Dave Grohl and California Chrome: Haters Gonna Hate

           

    I’ve never actually quoted a Taylor Swift song before, and I may go to Hell for it – or at least whatever serves as Hell for active or former rock critics. Which in fact may be a place where you are forced to listen to Taylor Swift songs for all eternity.  But here goes.

             

                Haters gonna hate.  As a gold star member of the rock critic’s club, I realize that we are a snooty bunch. Particularly those of us who began our careers in punk rock and slid into the grunge era partly by virtue of just not dying.

Back in the day the biggest insult that could be thrown was to call a band “careerist.” Remember when Kurt Cobain called Eddie Vedder that? It bruised ole’ Eddie to the core.  (Of course that was when Kurt was still breathing and not an avatar in Guitar Hero. Yes, that spinning sound you hear is Kurt in his grave. He honestly was tormented by success.)

                Seriously, this was thing. I wrote a multitude of articles about bands that sold out their art in a variety of ways that ranged from participating in sponsored tours (History note: When Coors subsidized its first rock tour it was greeted with howls . The bands that participated were roasted and pilloried for being associated with something so crass.), to commercials.  People still deconstruct every advertisement that uses a Dylan song, wondering what Dylan means by it. I suspect it means he needs to pay alimony.

                Clearly we’ve come a long way. This may or may not be a positive thing. On the one hand, sponsorships and licensing to commercials can be a financial lifeline for bands who aren’t making much money since people rarely buy music anymore. It was certainly wince-inducing when the Sid Vicious’ version of “My Way” showed up in an Acura ad last summer.

                It was also stupid product placement. I seriously doubt anybody who loved the Sex Pistols was happy about their memories being co-opted to sell luxury cars or rushed out to buy one. But Sid would have loved it.

               One of the on-going conversations in rock criticdom, is about what constitutes cool. This has come up a lot recently regarding one of my favorite people and bands: Dave Grohl of the Foo Fighters. On the surface this would seem to be a non-argument.  I mean Dave was a member of Nirvana. Doesn’t that automatically make him a life member of cool? 

             

           Apparently not. After all he wasn’t the one who died young and left a beautiful corpse. (Though technically, neither did Kurt.) Dave the nice, agreeable, occasionally brilliant guy who believes -rightly so - that he should be able to earn a decent living from his music. Which is also nice, agreeable and occasionally brilliant.

          Grohl also seems completely tickled by his fame and often uses it for good rather than evil as opposed to, say, anything involving Ted Nugent. Grohl’s “Sound City” and the HBO series “Sonic Highways” are absolute love letters to the music and musicians he adores. Still he gets grief for it.

             

           No matter what you think of “Sonic Highways,” you have to admit he’s introduced a lot of people to artists and styles that they may never before have considered.  People, that’s a good thing.

           Sometimes, as with the latest Foo Fighters album, also titled “Sonic Highways” the music isn’t earth-shatteringly innovative which is a bummer . But it’s always listenable and infinitely preferable to almost everything on radio today. 

         

I’ve been hearing a lot of haters rant in another part of my life as well: horse racing.  People have just been stepping over themselves to rag on California Chrome. Chrome, as you might recall, is the California-bred horse that won the first two legs of the Triple Crown.

            Chrome has the misfortune of being co-owned by someone who is the poster boy for Hoof in Mouth Syndrome, Steve Coburn.  Coburn doesn’t know how to keep his trap shut. Additionally, he isn’t a good loser.  In fact, he is kind of an ass.

            That said, there are vast numbers of people who adore Chrome. For one thing, the horse oozes personality. Also, the owners and trainers have been beyond gracious to fans. They allow almost anyone who asks, to meet the horse and take pictures with him.  Believe me, that isn’t typical, and it has brightened many people’s lives. The connections have also donated Chrome items to auctions to benefit numerous horse charities. In short, the horse has made a lot of people really, really happy.

            Whether he should win Horse of the Year is not my call, and I can make the argument both for and against. But the amount of hate that is being thrown at him, and his devoted fanbase, who call themselves Chromies, is over-the-top and unnecessary. The bottom line is this: if the backlash was just in response to his owner’s asinine statements, it would have it would have blown over by now.

