The Hollywood Revue of 1929...

I'd had a hard day.

So it was absolutely necessary to check in with my girl, Krista, on Oahu, who midway through our conversation, had to put me on hold for another call--during which, I got my period.

It was time for some whiskey.

After checking in with the parents (yes, I am actually doing this), I mumbled something about having to do some errands and then (well, I did return something at Macy's) headed straight to the Red Barn in Palm Desert.

The Red Barn, as you can imagine, is a bit of a dive bar here in the desert. There are only a couple dive bars I have found, really, but this one seems to be the most varied. Apparently, they host live music on the weekends, which range from surf rock to jazz and blues and odd-spontaneous jukeboxed Maroon 5 sing-a-longs. I'm still in flux about calling it mine...

But for tonight, it would do.

I've been getting into the habit of dressing like a city beat reporter on the prowl--all pencil skirts and high heels, silk shirts, crisp leather belts, an ever-ready reporter's notebook and a sardonic smile... the riding crop attached to my hip helps, too--kidding, but it's in my eyes...

Anyway, I might've stirred up some cobwebs when I walked into the joint, which was packed with the usual diverse and unclassifiable riff-raff. Quickly and casually surveying the place, I copped a seat on the corner, between a quiet-looking dude in glasses and an empty stool. Two seconds after I got my whiskey and coke, some other dude in glasses planted himself next to me and stared. I looked at my drink.

It took about 10 minutes of him staring and me ignoring him before he broke the silence.

"All my friends here said I liked ya so I thought I'd better come say hi," he said, in a thick Scottish accent. "My name's Jerry. That's my girlfriend over there, we live together. You know what you remind me of? You know how in Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton movies you always know who the good guys are and who the bad guys are? Yeah, you look like one of the girls in a Buster Keaton movie."

And so it was.

The quiet dude on my left began talking to me after Jerry inadvertently broke a glass on his arm. It turned out that the quiet dude was a prominent artist in the area, and we got into a lengthy discussion about the balance of art and commerce--which, coincidentally, had been weighing on my mind quite heavily in the past few days.

"I imagine your journalistic writing is a lot like my commissioned art," he said. "And that you struggle to keep your voice in it, while applying your skill to the task at hand."

I sighed, and asked for my second whiskey and coke. Please, and thank you.

As Dave and I continued with artistic discussion, Jerry took it upon himself to attempt matchmaking--this time, instead of himself, he encouraged the poor bloke down the bar to tempt his fate with the likes of me. The new guy was about 20 years younger than Jerry and Dave, and probably pretty good-looking for a bartender from Ocean Beach, but way too awkward and uncertain of himself to hold my gaze, and consequently, my interest, for too long. Plus, that wasn't what I was there for. That night, anyway.

I could feel the tides turning and felt that it was time to make my hasty exit so I bid adieu to my new friends and left.

When I got home, the parents were reading in the living room and invited me to have a glass of wine. I was grateful for their literary distractions, as it gave me quiet time to reflect upon the evening, and the day's challenges.

Before I went into work that morning, I knew it would be a demanding day. I had at least six stories due before I would leave at 5 p.m., and a couple more I knew I could postpone until Monday, although that would make the start of my week as tough as the end of this one. Still, it was all about survival. And the fucked-up thing was, it wasn't Pulitzer Prize winning shit I'd be turning in.

Among which was the post-event, narrative piece on the "Walk of the Inns" tour I took the night before, where the historical boutique inns of downtown Palm Springs had an open house--which was actually very cool, architecturally, interior decoratedly and just a sweet nighttime block party. And then there was the piece previewing the book-signing of a Hollywood costume designer--actually the very cool wife of director John Landis, who among other things, designed Indiana Jones' sexy hat and archeo-garb for Raiders of the Lost Ark. And lastly, with about an hour deadline, I was to cover the Palm Springs Walk of Stars "Starfair" at the Convention Center, where old-time celebrities would be on hand to sign autographs on photo stills for movies you'd never be able to recognize them from anymore.

But actually, there were some greats... and even the lesser known stars I recognized as part of my burgeoning cultural awareness of film, television and stage culture.

I saw Lou Ferrigno from the Incredible Hulk. That giant guy with the creepy silver teeth in the James Bond films, Doc from the Love Boat... and there were really so many stars that I saw and knew from the screen but... it was a bit disconcerting to walk past as they sat there at their little booth donning photos and DVDs and books, watching me walk past and smiling blankly, I just couldn't seem to say anything at all to any of them.

And that included the celebrities I eventually interviewed. I saw and was excited to say hi to Della Reese, to tell her that I'd recently seen Harlem Nights (1989) again and was blown away by her sass and comedic bravado. It was genius! I loved her! But all I could get out was, "Hi. I work for the local daily newspaper, The Desert Sun..."

To which she said, "Well, I won't hold it against you--we all gotta work at something, I guess."

And then I moved on to Robert Culp. Robert Culp! I used to watch reruns of I, Spy (1965-68) and hi, Bob & Ted & Carol & Alice (1969)? Genius! But then what did I actually say to him?

"So how is this first day of Starfair going for you?"

"Well, it's always better with tomorrows," he said. "Today? Never mind."

Awesome.

I even got up the nerve to say what's up to Ms. Jane "rocket bra" Russell. Jane Russell! Although she was flanked on both sides by her assistants who clearly weren't going to let her speak unsupervised.

But still, who I really wanted to see, who I really wanted to give appreciation to was Olivia Hussey. She wasn't yet there, but was scheduled to be. And I can only hope that if she was there, that I would've finally pulled myself together enough to say to her, "Ms. Hussey, I just want you to know that... when I was much younger--and more beautiful, ironically--I felt so awkward. But one day, one of my mom's friends told me I looked 'like Olivia Hussey in Romeo and Juliet. (1968)' And I just thought you were so beautiful in that film, and so full of life, that if I even reminded someone of your immense fire, I might be special, too."

Thankfully, she wasn't there for that blargh.

But the point is, perhaps all that I perceived as hell initially... well, it wasn't, really...

[IT WAS THEN--BACK AT HOME, AS I WAS SILENTLY PONTIFICATING--THAT MY MOTHER ERUPTED WITH A MEDIUM-TO-LOUD-RANGE FART.]

From the kitchen, I could hear my mom and step-dad stifling a collective giggle.

I paused.

"Hey mom," I said. "How do you spell the sound of a fart?"

"What?" she asked.

My step-dad simulated the noise, then thought hard.

"With a 'B' followed by a bunch of 'R's,'" he said, with all seriousness. "And maybe a 'Ph' somewhere in there. Or maybe start with a 'Ph' followed by the 'R's' and a 'B.'"

"This is some serious intellectual conversation we're having here," said Mom.

"Hey, I've always wanted to know this," I said. "It's important stuff."