This is a blog about how my aunt killed my father. 

I just read a FB post from my best friend in the world, Gretchen Schaffer Van Valen, and can't stop giggling. I was raised in a Marine Corps family. My Dad served in three wars, before the US started doing it for profit (maybe.) One of the perks of veteranship - before the VA killed my Dad - was hanging out on military bases, which included free movies, sitting on folding chairs and you had to stand for the National Anthem. Apparently I was The Cinema Enabler! Gretchen says that her parents were like, "Her parents are military, that's cool," when we were watching all kinds of films inappropriate for kids (nothing horrible, "The Hindenberg" et. al.) Man, I hated the 70s at the time, but in retrospect it was sort of great.

That (mortifying) Time I Wasn't a Celebrity Nanny

When I returned from my complete fail trip of modelling in Paris,(M&D:"We are NOT doing this again." Fair cop ) for some reason, I decided that I could make a living as a nanny.  I don't remember things, so can't shed any light on this decision (IRL, I am terrified of children as they are amazing gauges of bullshit and I think I'm made of that, so.  I have taken many, many, many precautions to assure that I'm never in charge of another human being. Passable cat mom though!)  

So: call from the agency. "Looking after two young children, light housekeeping, Malibu."  OK! At this point, I must mention that I had formerly had a very posh and lovely boyfriend who grew up among entertainment royalty and was responsible for keeping me from retreating scared to PA. (Love you, MGB.)Their family virtually adopted me, which changed the course of my life.

Arrived to Malibu: there were a freakload of pix of Clark Gable around: which whose legacy, as a kiddie film historian, I was acutely aware.
AZC:  (thoughts)  Well, this is weird.  I guess they really like him? I am probably the most literal person on the planet, not  kidding.
JCG:  Hi! Are you here for the nanny job?
AZC:  Yep.  I could be really good at it (BLATANT LIE)
JCG:  (doubtful) You know, it involves a lot of heavy lifting, 
AZC: (weighing about 115 lbs)  Oh, I'm good at everything.
JCG:  Thanks! I'll be in touch.

 He seemed really weirded out.  "Oh, I'm just a girl, looking for a job," I thought, driving my Honda back down PCH.

Except. 
Except.
All those pix of Clark Gable.
Except: Malibu
Except: MGB went to school with...John Clark Gable.
"I just interviewed, for a nanny position, with my ex's elite schoolmate."  Today, that's a gossip entree, but I was MORTIFIED.
Don't know if I've told MGB to this day, sorry love  xoxo
 

I learned about being poor from 2 Broke Girls! But this is about the Mob Lawyer.

Hi pals!  I just relocated this blog, after enough co-workers urged me to stop wasting my anecdotes & write them. So, maybe this will amuse.  I forget most of them :(

Like most normal people, part of my twenties was spent hell-raising.  Unfortunately, it was the latter part (when one is supposed to forge a career and lasting relationships) rather than the early part.  Hand to god, I get asked on the phone all the time what my age is, and invariably get:  "You sound so young!"  "It's because I'm incredibly immature," is my reply. 

Back to the topic.  Having wasted my early twenties in being an incredible swot at university, anorexo/bulimia, undiagnosed depression and just generally being a jerk (sorry, M&D and also Matthew) I jumped foot-first into look-at-me debauchery.  Sex, not-too-much-drugs, and pop music were my jam. (after all, I'm a Marine Corps brat.  I always had a job.) I rarely took anything that I didn't know how long it would take to come down from (except that time with Stevie D, the tranquilizers, the poofy shirt,  and the 'Get Smart!' marathon - hi Stevie! and also the LSD thing with the Lou Reed-ish friend from the coffee spot in SF.  I'm sorry I forgot your name, pal [it was mostly speed, anyway.  Bummer.])

But, being a young and not-too-shabby-looking lady, I quickly made the rounds of the local pop contingent, who shall remain nameless.  One of them was the impossibly gorgeous frontman of a band whose name included animals and paranormal phenomena, and one of whose members is now married to rock royalty.  (Frontman is also a lovely gentleman, BTW. ) The point is, through him, I became pals with Joe Simon (Hi Joe!  Miss you!) who initiated the rock nights at Canters Deli, which are now an institution, but not so much back then.