            It hasn’t. I believe that’s because, like the criticism about Dave Grohl and the Foos, Chrome is accessible. A lot of people prefer heroes, be they musical or equine, to be a little distant and remote. It gives them an aura, and makes them seem sacred.

            I for one, say screw that. Give me a nice horse that tries its damnedest, and a bandleader that does the same. That’s not to say that California Chrome is my favorite horse of all time. Nor are the Foos my regular choice for music. But I’m glad that they both exist.

            Now pardon me while I “Shake It Off.”

Bye, Bye Bird

My neighborhood, or at least my little piece of it, is in mourning. Bird died last Sunday afternoon.

Bird was a Guinea Hen. She showed up on my street literally the week after I moved into my half-rural half-suburban ‘hood.  That was three and a half years ago.

For those of you who don’t know much about Guinea Hens, they are large birds – much taller than chickens, but slightly smaller than my Brittany dog. They have lovely black and white polka dotted feathers and squawk with the velocity of a fire engine when they're upset.

            When Bird  first showed up, she was the talk of the neighborhood. That's how I met most of the neighbors. We would meet in the evening and propose theories about where she'd come from.

            Some people believed that she had escaped from a flock on a nearby street but those Guinea Fowl were just a myth. Others thought she’d been dumped when her owner noticed the feral chickens that also call our street home. That's possible.

      

            It didn't matter; the neighborhood took to her, and she to us.  Bird started hanging around the houses at the top of the hill, and one of the homeowners began feeding her. There was a brief debate about what Guinea Hens ate; the consensus was chicken food. Someone suggested buying the cheapest available brand, since she probably wouldn’t survive on her own for very long.

               

           They were wrong. Bird thrived. She was a wily creature. When a pair of coyotes moved in and decimated the local cat population Bird was clever enough to roost in tall trees where she’d be safe.

           I never saw her fly, exactly. For one thing, she was far too bottom heavy for serious aviation. In the mornings when she came down from the tree where she'd spent the night, it wasn’t exactly the smooth glide of say, a pelican over the ocean. She just sort of fell down fluttering her wings and screaming until she hit the ground with a feathery plop. She'd then shake herself off and waddle off toward breakfast.

                

           She stayed close to the house where she was fed, but would run from one side of the street to the other, checking for bugs and ticks, which to the everyone’s delight, she adored. I’ve not had a tick problem since we both arrived.

                

           Bird became quite tame. She never let any human touch her, but would often spend her mornings snuggling on one side of a fence while my neighbor’s fluffy dog slept curled up on the other, the two separated only by a piece of chicken wire. They were about the same size and it was adorable.

               

           She got to know me and my dogs as well, which makes sense since I’d see her three times a day. Neither of the Dane’s acknowledged her existence – to them a bird is a bird, no matter its size. 

           But the first time Poppy the Brittany saw Bird she was dumbfounded. Poppy knew Bird was a bird and she likes to chase birds. But Bird was almost as big as Poppy. Initially when we’d approach, Bird would scuttle away chuckling to herself and waving her bright blue wattles in irritation.

               

           Then it became a game. I’d say hello to her and she’d zoom out from where she'd been hiding. She’d never get close enough to be eaten or chased, but it was enough to confuse poor Poppy.

               

            I wouldn’t call Bird smart. She had a tendency to simply stop in the middle of the street and just stand there, like she had forgotten where she was going. Drivers became used to slowing down and steering carefully around her. There was no choice because sometimes as they passed her, she would let out a shriek and run as fast as she could to the other side of the road.

               

          About a week ago I was walking Dalai and saw a middle aged woman anxiously trying to shoo her into a neighbor’s yard. Bird just stood there and blinked at the woman, who looked perplexed. “Someone’s bird got loose!”  lady exclaimed. “Do you know who it belongs to? I saw it in the street and was worried!” I explained that Bird was wild but the neighborhood mascot. The lady looked stunned. She thought Bird was a peacock. When I corrected her, she seemed disappointed, but personally I think Bird was prettier than a peacock. Thus reassured, the lady got back into her car and drove away. I’m sure she had a great story to tell her friends that night.

               

           Last winter I worried a lot about Bird. It was cold and we had weeks of horrible winds. Every morning when I’d walk the dogs I was afraid I’d find her cold battered corpse. But there she’d be. A little disheveled perhaps, but still clucking.  Those polka dotted feathers weren’t just a fashion statement after all.

