Micro-conversations from people passing by, stories overheard in public places and not-so-casual observations of the people in my world… I write ’em down. The dialogue is quickly scribbled down word-for-word with descriptions of the people, place and mood.  Originally, I started taking notes because I didn’t want to be an unreliable narrator when recounting stories I came across (or lived through). Later it took on a therapeutic nature and evolved into something for my own entertainment, because people say some pretty wacky stuff when they think you aren’t listening, or keeping track. Plus, Mark Twain said it best: “Humor is tragedy plus time.” A lot of my writing turned out to be historical and often hysterical record keeping, because of the company I kept. I was in the wings, the green room, theater seats or off to the side of the red carpet from the time I was in elementary school.  <br />

There’s a sign in my home that reads: I cannot make this crap up. It was a gift given to me, once upon a time, by a friend who’d heard me say the phrase almost daily because of the stories I’d tell about the people in my world. You see, I’ve been oddly blessed by having the most colorful characters put in front of me and their truth was so much better than anything I could have made up. After my friend met some of the folks I’d tell tale about, she realized ZERO PERCENT was fabricated.There’s never been a need to exaggerate. If anything, I’d polish ’em up and only show their good/funny side. That is, when I spoke of them. In my notebooks, journals and computer files there’s no buffing or sanding the rough edges. All I’ve ever done is collect the raw pieces of wood and set them aside, until ready to make something out of the various bits and pieces. <br />

I’m about ready. <br />

Some of the stories rattling in my laptop and on my bookshelves have be told, if for no other reason to explain the photographs I have from my years living with Joe and Betty Weider. For example: <br />

• 15 year old me standing next to Roman Polanski at Arnold Schwarzenegger’s 30th birthday party.  The photo is weirder than the benign story to accompany it, but I have to tell it before I die and people come to wrong conclusions.
• Stories about the household help that came and went over the years in the Hancock Park home where I lived. Including, but not limited to the couple from Hawaii who chased a young series regular from Happy Days and I around the pool with a kitchen knife at 9:45pm because we were giggling too much too close to their bedtime. Or, the guy from the UK who drank the wine cellar dry because nobody else ever went down there.
• Learning to make crudites and pop a champagne bottle (without it exploding) at the age of 14 because Regis Philbin and Dom DeLuise arrived before the host and hostess were finished dressing.
• Keeping some stories under wraps, because the characters involved held positions of wealth and power and could not have unsavory peccadilloes revealed because legions of people admired them and would be disappointed. <br />

Or can I?

At what point in time am I able to speak/write the truth? Who will listen? Who will care? If the #MeToo or #TimesUp movement are any indicators, I should be able to tell the truth about what I saw, what I heard and what happened to me. But, to what end? Will it change the course of history regarding the people I knew (and some I loved)? Maybe not. But then again, who cares?! Perhaps I tell the tales to continue the therapeutic trail I started on, back in the day. <br />

These are the thoughts that keep me pecking away at the keys and force me to continue scribbling on the blank pages of notebooks. <br />

If you have a thought, share it with me. Your input means a lot and could sway the pen(dulum) in the right direction of telling the unvarnished truth. <br />

xo – t.