Hot Dogs for Peace

Photo: Topanga Memorial Day Parade 2007
Every Friday a peace group stands on Topanga Canyon Blvd. with signs against the Iraq War. They've been out there for four years and counting.

Wild Food

Isa and I went to a "Wild Food Summit" down the street at a "burning man" community. We learned how to forage.

My Tibetan Mastiff

Momo's not so bad. He only has one bite "on his record." Notice the language. It's like saying I have no Mexicans "on my payroll."

Yurt Livin'

I can't for the life of me remember how the decision to put this in our yard came about. That said, I suppose that's how all the other yurts in Topanga came to be.

Asian Dogs

People wonder why I put up with John's dog. "What was he thinking getting such a vicious beast?" they whisper as they hear the growls behind the bedroom door. John saw big, John saw fluff. He saw a Newfie that didn't drool. He saw a family guard dog. He'd never been to Tibet. He didn't really think about what a dog who will gleefully take on a lion might actually be like.

But I sympathize. In 1980 National Geographic World featured a shar-pei on the cover. I had to have one. When I was sixteen my long-suffering boyfriend, Joe, offered to buy me one. I was aware of the dog's noble origins, as fighting dogs from China. The wrinkles were to prevent more serious muscle injuries. I took none of this into account as I brought my puppy home. It should be of no surprise to anyone that he was aggressive. He did, however, live a decent life (in the seclusion of my mother's home), but he certainly wasn't that 'car dog' I had been picturing.

I can relate to John's desire for a pet who could easily scare away mountain lions. I can overlook the fact there is a reason this breed is largely unknown (question: Have you ever seen one of these dogs?) Since YouTube hadn't been invented yet, I can forgive John's ignorance of Chinese videos of snarling, fighting dogs (one in particular with a man and a shovel, and a TM all upset about something).

I can even excuse his lack of historical research. Alexander David Neel's books about Tibet do mention these dogs, and more than a few passages go into great detail about how no one, not a single villager would dare to try to enter an area with a bunch of these dogs scattered in the dirt, lying seemingly lifeless.

The words "primitive breed" are so much more meaningful now. Basically, the dog's just doing his job.

Sopranos series finale

Sunday afternoon in Topanga canyon, and I'm going on the record with my predictions. We're going to be left with a final image of Meadow becoming a mob wife, capable of making all the same rationalizations as her mother. And not one person will be talking about the Tony Awards tomorrow.

First week of work

I just went through a long period of self employment, and I have to say I was very disappointed in myself as a boss. I let myself get away with murder. And when you only have one employee, that's almost inexcusable (really, the lack of oversight was astonishing).

This week, I started a new job--as a co-executive producer on Lipstick Jungle, an hour-long show for NBC. It's the first time I've gone into an office in a while. So far, my new bosses seem lovely. I only hope they have more luck with me than I did.

Another of John's performances...

Dixie Canyon!

Alice

ALICE
By John Levenstein
(Performed at Sit n' Spin, Los Angeles, CA)

Monday, October Seventh, 5:47 pm

I am keeping this journal in order to not lose my mind while I wait for Alice to decide whether or not she wants to date me. She has already gotten naked with me, and given me a large purple bruise about six inches up from my left elbow, which I roll up my sleeve and gaze at from time to time. It is my only link to her. I cut her loose yesterday, giving her a few days to think things over and figure out what she wants. Why did I think that time was my friend? And what are the chances that she's actually going to make a conscious choice to enter into the beginning stages of a relationship with me? Day one of my vigil, and I already fear the worst. But I'll be goddamned if I'm not going to get a Sit n' Spin piece out of this.

Monday, October Seventh, 8:38 pm

Went online, looking for ways to distract myself. Ran a google search on Alice. There are web sites devoted to her work as an actress. Over ten thousand hits so far. I can't help wondering how many of us gave her thinly veiled ultimatums and are waiting for her to call right now.

Monday, October Seventh, 8:48

Am feeling a little held hostage by the convention of listing the day, date, and time before each entry. Am considering trying something new, but don't want to betray the audience's hard earned trust.

Later that night

Seven years ago, I went on anti-depressants. I had just started work as a sitcom writer, was going through a painful break-up, and couldn't afford to spiral. One side benefit of the medication was that it helped to curb my obsessive thinking. I used to imagine how much I would accomplish if I could just take the few hours a day I put into cyclical thought and debilitating naps and learned to use it productively. Well, as it happened, I amassed a small fortune. I moved to Napa, put on a few pounds, and settled into my early middle years. Recently, I went off the anti-depressants. "Bring it on, ladies. I've got all the time in the world." Then I went out with Alice.

Just because her apartment looked like a crazy person lived there didn't necessarily mean Alice was. There was paint everywhere, canvasses of all sizes propped against every piece of furniture. This was the duplex of a woman who needed to discharge. A small pet would not be able to navigate this space. If this were an episode of a sitcom, I would have to tell set dressing, "come on, she's not that crazy, get some of this shit out of here."