           The heat of the summer didn’t seem to bother her either. While the dogs and I would pant down the street, Bird would luxurate on a fence in the shade after drinking and bathing in a neighbor’s water feature.  

                

          About two months ago the city repaved our block and removed the speed bumps. When the bumps were there, people had no choice but to slow down and pay attention.

          But last week, right in front of the neighbor that fed her, a dolt yapping on a cellphone ran over Bird. The stupid girl driving never even slowed down, and certainly didn’t stop, though she had to have known she hit something. Bird didn’t have a chance.

                

         I still look for her every time I drive or walk down the street.  I think about buying a Guinea Hen or two and keeping them in a pen in the yard, but it wouldn’t be the same. Bird was a free spirit, and she moved in just when I did.  I know she was just a Bird, but I miss her terribly.

                

The Breeder's Cup: It's the Best Weekend of the Year

                Yahoo! It’s the best weekend of the year. Like Chanukah and my birthday rolled into one. The only way it could only get better is if I win the Pick Four on Saturday.  And I might. It’s Halloween AND the Breeder’s Cup this weekend.

                

               Halloween is obviously the best official holiday ever. It’s an entire celebration based on getting candy
and hanging out with your friends. No relatives, no fancy dinners. Just fun. The Breeder’s Cup is like that too.

               
              The Breeder’s Cup is like March Madness or the Super Bowl, but better, because it’s horse racing. 13 races. Two days. With the best horses in the world competing for more than $25 million in purse money. Whee!

               
              There were 201 horses pre-entered for this year’s races. There are Milers (minus reigning Horse of the Year Wise Dan, who was recently injured, damn it), there are Sprinters including my personal favorite Big Macher, Turf horses  like Big John B, Fillies and Mares including Stormy Lucy and even tough mares running against the boys, like Reneesgotzip.

               
              These are the races that make gamblers of every stripe tear their hair out.  Professional handicappers start working the numbers weeks in advance and change their picks every time the horses work, breeze or even sneeze. The last is important: Champion Beholder is out of the competition this year after spiking a high fever.  And that changes everything for her race, the Distaff Classic.

               
              Those of us who are amateur two dollar bettors fare even worse. On a normal racing day, you can easily discard a lot of the horses in a race. That doesn’t mean you’ll win of course, but you have to start somewhere.  Not so simple at the Breeder’s Cup. All of these horses had to qualify or pay huge sums of money to enter. They are all really, really good.  Picking the winners of these races is, well, a gamble.

               
              Last week the horses that are competing began to ship in to Santa Anita, the site of this year’s event. They come from tracks around the country and the world.  And every morning it’s free to go to the track and watch them work.

               
              The serious gamblers come out to see how the horses are training and maybe get a tip from someone.  Here’s one: jockeys, jockeys’ agents and trainers always say their horses are going ‘just great’ unless it has just fallen down. And then it’s just regarded as a ‘momentary blip.’

              
               Me? I come for the spectacle. I admit it isn’t easy getting up when it’s dark and cold. The track opens for work at 4:45 am.  My own horses are still fast asleep when I feed them at that hour. (Though they manage to snap to attention pretty quickly when the food arrives…) But it’s worth forcing myself out of bed at an ungodly hour just to see the sun come up over Santa Anita and the mountains in the background.

               
              Even on a non-Breeder’s Cup week, morning works are amazing. The racetrack is filled with horses, both quiet ones and wild ones. Either way, the riders never seem to budge in the saddle or even seem perturbed.  Most of the time riders sitting on the horses that are rearing and leaping around are laughing and grinning. This is fun for them. Personally, I’d be in the dirt. Crying more than likely.  Exercise riders have balls and nerves of steel.

              There are hundreds of horses on the track at a  time, jogging, walking and working. It takes my breath away no matter how many times I see it.

               
              In the week before the Breeder’s Cup, the crowd watching the morning works swells. In addition to the regulars that hang at Clocker’s Corner buying coffee and doughnuts from Rosie, there are hundreds of visitors.

