires a certain kind of heart and an enormous depth of soul. Heart and soul I had never felt for my mother and wasn’t sure I could conjure up now.  But ten years after my father died, my aging, rudderless mother was lost and in need.  Her short-term memory was diminishing more every day, she was often sick and in pain, incapable of caring for herself responsibly, and my siblings had run out of people and places to care for her in the ways she needed and with the income she had.  Last summer we celebrated her 80th birthday, wondering if she’d make it to the next.  I took that moment to assess: I looked at my life, my capacity for change. I looked to my dear brother who lives in the same city as I, I looked to my husband, my sister-in-law, my son, and I could see, clear as the day I left home, that I had to step up and take it on. To get my mother to a place she could once again call Home.  To participate. But a voice kept interrupting to say, “No! Not you! You don’t have to! You left her 35 years ago for damn good reason and it’s not your job. You have your own life!” Damn, that voice was loud.

But I could feel it.  It was my job.  It was my turn. It seems a louder voice had crept into the dialogue and was making some sense.  It assured me I knew what she needed and…I did. I found a place that would be a sanctuary for her and in the blink of an eye, it seemed I was in.  No turning back, no quibbling, no waffling, no lack of conviction.  I was bringing my mother to live in my town. And with my brilliant and indispensable brother, Tom, his family and my own, I was going to participate in the day-to-day care and feeding of the mother I so long ago had fled.

I am not a saint.  Seriously, I could not be further from it. Some days I suck at this job. I wake up and feel my teeth grinding again, resentful that I have to leave yet another unreturned message with her doctor or rifle through reams of paperwork to get some insurance issue worked out. I don’t want to drive over to her facility to have the same conversation over and over in a two hour period or play that infernal card game she loves so passionately (Kings In a Corner, if you’re interested!). I sometimes feel real anger when it seems I’m just expected to schedule my life around her myriad of doctor appointments or give up time with my family to get her over to Target for items she’s lost or broken. I shudder when I see the name of the facility on my caller ID, waiting to hear she’s been taken to the hospital or she’s confused because she doesn’t believe they gave her her meds.  My workout schedule has gone to hell, I’m stuck in freeway traffic more than I’ve been in years, and I can’t seem to find the rhythm of my own schedule. Sometimes I feel, once again, like a Little Mommy, only this time the child I’m caring for is my Mother.  The irony is inescapable.

But there’s another side to this. The growing awareness of some sprouting evolution. In her case, the dementia that is creeping more and more into her personality has done a curious thing: it seems to have stripped away her anger and narcissism. It seems to have pared her down to a purer essence of herself, a human being who can be grateful and appreciative.  Who can smile even when she’s nauseous and tell me it makes her happy just to see me across the room.  A woman who can be gentle and attentive to her new great grand-daughter and patiently (if reluctantly) teach a more challenged housemate how to play her card game. A woman who can genuinely thank a son for a dinner out or a daughter-in-law for doing her laundry every week; who can be delighted by a grandson who makes her laugh or another who brings in a crew of fellow students to interview her for a class. Who can listen and take note of the person in front of her. This is different woman, a different mother. And this different mother is allowing me to be a different daughter.

I often look at these photos of her because it’s important for me to remember, and to show evidence, that she was once young, as young and vibrant and concerned about her looks and appeal as any of the young girls we endlessly read and hear about. She had sexy legs, a smashing sense of style and dance steps that could knock ‘em off the floor. She was flirtatious and sought after, ultimately loved by a man who found her beautiful and exciting. She could laugh raucously and make others laugh as loud.  She adored her husband and loved her eleven children – she still does.  I look at these pictures of her and say to myself, “She was young once, just as you were.  And you’re going to become an old woman just as she is.”  We all are going to grow old. All of us who are lucky enough to endure.  Even that perfect three year old, that gorgeous teenager, that seemingly impervious young man. We’re going to grow old and need help some day, just as she does. It’s not an anomaly – it’s life. For all of us.

And so my mother and I continue our Mutual Reinvention Tour. I’m learning patience, she’s learning humility. She looked up at me recently and said, “I’m scared.” When I asked why, she said, “Because I’ve made so many mistakes, especially with you kids.” She further clarified that she was concerned that at the Gates of Heaven she would be harshly judged, but mostly she wanted me to know that she loved us all and was sorry for all those mistakes. I felt a tug.  I took her hand and said, “Mom, don’t worry, if you’re truly sorry, you’ve already been forgiven.”  And as I said that, I realized that, like St. Peter at the Gates and God in the Heavens, I, her third daughter, her runaway, her lost child, had forgiven her as well. And in that swirling eddy of emotions, sweet and simple love could be found.  Precious and timely as the Tour continues…

She’s brushing herself off, surveying the damage, looking over at the folks who slimed her and the folks who tossed her and somehow the dividing line between the two has blurred.  It’s been reported that Ms. Sherrod is a tad wary about leaping back into the den after being so roughly tumbled and all I can say is: can you blame her?

