If you’ve been physically and mentally tired this week, you’re not alone. Trust that it’s not just because of daylights savings time. It’s because of the profound, subcutaneous change demanded by this Scorpio Season, when linear time has been collapsed into soul time, and regeneration has been the name of the game. All month we’ve been grounded here while Mercury, which enables forward motion, has been retrograde. We’ve experienced breakdowns, yes, but also breakthroughs, and our shifts have been seismic, even miraculous, as we’ve released old wounds, patterns, masks. But this has been a lot, especially after Tuesday’s full moon in stabilizing Taurus cleared out more flutter and clutter. So the rest of this November–holiday season be damned–defer to the sacred silence where each of us started. Don’t fight it. Don’t do anything. As much as possible, just….be. Only in this lush and pregnant hush can our cells reset themselves to their true form.
Yesterday was kind of brilliant. The boys and I taped an episode of Talking Pictures, and for the first time since the show migrated from Spectrum to PBS achieved the right balance of jocularity and specificity. Which is to say: I got my points across with some style and minimal manterruption, and we all laughed a lot.
Link to come shortly.
Afterward I had enough cash in my pocket to eat out properly, so I joined up with my friend Little Lisa. In generosity of spirit and strength of mind she is no way little, but as we share a first name and I grew up in an Italian-American neighborhood where people of the same name are distinguished by the prefix “Big” or “Little,” Little Lisa she is. To be fair, LL is 7 inches shorter than me and a good 16 years younger.
Big of heart, though, believe me.
Once upon a time we worked together at NY1–she was often the only other broad in the studio when I was on set–but these days she’s a fancy lady producer at a major network and I’m, well–that’s a good question. What am I right now? Continue Reading →
Once upon a time, the brilliant essayist Eve Babitz was also a painter. In the 1960s she was not only known for her magical groupie powers but for some of the key album covers of that decade–most notably a collage for 1967’s Buffalo Springfield Again. And although she had limited patience for movie stars (she did deign to fuck a young Harrison Ford, but then he was mostly a weed dealer and shoddy carpenter), she hobnobbed with some of America’s most-touted artists–among them Annie Leibovitz, Ed Ruscha, Andy Warhol, and Marcel Duchamp. (Only one of the aforementioned never saw her naked in person.)
But one day Evie put away her brushes for good. And the reason, at least according to every teller of the tale (including Eve, who is honest if not exactly truthful), can be traced to one seemingly offhand remark by Earl McGrath. A sort of Oliver Wilde-cum-Leonardo Da Vinci-cum Frank Abagnale Jr cad-about-town who quite possibly was her only true match and definitely her only worthy frenenemy*, McGrath gazed upon one of her paintings.
And after an exceptionally pregnant pause, said only: “Is that the blue you’re using?” Continue Reading →