              They include the professional photographers: Barbara Livingston is usually weighed down with three cameras all with enormous telephoto lenses, the Blood-Horse’s Anne Eberhardt is there shooting away, and so are hordes of freelancers.  If you don’t recognize a famous horse as it goes by, the clicks of the automatic shutters are a dead giveaway. The photographers know all of the horses.

               
              That’s not necessarily the case for the rest of us.  Face it, when there are 100 horses on the track, a lot of the bay horses with a blaze look alike. Except for American Pharaoh.  Poor baby; somebody ate his tail when he was a foal and it’s never grown back.  (Even worse this morning he was scratched  from the Juveniles due to a lameness issue. With any luck he’ll be well enough for next year’s Derby trail.)

              The people at the BC have made it easy.  The week of the event, competing horses work in the morning with special saddle cloths that have their name and their race color coded on them. There’s also a handy sheet, provided by Santa Anita identifying the horses, which makes it slightly easier to spot them as the fly by on the track in the morning.

               
               The contingent of European shippers always stands out. Usually they wear matching half blankets and they walk on and off the track precisely in a line.  More often than not, their tails are banged, or cut evenly. It’s a European thing. Gambling hint: in the turf races, don’t bet against the European horses – it’s their specialty and they didn’t travel 5000 miles to lose.

               
              I don’t have any deep preferences for this year’s races.  While I am a big fan of the aforementioned Big Macher, I like both Shared Belief and California Chrome in the big race, the Breeder’s Cup Classic.  But since Zenyatta retired, I haven’t given my heart to any horse that isn’t mine.

                Which makes the two days pure fun for me. I bring just enough money that I can lose  without crying, I meet up with good friends from out of town, and best of all – I get to watch amazing racehorses do their thing in a beautiful setting.

              Then I can come home and eat leftover Halloween candy. I can’t think of a better way to spend a holiday.

Lessons I've Learned from "Peanuts"

      I have always been a huge fan of the  Peanut’s comic strip. But while everyone in the world seems to be enthralled by Snoopy, my favorite character is Lucy. She is referred to as crabby, but that is just code: Lucy is a bitch. And she embraces her “crabbiness.” I can relate.

             
              As early as I can remember, I too was a ‘crabby’ kid. I’ve grown into a crabby adult. Which doesn’t mean that  I don’t know that I am lucky – really lucky - I do. I have a fantastic  urban family, pretty cool actual relatives and I don’t live in Sierra Leone or Syria.

             
             But still I complain. All the time.  Poor, poor me.  Cue the violins. My property taxes are due. (Which means I own a home.) I can’t afford to upgrade my Iphone. (I  have a phone.) My vet bills are exorbitant. (But the dog and the cat got better.) My car needs work. (I have a car.) On and on I go. Sometimes I even disgust myself.

            
           For a little while there was something going around the internet called five days of gratitude.  If you were tagged, for five days you were supposed to list three things you were grateful for.  Unlike the Ice Bucket Challenge for ALS, it didn’t catch on. It just wasn’t as entertaining as watching people you know freeze their tushies off.

            
          Obviously, I’m not a Pollyanna, and I don’t want to be the kind of smarmy person that always goes around saying ‘count your blessings.’ I hate that person and want to smack them in the nose. Hard.

             
         However, I think those of us who are lucky enough to get hysterical about Ebola even though the likelihood of catching it is nearly nill, need to get a grip.  Get a flu shot instead—52,000 Americans die of that. And stop watching CNN.  And Fox “News.” Never, ever, watch Fox.

            
          I personally had a wake up call last week. I was having a bad day – I can’t even remember what I thought was so important, but it seemed critical at the time. Maybe Trader Joe’s was out of Smores or something. It doesn’t matter.

             
         Then I got a phone call. Actually, I missed a call from one of my sisters-from-another-mother. She’s going through a particularly bad time right now.  Naturally I panicked, since I come from a crazy family that always assumes the worst. So I immediately called her back just slightly hysterically.

            
         This time my overreaction was on sadly on target. Her sister – who is a sustaining member of my urban family –  had a biopsy come back badly. Now, we all had known about the possibility, but my friend and I – and her sister – are of the school of thought that,  a) there’s no point in worrying until you have to and,  b) the biopsy couldn’t possibly come positive. But it had.  We were broadsided.