In a day and age when minutia is reported, communication is split-second, and the art and craft of media subterfuge is not only well-documented but relentless, one has to wonder how the NAACP and the USDA could have flown so quickly off the handle as to sacrifice one of their own in the name of political correctness.  We’ve got “birthers” who wouldn’t believe Obama was a citizen if he passed a “you’re an American” DNA test (would that one existed!), Tea Partiers who have the man lynched on rally posters, and bloggers who sound suspiciously like KKK terrorists, but dignified men who run the NAACP and USDA still wasted no time screaming “racist” and firing a woman of substance before even vetting the inciting material.

NAACP President Benjamin Jealous says he was “snookered” by Fox News and Tea Party activist Andrew Breitbart.  Really?  Mr. Jealous, when did you start making critical public relations decisions based on the perspective of a clearly biased TV network and the media manipulation of a hard-core partisan?  At what point in your vaunted career did you not learn to judge wisely, take the time to get all the information and not believe everything you read or hear?

And Mr. Vilsack, when did you start taking marching orders about the viability of your staff from bloggers with agendas and pundits who make no secret of their persuasion? Where is the integrity and honor in firing a respected colleague without thoroughly investigating the purported blunder?  That you’ve now “reconsidered” your hasty decision long after Ms. Sherrod pleaded with you to get all the information – which you didn’t – is grudgingly admirable but perhaps too little too late.

And now we’ve even got Ann Coulter claiming Tea Party perpetrator Andrew Breibart was himself “set up.”

Poor, bamboozled fellows, all of them.  So I have to ask:  what are you guys, 12?!

Why are grown men of either political party allowing all this hapless snookery to ensue when it’s so bloody easy these days to research anything, read anything, find anything; watch anything (like maybe a full video tape)? Maybe they could find a teenager to show them how to do all that.

Have they never learned the folly of too quickly responding to a half-read email, buying into a truncated “good” review of a bad movie (ellipses are our friend), or slamming the phone down on a confounding phrase before the clarifying addendum is uttered?  This is Human Relations 101, stuff our mothers and teachers and best friends taught us, and if it hadn’t meant the embarrassment and manhandling of a respected, intelligent and clearly insightful woman, it would be downright laughable. Come on, guys; WATCH THE WHOLE MOVIE BEFORE YOU START SCREAMING RACIST.

When I read the entirety of the text of Ms. Sherrod’s speech given many years ago in Georgia, the speech Mr. Breitbart printed out of context for the sole purpose of mislabeling her as a racist, I was moved by the openness she showed in illustrating her own evolution as a woman of color in a position of power.  Her willingness to expose her re-education and learned empathy for people she had previously misunderstood was commendable and the kind of thoughtful integrity we’d like to engender in our children.  It’s also the kind of candor that in today’s vicious, sucker-punching political climate leaves one vulnerable for slaughter.  Ms. Sherrod paid a steep price for speaking so authentically at an earlier time in her career when knives weren’t so quickly and foolishly drawn.  Who knew the farming business could be so cutthroat?

I don’t know that the USDA deserves to have Ms. Sherrod back.  They displayed zero loyalty or respect for her time and tenure under their roof.  But if she returns, I hope they will do all they can to assure her that they have learned a lesson; that everyone working under their purview will be given the respect of “innocent until proven guilty.” I’m delighted that Mr. Vilsack offered both an apology and a promotion; I understand Mr. Jealous followed suit on the apology.  Mr. Breitbart, you might consider writing an apology blog. Maybe even “out” the perpetrator of your stated snookering…frankly, I’d like to know who that was. Might be wise before the suit gets filed.

And next time, let’s everyone take a deep breath, get out the vetting teams, consider the source, and do just a little bit of due diligence before we throw our best and brightest under the bus.

I was supposed to be famous by now. At least as was indicated by a 5th grade classmate who turned to me in choir and said “You sing real good. You’re probably going to be famous someday.”  Her hedge with the “probably” went unnoticed in the destiny-rush of her larger pronouncement.  I was delighted.  At last. A Life Plan I could work with, as solid as they get, and one that informed my journey from that moment until just a few short years ago when I finally realized I was not gonna live forever or learn how to fly.  Neither did I feel it coming together and, clearly, to switch clichés, there was more than one mountain plenty high enough to keep me from gettin’ to all sorts of stuff (I’d already found the low-enough valley, thank you). I was stunned. What kind of Life Plan was this?  I mean, really; take a look at me in my choir-singing, fluffy-sleeved, stage-favorite, flouncy red dress and tell me if you don’t see a star there? Come on.

Fame is seductive and for most artists it’s part of the lure that pulls us through the gauntlet we experience in our quest for success. As I advanced in my own artist’s life, however, I also found a need to confirm that my intentions were as noble as my calling; concerned that – while Fame was essential to the goal – it must be coveted for all the right reasons: not ego, not attention, not money, not perqs.  It needed to have a higher purpose or it was simply too shallow a pursuit (I was a ponderer from way back).

So in the dark of night I examined my own intent and authentically came to this: Fame meant being able to continue. Continue with work you love, continue to create; continue to get jobs and enough attention that others continued to want to give you those jobs, gigs, shows, films, etc. Fame offered a pulpit, a place from which to espouse worthy ideas and artful craft; wisdom, reason, inspiration.  Frankly, especially pre-Internet/blog/Facebook/etc., without Fame there were typically not all that many people listening, watching, reading or being inspired by much of anything you could say or do. With it, the audience was exponentially larger. All good points.  Satisfied with my appropriate enough reasons to covet Fame and relieved to have integrity squarely situated in my Life Plan, I moved forward unburdened, ready to embrace my destiny.