As was my wont, I was vodka-ing my way through my evening's tips, and chatting up some unscrupulous character.  Whom I persuaded to accompany me to the trunk of my 1967 Sunbeam Alpine (Hi Sunbeam!  Miss you!) where I extracted slightly more of my tips.  Shortly thereafter, I climbed into the cockpit and sped home (to the apartment I shared with the heroin addict. Oh, I forgot about that, too.)  In any case, when I emptied my apron, no tips were to be found.  So, what would a sensible person do?  What would Plato do? (to quote the immortal John Cleese.) 

Incredibly irresponsibly,  I hopped back into the Sunbeam and headed for Canters.  A stoplight took too long for my liking, so I ran it.  And was promptly pulled over by an LAPD.  Unlike many of my cohort, I actually like police.  Probably because I'm white and (used to be) pretty, but also because I grew up in the military, so I have that mindset. 

Officer: Why did you run that light?
Me:  Unintelligible combination of sobs and "I was robbed!"
Officer:  "Where are your parents? You should go back to them."

Mind you, I was 29 at the time - I think?  So:  incredibly immature.  But, bless him, Officer Friendly
let me go.  Back to Canters.  Where I strode into the bar, and located the offending character.

Me: Turn out your pockets. (I know, right?)
OC: What?
Me:  You stole money from me.  Turn out your pockets.
OC was not forthcoming, to do this.  Fortunately, The Mob Lawyer stepped in, handed me a hundred bucks, and the situation went away. But The Mob Lawyer had a further place in my life.  This is all verifiable, BTW. More to come, AZC

Hi pals. Thanks for reading.

Hello friends!
My third attempt at Blogger (mostly because I can't locate the first and second ones,) and keeping it simple.  I have shared with (too many, sorry) pals about my financial situation recently owing to a) the money guy inherited from my Dad more or less dropping the ball and b) my general inattentiveness to things financial.  But that's OK!  Between this and my looming midlife crisis (everyone has one at age *30*, right)  it's knocked me on my arse to quit treading water.  So, any pals who are reading this, THANK YOU.

After (maybe) amusing a colleague today with an anecdote about an ex that began "a girl...is like a guitar..." I'll start with another one (seemingly endless due to my advanced age.)  After my Mom passed, Dad decided, for whatever reason, to sell everything and move in with his relatives in Shreveport, LA.  Fair cop: he'd been through 2 decades of sadness with my Mom's illness and, besides which, we didn't have a relationship where one discusses these things.  

Once he moved, (note - Shreveport, before Florida's recent ascendency to the black hole of stupid crap happening, was king.  In the early 2000's, if there was a news piece about bad judgment, it was frequently located in Shreveport.) Typically I'd  visit twice a year, and stay in a motel because a) I lose my mind being around people on my downtime and b)  the f**king TV was on 24/7 in that household.  Wake up, turn on the teevee, endure your day, turn it off.  Also c) his sister (not my aunt; I'm adopted) was a virulent control freak and was NOT happy having me around.

I've had a lot of interesting reactions to my person, from Southerners    (granted, this was over a decade ago.)  Dad and I were shopping at the military base PX - I was wearing Jantzen resort pants, my hair its normal pixie, and I had a big cheap men's watch from dog knows where.  While Dad was out of earshot, one of the locals (female) sidled up and said (better if I voiced it:)
Local:  "Excuse me..."
Me: "Uh, hi..."
Local: "Can I ask you something?"
Me: "OK..."
Local: "Are you a lesbian?"
Me:  "Not that I'm aware of."
Local: "It's just that you're wearing a man's watch."
Me: "Um, no, I have it so it doesn't fall off my wrist and I lose it."

Needless to say, I did NOT relate this exchange to my Pop.  He was already really, really bummed about my not having gone into the Marine Corps.  Still so
sorry you adopted a freak, Dad :((

This other incident was even more fun!  I used to love antiquing in the South.  Everything was super-cheap (then.) In my Dad's hometown of Crossett, AK, I was poking around in a shop and this happened:

Proprietor:  "Hi! You're not from around here!"
Me:  "Uh, no actually I live in Los Angeles.  I'm here with my Dad, he grew up here."
Proprietor: "He did, did he?"
Me:  "Yes, his Dad worked in the lumber mill.  His name is Thomas Cone."
Proprietor:  "Cone, huh?"
Me:  "Yes!  C-O-N-E, like icecream cone."
Proprietor:  Are them the ones who had the fancy reception at the country club?"

Note: the Cones are. Not. Fancy.  Remember the setup for 'The Jerk'?  Yeah, that. Really, EXACTLY that . Anyway, I'll leave the "Nightclub in the Swamp" til later, it was way to snotty.  Please critique if you can be bothered to read xo A