             
         When stuff like this happens to people you love, there are a couple of options for how you react.  You can wail and carry on about how the bad stuff only happens to you. Or you can dig in and support your friends.

        I lied. That’s the only answer. You take a deep breath, cry if that’s your way, and carry on. You can allow yourself a limited – very limited – time to feel sorry for yourself.  Then you say, “what can I do to help,” and then listen to the answer. Most of the time all you can do is listen. And that’s important.

          You also keep on doing whatever it is you’re doing, and help your friends do the same. Curling into a fetal ball doesn’t really help anyone. Because it isn’t about you.  That’s really important to remember.

             
           None of the little annoyances are about you either. It’s just freaking life.

             
         Sometimes things seem to go all your way. It’s sure easy to look at other people and think they lead charmed lives. But nobody’s life is perfect. Some people just fake it better than others.

            
          Everybody makes concessions. That stay-at-home wife with the big house the sports car and the diamonds: Could you put up with her husband? Or the guy with the trophy wife, the dream job and the yacht? He never has time or energy to enjoy the boat and his wife is as dumb as a rock. Etc.

           
          Being aware that you’re lucky doesn’t mean that you can’t want more. That’s just human nature. You just can’t freaking bitch about it all the time. Me included.

        Which doesn’t mean I’m giving up complaining for Halloween. I’m just going to try to temper my inner Lucy with a little Linus.

             

       

Emmy Awards and Golden Retrievers: Yup, I'm at UCLA

I started school last week and have already learned a bunch. For one thing, UCLA is a whole different universe from Skidmore, where I got my undergraduate degree.   And not just because Skidmore is in upstate New York, and UCLA is in Southern California. For one thing, UCLA is a lot bigger. When I started school last week I was pretty proud of myself for finding  the parking lot near my classrooms with ease. Of course, because this is Los Angeles and they knew we’d be driving, the school sent directions to the lot, which was extremely well marked.

               

Which is a good thing, because Lot 3 is split into permit spots and pay-per-spots. To get a permit you have to show up at the parking department in person between the hours of 9am and 5pm. Assuming, for a moment that one did have the time for that, you then have to wait in line for another hour before forking over a small fortune for the permit.  That wasn’t going to happen.

Since I am cheap as well as lazy, I headed for pay spots. Finding one was no problem, but locating the meter was a little tricky. Then I had to return to the car with the receipt to prove I had paid. The extra window of time I had allotted for getting lost on campus was starting to disappear and I was still in the parking lot.

I did have a school map. Those haven’t changed a bit since the last time I was looking for a classroom. In fact, except that it had more items on it, it could have been the exact same one I’d used at Skidmore. It was covered with dark smugey unreadable lumps that were purported to be classrooms and  had no relation to the real brick and mortal buildings in front of me. On top of that the map was minuscule and the campus is lush and dark. Even with the help of my cell phone flashlight, I had no idea where I was.

I did manage to find a cafeteria, two theaters, a library a lovely sculpture garden and a few dorms. What I couldn’t locate, was the building housing my first class. Eventually I flagged down a man walking two Golden Retrievers - unlike my college mutt, all the dogs at UCLA seem to carry pedigrees - who pointed me in the right direction. I had walked past the building numerous times, and didn’t see the sign. Oops.

Whatever hopes I’d had of sliding into the background vanished as I tore into the workshop 15 minutes late. Since there are only eight of us and everyone else was on time, I made quite an entrance. The teacher, let’s call him Professor Multiple Emmy Winner, was extremely nice about it.  I, however, was mortified.

                

The workshop is an interesting assortment of people. Not surprisingly, all of them, including Professor Multiple Emmy Winner, are younger than I am. By several decades. Two are just out of college. One traveled from Finland specifically to attend this program.  They all seem very nice, and surprisingly supportive.

                

That seems to be one of the goals of the program and was a theme of the first lecture: they want people to succeed. Which is a far cry from J-school, where they made it clear that their failure rate was something to be proud of. I never have figured out the point of that.

                

The lecture class is interesting. It’s led by an extremely enthusiastic teacher, let’s call him Professor Mentor-to-the-Stars, who knows his stuff inside out. He’s written several books on screenwriting, and could easily be a character in any number of college-based films. I liked him even better after he used a Tom Waits song to illustrate a point. I was the only one in the class who knew the song.  Which probably says a lot more about me than I should share. The tune was “Christmas Card from A Hooker in Minneapolis.” It’s great: go listen to it.