It was all so enticing, so plausible and assuring.  So many opportunities along the way, real moments when the Lure of Fame seemed to brush right over me and say, “Almost…here it comes…hang in there.”  Soaps on the Road, a touring rock n’ roll extravaganza with big soap stars of the day:  I sang with Richard Dean Anderson, David Hasselhoff and Wings Hauser…just one breath away when you’re actually gigging with celebs, right? Richard was famous, David was famous, Wings was famous at the time. Me? Who the hell is that girl singing with Rick and David and Wings? I know, but they gave me the spotlight, I got to feel like a rock star singing in big venues with screaming fans and we did cause quite a ruckus in Arizona at some point.  All the stuff famous people do.  Proof I was gettin’ close.

My own bands got me closer.  Those chapters are chockful of worthy anecdotes and near misses and best saved for their own entries to come but, suffice it to say, I could smell Fame’s breath in those years many more times than one.

Then there was To Cross the Rubicon.  Look at this picture. Who do you see? That’s me on the right, eye-mooning with famed singer/songwriter, J.D. Souther, who was slumming with us indie filmmakers at a time when he was intent on an acting career.  He’d done a stint on “thirtysomething,” he was hot, and when the woman on the left, Patricia Royce, and I co-wrote this script and The Lensman Company, her film company with partner Barry Caillier, decided to produce it, J.D. was quite the “get.”  He was handsome.  He was famous.  He still is.  And he’s still making beautiful music: (http://www.jdsouther.net/). Yep, I know, closer still…in fact, when I got engaged to Pete Wilke (the The Lensman Company attorney at the time) while we were shooting the film, J.D. actually said to me one night, “Why would you want to get married right before you’re gonna get famous?”  I dunno. Still married. Not famous. Go figure.

Look at the fellow up there on the left.  At the time he was just a “little leather thing” (as we so amusingly stereotyped him in our script), an up and coming rocker/actor who Pat and Barry had cast in an earlier film of theirs, Daredreamer. Billy Burke. Think you know him? You do. He’s made a gazillion TV shows and films and he’s now Bella’s father in the Twilight series.  He’s got a new series coming out (“Rizzoli & Isles”), and his latest CD is going viral (http://www.billyburke.net/). He’s famous. Damn famous.  (The guy in front, Wade Madsen, so prominently featured on this one-sheet and yet I’m not sure he ever even wanted to be famous, was a talented Seattle dancer and a great guy.) Other people who had cameos in this little, teeny, tiny film? David Crosby, really famous, and Jeffrey Dean Morgan, gooey famous now after dying on Grey’s Anatomy and Weeds.  You know him, I promise.  What an amazing company of artists we employed…we couldn’t miss! Right?

Me and Patricia and Barry, we who wrote, performed in, directed, produced and worked this film for years? We’re not famous.  Should we be? I don’t know.  You’d kinda think.  And though you do know something of me at this point, consider this about Pat: beyond her role as the filmmaker – along with Barry – of several award-winning films (including To Cross the Rubicon), she is a talented fine-artist who has shown in well-established galleries in the Florida Keys and has an amazing collection, much of which can be perused at her site: (http://www.90milestocuba.com/).  She is also deeply involved as a director, director of photography, editor and general all-around producer of a fascinating and very popular web series called Capturing Carmine (www.capturingcarmine.net). She’s a powerhouse. And Barry Caillier, the Still Not Famous guy who directed our little film?  He flies around the world producing mega-industrial shows, is working on a script and is currently meeting with investors on a fascinating historical film, Shoot, Minnie, Shoot: (http://www.shootminnieshoot.com/).He’s also working as a development partner with Penny Perry and Gene Davis of Gabriel Pictures (http://www.gabrielentertainmentgroup.com/) on a slate of film projects, including one of mine called The Theory of Almost Everything (click “Gabriel Pictures” on the home page and scroll down to Films in Development). Suffice it to say, Fame or No Fame, these two are both extraordinary and you should know them if you don’t.

Which compels me, at this point in the story, to inject the intended take-away: remember that creaky adage, “the cream always rises to the top”? Well, that hard little pearl led many of us young artists to believe that IF you were good enough, IF you were talented enough, IF you were deserving enough, you couldn’t help but rise to those creamy heights and the inevitable Success, Stardom and Fame that would follow.  Conversely, IF for some reason you didn’t, well, then, somehow you just weren’t creamy enough. Now in our wizened and life-battered maturity, we know this to be one of those hateful little fairy tales like the ones that said blindness follows self-pleasure or inopportune crack-stepping cripples mothers or anybody can achieve anything if they just put their mind to it.  Sometimes that just ain’t true. My vision is fine, my Mom is still walking and I know too many unbelievably talented artists who put their minds to it all over the damn place and still ended up selling real estate or having to reinvent a career when they least expected to.  There’s a lot of randomness and whimsy in how all this plays out.  That’s important to remember. While many of the people who do rise to Fame are deserving (see above), many of the Truly Talented don’t get there for reasons that remain inexplicable: slipped through the cracks, missed opportunities, didn’t know the right people or get to the right places; fate, destiny, karma, I don’t know. What I do know is that Fame alone is not the arbiter or proof of talent, particularly when we are forced to accept cranky chefs, psychotic housewives, slutty bachelors and bachelorettes, shameless wife swappers and tone-deaf pop stars as our New Celebrities. With the dawn of digital technology and Reality TV and its many subsequent “stars,” Fame lost much of its panache, its value, and like plummeting currency, is no longer worth quite what it was when talent, accomplishment and great achievement were prerequisites.  But still…its Lure remains strong, doesn’t it?  And there are still so many who deserve just a bit more of it than they got:

