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Diary Rings

Gift from Hil Part 2 - 2014-12-30
A Gift from Hil - 2014-12-28
There was A LOT of turkey. - 2014-12-04
Can we just jump to January please? - 2014-11-14
A (don't kick the) Bucket List - 2014-10-28

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3:47 p.m. - 2013-08-13
With Your Help...

First of all...Hotmail/Outlook/whatever? Kiss my butt. I see right through your bogus new 'security' procedures. I will NOT be euchred into signing into my mail via Facebook and the entire internet at large and be arm-wrestled into changing my addy to: The Sage.msn@NSA.profiling grid. profitable advertising"Yeah, we read your shit".com. Bite me. I've had that Hotmail account since the turn of the century and I like it just as it is. If I wanted to be target marketed through keywords in my correspondence I would have kept that wretched Gmail account. Honkers. Give me my email!

Look, it's not like I have silly expectations of absolute privacy here on the net. Every Google search and YouTube I watch immediately morphs into sidebar adverts. Cookies are a given. I simply think my email account should be just that...mine. I do not Tumblr, Reddit, tweet, Foursquare, or Instagram. I am about as old school as it gets without being completely off the grid. My FB friends list is comprised of actual friends. A combo of pixel pals and 3-D people I've known for at least a decade. My online presence is much the same as my physical one. Not entirely anonymous, but hopefully within my comfort zone. I am too startling to get away completely under the radar. In person or online. Just the other day when Mick and I went to a concert at the historical farm museum around the corner I got made by someone. In the break between the sets by a duo of Celtic balladeers and the main act a woman who'd been giving me the hairy eyeball came over and introduced herself. She knew me from somewhere. I was gracious but not entirely helpful. Frankly I didn't care where she knew me from. Owning/managing several local businesses? Writing? Modeling? Through my kids? My political activities? Hell, maybe she even reads this blog and knew my mug from the selfies I've posted. Upshot is I was there to hear some good tunes and enjoy a date with my Mick. I wasn't 'on' at the moment. I was LA- private citizen and not LA- teeniest tiniest most minor of local celebrities. Helping strangers identify where they know me from is NOT my job or obligation.

While nowhere near the celebrity-spotting oases of Hollywood or Manhattan this area is home or getaway venue for tons of famous folk. Writers, actors, musicians, chefs, journalists. Being a freak of nature and a longtime local it's my blessing/curse to be one of those "Wait! I know her!" faces. Compared to other neighbors like Pete Seeger, Armand Assante, Eve Ensler, Jimmy Fallon, or Bobby Flay I am a total nothing. As it should be. The only reason I stick out is my gantry height, my ridiculous bosom prow, an offbeat face, and that I have a big mouth- verbal and written. Why or from where that woman thought she knew me is moot. All I wanted at the mo' was to hear Mac Talla M'or. (Who were great, btw, but the pipes were damn shrill in such a close-up venue.)

So, LA, when you're not brawling with your email host or fighting off (heh) your many (one) fans whatcha got going?

A lot or nothing, depending on point of view. House. Kid. Husband. Stove. Reading. Always reading. Current fave: 'Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children'. Fantastic idea. Take a bunch of old-timey photographs and weave a story around them. I adore story prompts. First sentences. Photos. One of the best scenes in 'Out of Africa' is when Meryl Streep's character asks for a first line from her dinner guests and she takes it and spins a whole story from it. Making stories up wholly from scratch is hard. Too hard for me. But give me something. An object. A description of a scene. A first line. Some kind of jumping off point and I am a happy girlie. Nowhere close to the talent of Isak Dinesen, feh, not even in the same galaxy, but if given a decent bit of grist I can tell you a story.

Perhaps it's what real writers, far better storytellers than I am call 'inspiration'. The bit of grit that irritates an oyster into making a pearl.

Me? If I am any kind of oyster I am a lowly fresh-water one. Nothing extraordinary. A workaday mollusk in a creek bed in some backwater making lumpy blobs of nacre only fit for the most pedestrian settings.

However, if you've a mind to try, I will too.

Leave me a first line. Or a link to a photo. And I'll do my best to tell you a story. Think of it as a bit of spare change dropped in a street busker's hat.

Up for a challenge and looking forward to hearing from you, ~LA

7 Wanna talk about it!

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