                

The lecture is the only time the entire class meets together. There are about 50 of us and as in the workshop, we’re a pretty diverse group. The majority of the class is younger than I am, but most aren’t fresh out of college.  There are a few codgers even older than me. Which is refreshing.

                

About ten of my classmates are from other parts of the world. One is an Iranian woman in her 20’s. I’m not so sure she’s going to stick around; yesterday I overheard her complaining about how much she hated Los Angeles. She told someone she should have just stayed in Paris. I’m sure that  can be arranged.

                

I must admit though, that, I was a little shaken when the professor announced homework. Not the assignment – that was fun. It was the actual phrase that grabbed me: Homework.

                

No matter how old you are, or how much you like what you’re doing, homework is a little like a knife to the heart. I immediately panicked : I was back in seventh grade algebra and staring at the board in slack-jawed confusion. But I took a deep breath, reminded myself that the one thing I have confidence about is my ability to write, and I tried to relax.

              

 Luckily, when I got my assignment back, the teacher – or his two overworked TAs - agreed.  Phew.  Because I was worried.  I know I have a lot to learn.

That Sound You Hear? It's My Head Hitting the Wall

When I was younger I spent a lot of time desperately trying to gain credibility in what was primarily a man’s game: music journalism. Thanks to women like the infamous Pamela Des Barres, Tawny Kitaen and the legions of girls who followed in their dubious footsteps, almost any female involved in rock and roll in any way was and is, suspected of having less then honorable motives. 

                

The truth be told, I often was the only girl backstage that wasn’t there for the express purpose of getting into someone’s pants.  It complicated matters that I actually made and maintained good friendships with number of bandmembers.  (That’s also true of most male music journalists.  But as far as I know, no one questions their motives.)

There were a few of us girls successfully writing about pop music, but it wasn’t easy. Even our (male) bosses at the newspapers and magazines would occasionally give us a wink-wink, nudge-nudge. It was frustrating but most of us did our jobs, wrote about the music we loved, and kept our sex lives separate from work. Just like the professionals we were.

Eventually I switched sides, and went into publicity, though a few of my contemporaries – Melinda Newman, Edna Gunderson and Ann Powers - soldiered on. They have solid, well-deserved reputations for being among the best critics/journalists in the business – regardless of gender.

               

When I started to go back into writing, I ran headfirst  into another ‘ism.’ This time it was my age. 

I was told, in no uncertain terms, by two different male editors that they could not hire me because I was too old.  Apparently female ears age faster and more completely than those of males. Who knew? Someone should study this. I bet they could get a grant.

               

I guess I was naïve, because when I decided to reinvent myself for the umpteenth time, I completely forgot the lessons I’d learned.  Oops. She who does not remember the past is destined to bump headlong into it.

Now I'm primarily writing screenplays. It’s not that I didn’t know that there is no business more sexist and ageist than the film business. I did and I do. But I didn’t think that as a writer this double standard would apply to me. I mean, have you seen some of the men that go to the podium to accept non-acting Academy Awards?  It’s not pretty.

Even many of the male actors get a pass. Take a good look at Dustin Hoffman, or Robert DuVall. Clint Eastwood is considered a craggy treasure. You can bet no female actor could rock that look and still get work and be revered.

Still, while I was concerned about my age, I didn’t think it would get in the way. After all, the message that was presented throughout my screenwriting class was that relationships are the basis for this business.  I still believe that.  

But it’s getting harder. I recently applied for a master class at that same school. It was going to be a pretty nifty course. We were going to work with actors and directors and shoot an actual scene. Cool. I thought hard about applying, because I was starting UCLA soon, but I figured there was no down side to learning as much as possible.

I interviewed, and it went swimmingly.  At the end of the meeting I was told I was in. Not only did they know and like my work, but former students were being given priority.  There was an approval process, but it was simply a formality. I was asked to clear my schedule for the next 10 weeks. Which I did.

Then I didn’t get accepted. No one actually let me know – I learned from a friend. Ouch. Oh, and except for my friend and another guy, all of the writers were young women. Really young.  Even more galling, at least one of the ladies has somewhat, um, questionable qualifications. Double ow. And these are writers. God knows how they picked the actors.