Tina Romanus.  She’s mentioned in a previous entry. She’s that kind of memorable. She even inspired a few of the songs I’ve written. A tremendous friend, a talented actress and a brilliant singer who broke out in the ’60′s with The Bitter End Singers, the namesake band of that famous New York club, and was about to be launched into her solo career when the choice to move west interrupted the rise. In her hey-day, Tina appeared with countless stars of the day on that vaunted stage, sang for Lyndon Johnson at the White House, made records and traveled the world performing. Earl Wilson of the New York Post wrote about her as the Next Big Thing.  She shoulda been. She had the goods.  She remains one of those electric people with a wicked smart mind and wry sense of humor.  And though she doesn’t sing much anymore, she will if someone makes her and when she does, she can still bring a tear.

Gigi Bermingham:  I first saw Gigi in a brilliant production of The House of Blue Leaves, beautifully directed by Nancy Locke Capers at the Alliance Repertory Company in Burbank, CA. Gigi was playing Bunny and she blew my mind. Gut-clutching funny, clever as a whip, gorgeous, yet filled with so much character she could play almost any part.  And she did. Her tour de force came in her one-woman show, Non-Vital Organs, which was the single most brilliant piece of theater I may have ever seen. Not your typical one-woman-standing-on-stage-changing-costumes-and-accents-and-telling-a-story kind of one-woman show, this was a mind-bending full-on play with a spectrum of characters of varying ages, backgrounds, and, yes, accents; all of whom somehow miraculously related to one another as individuals, seamlessly and without special effects, in a piece that should have flown straight from equity-waver LA to Broadway.  Really.  That brilliant.  I believe it won an Ovation. It should have won a Tony. I became Gigi’s biggest fan (though I’m surely in a legion of many) and would follow her to whatever show she was doing that I could make.  If there is anyone who should be world-famous, this chick is it.  She appears often at The Anteaus Theater and if you can, go see her. In anything.  (http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0083654/).  

And Nancy Locke Capers, the talented director of The House of Blue Leaves? She’s an accomplished teacher, writer and actor in her own right, but several years back facilitated a major life change to become a successful family therapist in La Jolla. An all around supporter of her artist friends, she has posted on her site an interview she did with me about my just-finished novel, The Pros and Cons of Neighbors…she’s that kind of person: http://www.nancycapers.com/.

And not to short shrift the male gender, meet Steve Brackenbury, a studied musician and writer who hails originally from Utah where he taught music, wrote symphonies and discovered his true self, an epiphany which led him to California. He’s shy, humble and welcoming, one of those people you can’t help but fall in love with, and his support of friends, community and art in its many forms is enthusiastic and unlimited. He currently lives in sunny Fortuna, a quaint burg in gorgeous Humboldt County, where he’s become a poet laureate of sorts, writing pieces that so evocatively depict the people and places of that enigmatic region that publishers continually put his work into print. His way with words even inspired talented local artist, Susan Cooper, (http://susandillcooper.com/) to name a piece for him and his poem “Observation” was just published:  (http://www.northcoastjournal.com/arts/2010/07/15/observation/).  Steve is a lovely Not Famous man who works in a particular genre, poetry, in which it is profoundly difficult to wrangle Fame.  See that smile on his face? It’s always there anyway.

Louise Amandes is a relatively new filmmaker but a veteran artist.  Starting in architecture, continuing in music, moving into web design, completing a degree in motion graphics and recently immersing herself in filmmaking, Louise is a true Renaissance woman.  After exhibiting her first film short, Hula Zoo, on the web, her next film, Making Noise, a documentary short on “noise music” made with her filmmaking partner, Ron Austin, was invited to premiere at the Seattle True Independent Film Festival in June, where it was met with enthusiastic response from both audiences and fellow filmmakers. To view:  http://www.imdb.com/video/wab/vi2173371417/. She and Ron have just begun photography on their next film.  I’ve known Louise all her life…she’s my sister, one of my 10 siblings, and a person who shows such support and unconditional friendship to the people she cares about  (including me!), that she naturally engenders the kind of applause and encouragement reserved for artists who can truly look outside themselves, something she does as a matter of course.  A woman of many talents, she is also an extraordinary massage therapist (ask for her at The Hothouse Spa – http://hothousespa.com/ – you’ll get the best massage you’ve probably ever had and, yes, she did design the website!).  There aren’t too many people I know who have been as dedicated, indefatigable and authentically driven by their Creative Muse as Louise. Her work has played a part in the careers of many people (she designed my original website and the artwork for my CD cover) and she is relentless in her pursuit of a life filled with artistic expression. Famous, no; One of A Kind, definitely.