The details of the date are boring, as are the specifics of any two people having a good time, if you were not one of them. I always dread having to write the scene that's meant to show rapport on a first date. "We need to see why they like each other." No. We don't. I believe television could be improved if the American viewing public would be willing to stipulate to two characters hitting it off, and we never had to see that scene again.

We stayed up until three in the morning, this coming from a man who likes his sleep, even under the best of circumstances. We agreed to hook up again before I left town. That's the last time I saw her.

Tuesday afternoon

Woke up from a debilitating nap. Have begun to self medicate. My mother stopped by. She's trying to quit drinking in an effort to lose weight; I convinced her getting high with me might help. Playing God with family is now my only solace.

A half hour later, still high, make sure you edit this

When I first went on antidepressants, my sex drive dipped noticeably. Since I went off, I've experienced a slight surge, almost back to the level I was at seven years ago, after my sex drive had dipped. We're not getting any younger. Which is why when I like a woman, I feel a sense of urgency. I get graspy, I overplay my hand, I get off on my own lack of ambivalence. Alice did not get off on my lack of ambivalence. Rather, a powerful flight instinct kicked in, one that made her question whether she wanted a relationship with anyone right now, let alone me. Just one of the differences that could make us such a fantastic couple.


Written in a notebook while watching T.V., transcribed the next day

This piece is really coming together. Is it possible the antidepressants were curbing my creative genius? Knowing I could take a pill that would make me content and yet conceivably cheat my audience, should I?

Wednesday morning

Sometimes when I wake up it is a full twenty seconds before I think of Alice. This was not one of those mornings. I took my hundred twenty pound puppy to an Israeli dog trainer, secretly hoping he would give me a treatise on the nature of manhood, discipline and desire. Instead, he asked rhetorical questions like why does a golden retriever make a better guide dog than a monkey. But just as I was about to give up and let my puppy pretty much train himself, he said something that got my attention. "You have to learn to think like a dog," then once more for emphasis. "Think like a dog."

Of course! Think like Alice! But how? I got in my car and gazed at the bruise, as if at a purple sunset. What was she trying to tell me? Was it a message? A warning? I can't expect everyone to be as verbal as I am. When she parted her lips, clamped down on my bicep and created a vacuum seal, what was she trying to say that was so much more eloquent than my foolish words? What was Alice trying to say?

I rushed home, the house that Zoloft built, ran out into the woods, and demanded an answer…in whatever form that answer chose to present itself…to the distant beat…of the tom tom drum.

(TOM TOMS BEGIN TO PLAY)

I began to dance, hesitant at first, like Chris Penn in Footloose, then with an almost religious fervor. I'd been subsisting on pot and gatorade. I hadn't slept in days. But I'd heard you can get a little buzz off of Centrum Silver. Could the voices be far behind?

WOMAN (WHISPERS LOUDLY): Jackson…
ME: For purposes of this piece, I'm calling myself Jackson. I mean, if she can be Alice…
WOMAN (INSISTENT): Jackson…
ME: I listened closely.
WOMAN: Let…go.
ME: Let what?
WOMAN: Let GO.
ME: Oh, I agree.
WOMAN: Let go!
ME: Let's GO, let's get on with it already, let's get this relationship on the road. Let's go! Let's go! And as I fell to the ground, my catharsis complete, I knew that no matter what happened, I would be okay.

(THE TOM TOMS FADE)

I can't even talk about this. She left a message while I was outside doing my dance of whatever happens I'll be okay. I don't need to know this woman to know she's impossible to get on the phone. I tried her back; she picked up right away. She really wanted this conversation off of her desk. She said we can't do this, it's crazy, she can't keep acting so crazy, it's just crazy. Not the kind of wiggle room I was hoping for. I kept her on the phone just long enough to make sure that whenever she thought of me, it would be with a sense of heaviness and dread. And that I'd have enough regrets to keep me warm through the winter.

Postscript, written a week later

So what have we learned, other than not to write my pieces in real time while I'm actually going through the experience. I don't know. I've made a couple resolutions, come up with some pretty good rationalizations. The friends I leaned on are now calling me with their problems, which has got to stop. Bottom line, I wasted a week, which is nothing. I've wasted more of my life sitting on the toilet when it turned out I didn't really have to go. When I was on antidepressants I used to imagine what I could accomplish in the few hours a day I spent in an unmotivated dull content torpor. Well, as it happened, I lost fifteen pounds and went quite mad. But at least I'm back in the game, getting my ass handed to me, making microscopic little adjustments. When I was first considering going off the medication, my psychiatrist said, you can't steer if you're not moving. Well, I'm steering, Dr. Engel! I'm steering!