I spent the next weekend pretty much curled up in a fetal position.  I don’t mind fighting battles. I’ll put my work up against anybody’s. I do the best I can, which is sometimes pretty okay. Unfortunately, I can’t change my age. Even if I could afford it, I’m not going the Joan River’s route

Thankfully, the people at UCLA don’t seem to care that I am verging on codgerhood. Most of the professors are already there.  As far as the female thing goes, that’s looking good too. The guest speaker next week is Shondra Rimes. I can’t wait to meet her. She’s built an empire and she’s not only older than 30 and female: she’s black. She’s my new hero. Rock on Shondra!

Hi Ho, Hi Ho, It's Off To School I Go!

It’s Fall, which has always been my favorite time of the year. The days are cool and crisp, and the nights get cold. The trees change color and it rains a bunch. Oh, wait, that’s what Autumn was like when I lived in New England.

Here in So Cal, we get about three days like that a year.  And they might be in June. So other than by looking at the calendar, we never really know what season we’re in. 

But this year I can tell you it’s Fall because I’m going back to school.  I am not going to be clutching a Wonder Woman lunch box, or a book bag filled with number 2 pencils and brand new erasers. But otherwise  it doesn’t feel like much else has changed.

My stomach is in knots. I admit it; I’m scared.

I’m not afraid of the work – I never was. I know I can handle that. But, now, just like when I was 6 or 18 or 21 and starting first grade, college and graduate school, I’m terrified of the intangibles. The things I can’t control. Did I mention that I’m a control freak?

Like what if I don’t make any friends? What if people are mean to me? What if I’m the oldest person in my class? What if, like in the nightmares I started having last week, I get terminally lost?

If I’m thinking rationally, I know the answer to all these questions.  I may not make friends but I’ll survive with a few acquaintances.  No one is going to be mean to me; no one will care that much. That’s the joy of not being 7 anymore. Or 16.  And yes, there is the distinct possibility that I’ll be the oldest one in my class. 

Big freaking deal.  I have a ton of life experience to draw upon. For what that’s worth. (I hope a lot!)

I now understand  that while it would be lovely to meet a whole new group of potential work buddies and have them adore me, it’s not imperative. Unlike when I went to school the last time, I have a group of supportive friends, great former colleagues and a host of people I can draw on in a pinch.

I’ve also learned that I can’t make people like me. Which is good, because anyone that you can make like you, usually isn’t really a decent friend anyway.  Chalk that wisdom up to age and experience.

Also I've noticed that lately I don’t really give a damn. If somebody doesn’t like me, it’s a bummer, because everybody wants to be liked. But if they don’t, I’ll live. And probably thrive.

The folks that my career depends upon liking me don’t have to adore me. They just have to know they can depend on me. And they usually do.

This time, like every other time I went to school, what I’m really afraid of is getting lost.  Even with GPS I get lost everywhere.

My undergraduate college was pretty small, but I managed to spend the first few days of my freshman year wandering around in a daze. I ended up in the art department a few times, and did spend a lot of time walking around with a map up to my nose. They have an app for that now.

Now instead of being branded as a Freshman because of the map, all student look alike: they have cell phones in front of their faces. Which may be useful in places where Freshmen are hazed.

When I went to graduate school my classes weren’t even held on the main campus, they were in downtown Chicago, which brought a whole other level of getting lost. I missed L exits and ended up in odd, unpleasant places. It wasn’t efficient, and I was late for a lot of classes, but I sure did get to know the city.

This time I’m going to UCLA. UCLA is big. Huge, even.  In all the years I have lived in Los Angeles I’ve only been on campus a few times. Those were for concerts that I was working.  That didn’t intimidate me much.

I had great plans to scope out the school today, since class starts tomorrow. I was going to get a parking pass and a map. Or app. Naturally that didn’t happen.

My house is pretty much as far away from UCLA as you can get and still be in Los Angeles. So I’m going to leave an hour and a half early tomorrow.  I won’t have a Pokeman backpack, but I’ll be clutching a tote bag I won at a horse show filled with notebooks and pens.

But I’ll still be the one holding the map in front of my nose.