There are plenty of others to write about; my list of Not Famous People You Should Know could go on and on and it will.  I will return with other notable candidates in the near future, this is a good start.  If nothing else, I hope to inspire some curiosity in the brilliant, unlimited trove of talent and creativity that can be found just beyond the wall of Fame. If you dig not all that deep, in a bookstore, a small gallery, a local theater, the many obscure artists’ sites that are so ubiquitous on the web, I guarantee you will find gems that need only the light of appreciation to shine as brightly as some of what’s already illuminated. I’m not sure what makes people live forever, but it ain’t Fame.  More likely it’s the quiet legacy of Creation left by those who passionately create, however small their audience. These are just a few lifers.  Enjoy them.

[As for our "little film," To Cross the Rubicon, if you'd like to read a bit about it you can check out reviews, etc., on this page on my website, (http://www.lorrainedevonwilke.com/ldwfilms.html).  I believe you can still find it on Netflix...it's dated, sometimes clumsy, and not always compelling but it has heart, a few laughs, and songs by the Now Famous Billy Burke and the Not Famous me, including one of my personal favorites: I Surrender (by Lorraine Devon Wilke & David Resnik)...click for a listen!]

Knee-deep in the pursuit of rock and roll dreams, I faced the ’80s like so many other pavement-pounding, hair-sprayed, idealistic artists of the era: driven, sartorially questionable and usually broke.  Too many years on the road with various cover bands, covering not only the Top-40 of the day but most of the west, mid-west and southwest by car and van, had left me weary of musical circles headed for nowhere. It was clear the time had come to get serious about my destiny.  I was to be a rock n’ roll star.  I needed to get on with it.  That meant an original band and a job to support it.

I landed back in my Art Deco one-bedroom on the infamous Argyle Avenue, a wide boulevard that, in the 1980′s, had the dubious distinction of being the only gang-infested ‘hood in the otherwise very tony hills of Hollywood.  When I wasn’t dodging bullets or avoiding eye contact with various ethnically diverse gang members hell-bent on terrorizing us lily-white denizens living snugly (smugly?) at the foot of the Hollywood sign, I was writing my first songs, rehearsing with the first band that was literally being formed around my voice, my words and my name, and looking for that perfect job that would afford me rent and rehearsal space and still be time-flexible.  That could only mean one thing:  waitressing.

My guitarist’s girlfriend at the time, a gorgeous punk goddess from Scotland who worked at the Troubadour and wore torn fishnets and black eyeliner better than anyone I knew (and who would later mentor me in the fine art of “truly living rock & roll” – meaning I was in leather, belts (many), rhinestones and Spritz Forte from the minute I awoke to the weary moment I lay my head down to sleep…more on that in another entry!), presented a solution.  Besides the very hip Troubadour gig she wrangled for all it was worth, she also had a part-time shift at a local pub; one she wanted to phase herself out of…was I interested? Not really, no, but…OK, fine.

Molly Malone's today

Molly Malone’s, down on 6th and Fairfax, in one of the many hearts of Los Angeles; very casual, lunchtime menu, just cocktails at night.  Small enough room, easy enough uniform, loose enough management style (i.e., lots of staff and management drinking shenanigans) and on most nights, plenty enough cash to pocket.  As good as it gets. Nowadays Molly Malone’s is a bona fidedly hip music venue with an expansive stage area, an impressive dinner menu and a respectively spiffed-up decor; back then it was a smoky, scruffy, one-room pub where the hard-core drinkers came to suck down Jameson shots and Black n’ Tans and get into fist-fights that ended with sweaty man-hugs and often — to my mercenary delight — loose wads of cash knocked under sticky tables. It was a wild place filled with Irish immigrants, wannabe Irish (particularly on St. Patrick’s Day), off-duty (and occasionally on-duty) LAPD, and a contingent of rock n’ roll hipsters (a harbinger of the evolution to come).

Sidebar: one night as I bent over a table with beers and shots, one of those hipsters glanced up, looked me over and with a cocked head and squinted eye finally asked, “Has anyone ever told you you look just like Lorraine Devon?” No.  No one ever had.  I guess the tux shirt and serving tray were too great a disguise. Turns out they’d seen my band at The Lingerie or Sasch or Madame Wong’s or somewhere. Fans. “Thanks,” I gushed, delighted to be recognized. “I’m glad you liked the band.  Actually, if you’re interested, we’ll be playing again at — what?  Oh, yeah, sure, of course…one Harp, two Guiness, four Irish coffees, got it!”  Yep. It’s only rock n’ roll.

Anyway, back to my story…Somewhat anomalous to all this rowdy, irreverent carrying-on was the almost daily presence of the esteemed “in-house” artist, Neil Boyle. Tall, white-haired and bearded, Neil, with his dignified mien, quiet, observant manner and ubiquitous glass of mineral water, somehow both fit the venue and stood outside of it. Always seated next to Molly’s owner, the late Angela Hanlon, either at the bar or a table near the stage, sipping his non-alcoholic beverage (surely an oxymoron in an Irish bar…and I can say that; I’m a quarter Irish!) while tapping his foot to The Mulligans (Ken O’Malley, Terry McCartan & Denis Murray) or patiently listening to some random, nonsensical chatter from a usually tipsy table-mate, Neil exuded grace. He was the classiest guy in the joint. Always. And it was understood that he was to be accommodated.