A Fresh Yarn piece

It Feels Worse

Acting Class

ACTING CLASS
By John Levenstein
(Originally performed with Sit n' Spin at the HBO Workspace)

"Anne has nothing to live for." My mother was on the phone, urgent as usual, but refreshingly not about the man she was dating who was married in name only. Anne was Anne Seymour, an old family friend, an actress in her seventies who was attempting to die with dignity. My mother would have none of it. "You know what Anne needs? Anne needs to teach an acting class. Me and you and--ask Mike--and Bibi and Fred, all the people who love her, we'll meet at her house once a week. Come on, it'll be fun."

Years later, if I had to pick at this plan, a couple of things sort of jump out at me. The first is that none of us were actors. And not because training had been unavailable until then. We had no interest in acting whatsoever. That's okay. We could fake it, we just needed to get a few classes under our belt. But there was another problem, one that didn't occur to me until the class was already well under way. We were making an old woman give a party every week. She must have dreaded Tuesdays. Probably started thinking about it on Friday. Lists on Saturday. Sunday, freaking out, she's accomplished nothing. Monday, Gelson's, gardening, lesson plan. Tuesday, Christ, they're coming! Wednesday was hundred percent devoted to recovery. She had Thursday. That was Anne's day. The other six suddenly devoted to her closest friends, who, in a surprising mid career move, had all decided to become actors.

We started out with some simple microphone techniques, particularly useful in the live broadcast of an old radio drama. Anne put a lit candle in front of me, inviting me to pronounce the word toupee without blowing it out. That's craft, people. And then it was on to the meat. The emotional work. We weren't ready to act. Which suited me just fine. We were assigned various injuries and then took turns hobbling around the back yard, communicating nonverbally what we had. Fred's choices were a bit cartoony for my tastes. Anne gave a lesson on how an actor could find the motivation even for murder by picturing a fly buzzing and buzzing and buzzing until you want to KILL. My mother confided that she didn't need the fly to imagine the murder of the wives of certain men who were married in name only. We could have gone on like this forever, Fred in the backyard, doubled over in imaginary pain, my mother getting in touch with her murderous impulses. But, most importantly, not acting. Always the not acting.

But there was this one woman. We'll call her Beth. To this day I have no idea who she was or where she came from--a friend of a relative or a relative of a friend--but she seemed to be under the impression that she had landed in an actual acting class. None of us had the heart to burst her bubble. Which gave us some semblance of hope. If Anne could reach this one actress, in the magical safe environment my mother, Mike, Fred and Bibi and I had helped create, maybe Anne's legacy wouldn't have to die with her. God knows none of the rest of us were fighting over that torch.

Beth--great, another b name, too late to change it now-Beth was chomping at the bit to perform a monologue. Anne tried to rein her in, but, like a young filly, Beth (Beth-stupid) could only be held back so long. She
opened up a book of monologues-where did she find such a book?-the anticipation built. Beth made a bold choice, before she even began to speak, looking directly at Mike, my friend who until then had managed to hide in plain sight. She began with a line about how she'd never forgotten him, fought her way through some second rate Tennessee Williams, as Mike held her gaze, stricken, then wrapped up, straight into Mike's eyes with, "I'm bringing it all home…to you." Mike nodded solemnly, then turned away-never to look a woman directly in the eye again. The rest of us burst into applause, as Anne smiled bravely. It was undeniable. Beth was terrible.

So why didn't we pack it in right then? Should I have stood up and demanded that we end the charade, give up acting and let the lady have her week back? A lesser man might have. But I wasn't ready to pack it in just yet. Did I love Anne too much? Was I too good a friend to her? That's quite an accusation. Perhaps I was. But if I hadn't held on, kept coming to class, what was she going to do with that time, really? Not be bothered, yes. But that can't be the goal, to grow old with as few encumbrances as possible, to be left alone, until all that remains is the absence of inconvenience. Okay, obviously that sounds good, but there's a larger point here, one that we're in danger of losing sight of, and that's that I was a very good friend.

I knew it was time to bail when Anne, who by this time I suspected was just fucking with us, had us mingle in her living room, each of us personifying the trait of a different animal. One person was "mule" headed, another would "bull" forward, I was in the middle of a conversation, acting "squirrelly," I suppose, when I felt something against my leg. I looked down. It was my mother, looking up, like a cat. "Mom, we're supposed to personify an animal, you're not supposed to be the animal." She tilted her head, non comprehending. To her credit, she was nailing the cat. In fact if Beth had brought the same sort of conviction to her second-rate Tennessee Williams, we'd still be in business today. Still, when you look down at something rubbing against your leg, your mother isn't what you're hoping for. What would be better? A corpse, a big bag of shit, someone I could sell my soul to that could make the memory go away. Because, after all of Anne's efforts, when all is said and done, that's the main thing I'll take away from the class. My mother on the floor thinking she's a cat. By the way, I'd be remiss if I didn't say that she's here with us in the audience tonight, so you might want to watch your step on the way out.

Salt in Wound

...adds more salt to wound