Angela would often request, even on the busiest nights – and I the only waitress – that I get up on stage and sing “The Rose” because Neil liked it. Despite the clear loss of income for both me and the cash register whilst I warbled that melancholy favorite in lieu of slinging drinks, she wouldn’t stop requesting until it became a demand and before she snapped in a fit of pique, I’d get up on that thumbnail stage with whoever was playing that night and sing “Some say love, it is a river….” like the quarter-Irish heartbreaker I am.  It may as well have been “Danny Boy”…Angela would cry and Neil would listen quietly and smile as if he was genuinely moved by the serenade, which, odds are, he was. ‘The Rose” is a good song.

Bar Interior by Neil Boyle

But beyond a kind, music-loving demeanor, Neil’s most profound contribution to Molly Malone’s was his art.  His beautiful, evocative, incredibly special art. Over 70 of his oil paintings hang in that little bar to this day.  How unexpected to find that kind of exceptional work in a dark, hole-in-the-wall bar but Molly Malone’s was – and is – literally wallpapered with it.  For an artist whose pieces command phenomenal fees, who was always in demand for murals and commissioned work, and whose many pieces hang in galleries and museums around the country, the prestige of showcasing such valuable art was undeniable to Molly’s.  Some patrons came in simply to view Neil’s paintings.  It was a draw.  Literally.

The largest painting was of Angela Hanlon. It hung in clear view over the entrance and depicted her in all her youthful, lovely splendor. Other paintings were of bar scenes, street scenes. But most were of the people and faces that came and went through the swinging doors of that pub; the regulars, the Molly Malone’s coterie. And everyone who walked through those doors wanted to be one of the faces Neil painted, everyone.  Few were. And you had to be asked. There was no appealing to him, no requests, no hinting; no prancing around commenting on “how nice it would be to be up on these walls.”  No one got up there unless Neil wanted to paint them and put them up there and to be asked, to be chosen, was an honor like no other.

Almost three years in, near the end of my tenure there, on the morning of a soon-to-be riotously busy St. Paddy’s Day, Neil quietly approached and said, “I want to paint your picture.” Stunned, I blushed pink and stammered something about “how honored I am to be asked” or some other such blathering nonsense but the truth was, I was…honored to be asked.  I sat down at one of the booths, put my elbow up on the green and white checkered tablecloth, my white tux shirt and string tie neatly arranged, my big ’80′s hair properly fluffed and Neil took my picture.  I can’t remember how long it was before the subsequent painting appeared on the wall at Molly Malone’s but at some point it was there. Dead center on the main wall.  Lit with a pin spot.  And immediately a conversation piece.  Because while Neil painted most of the Molly Malone faces in palettes of brown and caramel and black and yellow, me, he painted in pink. Pretty in pink. And it was truly was one of the most beautiful paintings on that wall.  Not because of my face (necessarily!), but because Neil imbued it with a color and glow that made it stand out from the earth tones surrounding it and that alone made it unique.  Someone there suggested that it seemed to communicate his affection for me. Maybe so.  Maybe because I sang him “The Rose.”  Maybe because he liked my blonde hair.  Maybe because I kept him in mineral water.  Maybe it was just because he felt the wall needed some pink. Whatever the reason, it is a beautiful painting and, as far as I know, it still hangs prominently on the main wall of Molly Malone’s.

Neil died in February of 2006.  Not too long after that, my brother, Tom Amandes, was acting in a TV pilot being shot, coincidentally, at Molly’s.  At one point Tom called to tell me they had blocked one of his scenes and without realizing it, had placed him directly under the Neil Boyle painting of a woman in pink…yep, that one.  He sent me the snapshot taken by the prop person.  I can’t find that photo today but I do have a beautiful print of my painting.  My friend, Tina Romanus (who Neil also painted at some point later…though not in pink), had asked Neil make one for me and he did.  It’s hanging on my own wall.  Still pretty in pink.

For more information on Neil Boyle: www.neilboyle.com; Ken O’Malley (The Mulligans): www.kenomalley.com; Tom Amandes:  www.tomamandes.com. Visit Molly’s at  www.mollymalonesla.com.

Photo of Neil Boyle by Scott Burdick, www.scottburdick.com.

Mortarboards have been thrown, transcripts sent, dorm walls measured, orientation trips planned. All set. All good to go.  Congrats on the success, good luck on the next chapter and, wo-hoo, we just couldn’t be prouder. It’s time to let go and launch the child and all I know is…my very cool roommate is moving out and I’m going to miss him.

There are various Rites of Passage we go through in life:  Teething, Puberty, Anxious 30′s, Mid-Life (Crisis or Otherwise), Menopause (male & female), Damn 50′s, Really Old and, finally, Facing Death. They all have capital letters. And each comes with an unwritten guide that gets us through the shoals with instruction and reassurance that whatever we’re thinking/feeling/experiencing is simply part of the phase, hang on, we’re all going through it, nothing to be afraid of.

For example, no matter what’s going on with a child during the pre-mastication era, no matter what symptoms or behaviors, no worries, it’s “Just Teething.” Fevering madly? Teething. Screaming for dear life? Teething. Eating dirt with enthusiasm? Teething. And Puberty? Every whine-fest, meltdown, door-slam, anxiety-attack, hair-flinging stomp out of the kitchen is ascribed to the unavoidable transition from childhood to hormones.  God forbid a real crisis is in bloom, we’re convinced it’s “Just Puberty.”  A few decades later we follow with another version of the same…except with the added burden of being closer to Facing Death.  That would be Menopause with all its sweaty, mood-swinging confusion.  Of course, there are also the phases of Marriage and Parenthood. Not everyone will go through these but most will and most who experience Parenthood will ultimately face the classic Rite of Passage known as Empty Nest Syndrome, ENS. Let’s pull that one out of the pack.

It’s a worthy topic this time of year when yet another fresh batch of graduating 18 year olds and their beleaguered parents are faced with this unavoidable and monumental transition.  It might be instructional to break it down. Because here’s the truth:  like all other phases of life, all other Rites of Passage – whether teething, teening, or reluctantly senioring -  None Of It Is the Same for All Of Us.  No advice, no analysis, no remedy applies unanimously.  We’re All Going Through Our Own Version. Of Everything.  You may be gleefully booking your cruise for September or planning that first post-child remodel on the house, but I’m not.  I’m dealing with the fact that I had a very cool roommate for 18 years and now he’s moving out.  And I’m going to miss him.

This may seem like a weird analogy, perhaps an overly morbid one, but there’s something here akin to How We Deal With Death.  It’s no secret that everyone grieves differently and pretty much everyone struggles with how to talk to grieving folk.  When my father died I was struck by how off-putting I too often found the well-meaning person who’d ask how old he was (72) only to respond, “Well, at least he lived a nice long life.”  My thought:  not really.  72 seems a tad young to me.  And whatever, I don’t care if he was 97, he was still my father and he’s still dead and I’m still sad.  Or when they’d hear he died in his sleep and would say, “Well, at least he died peacefully,” and I’d want to holler, “So what?? He died and I’m really sad and that comment doesn’t make me feel any better!” I learned by subjective experience that the only safe thing to say to a person suffering a loss is: “I’m so sorry to hear about your loss.”  If you know the deceased, say something personal and authentic like: “Your Dad was a really great guy…I liked him a lot.” That sort of thing is always appreciated…too many people are afraid to actually talk about the person who died and the grieving party likes nothing better.  But the point is, don’t say anything that smacks of generic, patronizing Guidebook Speak; it doesn’t help.

What, you may be thinking, does any of this have to do with Empty Nest Syndrome?  A lot, actually. Because ENS is, quite simply, about loss.  And like Death and all these other Rites of Passage, it’s completely and utterly unique for each person and requires a certain wisdom in response.  May I suggest a few very subjective pointers?

1.  Don’t tell me “It’s his time to fly…you just have to let him go.”  I already know that. Don’t insult my intelligence or imply inordinate neediness on my part by making the point.  No one wants him to fly more than I do.  Nor is anyone more aware that it’s time to let go.  Just say, “Oh, honey, I understand…you’re going to miss him…it’ll get better.” That’s all that’s needed.

2.  Refrain from: “You’ll need to find some new things to focus on, to keep yourself busy and distracted after he leaves.”  No, I don’t.  I have plenty to do.  I was busy and distracted while he was here and I’ve still got all my projects, work, husband, friends, hobbies, household tasks, creative endeavors, etc. He was hardly ever around anyway so it’s not about filling time.  It’s just that I’m going to miss him.  Ask me how he’s doing in college and come with me to a movie.

3. Try to avoid: “You’ll be surprised how nice it’ll be when you don’t have to do his laundry or look at his messy room anymore.” That’ll be surprising?  I’ve been looking forward to that for years.  But frankly, regardless of dirty clothes or the bomb site that is his room, I’ve always loved knowing he was down the hall, ready to wake up and make me laugh, help me with my website or talk to me about his girlfriend.  If you know me, you’ll understand why I might be found napping on the well-made bed in his empty room every once in a while. Don’t call the shrink…it’s my own form of therapy.

4.  Don’t bother with: “But he’ll come home for breaks and summers, right?”  We all know that once the family system embraces the Initial Departure, it’s never quite the same as Before They Left.  We can’t pretend.  We’ve all got to adjust, you can just say it.

5. And PLEASE, do not send articles from Psychology Today that analyze ENS and suggest therapy or herbs or calming pharmaceuticals.  I’m not having a breakdown; my kid is just leaving home.

Parenthood is one of the few relationships that comes with planned obsolescence.  We go into it fully knowing we’ve got to leap now and let go later.  There’s no other such deal in life: we get married and the plan is till death do us part.  It doesn’t always work out but that’s the idea…we aren’t typically required to give it up at a preordained time.  Same with friends; we make a great friend and there is absolutely no reason to believe we can’t keep them through the dotage years. A loving pet is under our feet and in our beds until the very end.

But a child? We get them only for a while. We know that this one relationship, this special, amazing, unique and glorious relationship, is going to change and develop and transform every minute of every day and in about 18 years time, will naturally evolve away from us in a way that is inevitable and irreversible. It’s the Circle of Life, the Coming of Age, the Passing of the Mantle.  It’s perfect and painful at the same time.

But know this:  Most of us suffering from ENS need no advice.  No drugs, no therapy, no words of wisdom.  We know what is happening and we know it must happen. We’re proud of our children, proud of ourselves for our part in their success. We’re excited for the new adventures they’ll embrace and vicariously thrilled by their flight.  We’re ready to welcome them back for the moments they’ll briefly return but have no delusion about keeping them forever in their cozy childhood rooms. We’re the ones gently, lovingly, pushing them out the door to their inevitable independence. We’re good parents and we know what we’re supposed to do.

But still…I had a very cool roommate for 18 years and now he’s moving out. And I’m really going to miss him.

Yep, if I sat around with my staff yakking to a reporter from an international rock n’ roll editorial, snacking on the crudite platter and trash-talking my boss and various high ranking colleagues, I’d be out of a job, too.  Motive?  Hard to say. Maybe he was tired and ready to come home but couldn’t figure how to do it and wouldn’t consider shooting off a few toes.  So he put the whole foot in his mouth and headed for the door.

And for the first time since Obama was elected President we have a nation united.  People on both sides of the aisle applauding the quick, decisive move made by a man who is finding it hard to please any of the people any of the time.

Though I feel the pain of the McChrystal family, they have no one to blame but the General himself.  The rest of us should take a moment to revel in this rare moment of national solidarity.  It will surely be brief and we’ll need to remember the taste.

I’ve been thinking about this for a while.  Typically not reluctant to express myself, I’m one of those people who writes letters to the editor, sends opinion pieces to whoever sparks my opinion, tells people to shut up in movie theaters and generally feels passionate about the healing, exhilarating, often useful effect of communication.  My mother says I was born with my mouth open. That pretty much says it all.

I recently mentioned the birth of my blog to a somewhat cynical fellow I know professionally after which he commented with a sigh, “Does the world really need another blog?”  I didn’t remain fond of him. And no, of course, the answer is:  no. The world does not need another blog. The world does not need another meadow either because, as we know, there are corn fields and wheat fields enough to grow. But that does not stop us from presenting some often very lovely new meadows to the world regardless of inventory and so I proceed, need and cynicism notwithstanding.

Me and one of those delightfully redundant meadows; courtesy of Heather McLarty

Because here’s my thinking:  Not only do I have a fair amount to say (and I promise I will say it as intelligently and irreverently as I can muster), but I’ve been around a long time and have lived an eclectic, interesting life filled with many eclectic and interesting people, several of whom you’ve never heard of, all of whom you should. Incredible music has been made, clever stories imagined, profound experiences had — by me and these various people with whom I’ve traversed my life — and it seems to me that some of this damned life and experience and creation deserves to see the light of day.  I’m takin’ it on.

So that’s the plan. Stories will be told.  Some will be mine. Some will be others’. When opinion is provoked, I’ll make mine known (agreement not required).  I’ll explore art that’s touched me in its many forms and incarnations.  I will share chapters of my music and writing; include my photography in ways that either illustrate or simply decorate.  I’ll argue a point (a recent piece published at AOL News: http://www.aolnews.com/opinion/article/opinion-abby-sunderland-sailing-and-the-art-of-parenting/19515642), critique an absurdity, applaud a person worthy of applause. And here’s the bonus:  at least once a month, I’m going to feature a story on someone who I believe deserves some attention.  Not that my giving them attention is going to change their lives — if only I were that powerful! — but I’m determined to shine at least my little light on the artists, musicians, writers, photographers, teachers, philosophers, etc., that I’ve come upon whose talent, heart, and creativity compels all the light they can get.  I’ve got a chunky list of candidates but if I ever get low, I’ll put out a clarion call.

Before I go, about the name:  A few years ago a friend and colleague of mine, Suzanne Battaglia, and I envisioned an independent record label that would seek out and sign accomplished recordings artists of the BB demographic (40+); artists who had the spark and talent to warrant success but had missed or were never given the necessary breaks and opportunities.   Our big-picture business plan included a film production company and an arts/politics/lifestyle magazine (online and off), both of which would also seek to include artists beyond the youth generation.  We felt it was needed – though we love the “youths” (I’m sure I’ll be writing about some youths), we wanted to expand the pool a bit!  It was an exciting, refreshing idea and we were able to stoke significant enthusiasm and a solid commitment for financing in no time. Unfortunately, life crises arose for some involved and stalled funding followed and ultimately the idea was shelved.  But the name – a whimsical, arty, evocative moniker which struck me in a moment of inspiration – was trademarked and available and still so clever and so I decided to coopt it for this new venture which has echoes of the previous: Rock+Paper+Music.

Ouida Ball, one of the most civil personalities on earth.

Admission is free and on a “stop in when you can” basis.  I will write as often as I’m inspired and will welcome comment, insight, contribution and debate.  My only demand is civility.  I am beyond exhausted with the snarky and vitriolic discourse I too often see online.  We can be irreverent – I encourage it! – but let’s have dignified irreverence. “I desire a culture where people of different political and personal persuasions remain civil, decent & open-minded. I’m weary of polarized debate. Intelligent minds can disagree without rancor. Honorable people can accept a good idea from the other side.”   That’s my quote. I’m stickin’ to it. Welcome to my blog!