"Better keep yourself clean and bright; you are the window through which you must see the world." George Bernard Shaw

Dear Ethers, 

Often times when I’m lying in bed thinking, I’ll leave the window open and cover myself up in the duvet.  I like the cool breeze on my face while my body is swathed in the rich down.  Today in Los Angeles we had very heavy winds.  It was the first sign of fall. Crackling leaves dragged their dead forms down the street making scratching noises as they flew pass.  The trees shook and swayed and crows squawked their horrid cry while picking the newly laid seeds in the fertilizer often laid just before Halloween.  I stared out my window while all this was happening, warm under my blanket, only my face exposed to the day outside, and I breathed everything in, squinting whenever a ray of sun peeked through a branch.   

This is the same thing I’ve been doing since I was a little girl.  It’s strange to me that I’ve been doing this in the same bed, through the same window and past the same tree; just a different date and an older body.  I never thought I’d be on the brink of 30 staring out this window pondering, waiting for another winter to come.  You know what’s funny? I never thought I’d ever BE 30.  I remember being in a bowling alley with my parents and there were a bunch of adults and college kids.  They seemed SO old.  I thought I’d never live to see that age.  And you know what, they were younger than I am today. 

But it’s crazy.  As the years go by, they go by so much faster.  My parents are in their late 60’s, the Big Apple Beauty is almost 70 (my god—she always seemed ageless) and the car my parents bought me for getting into college (that I still so vividly remember driving for the first time) is almost 11 years old.  How does time escape us?  My grandmother, who is 93, said that you look in the mirror at 25 and the next minute you’re her age (if you’re lucky)–that’s how quickly things go.  And the scary part is that things from your youth only seem like yesterday.  

Being human is such an odd condition.  It’s something I’ve never really gotten my hands around.  Someone took a picture of me about 8 years ago looking out my said window—they caught me with the sun in my eyes.  My pupils were lit by the sun—they looked like illuminated oak floors with a spray of black lines breaking through the wood.  I remember very clearly what I was thinking in that picture.  That I couldn’t believe another sunset was happening. Do you know that your eyes stay the same size as they were when from the day that you were born?  I’ve always had really big eyes.

I cannot tell the future.  I cannot fix the past.  I can wish, but I often find that futile. It’s nighttime now.  The wind is blowing heavily and I’ve shut the window because of the chill.  I’ll wake again tomorrow and spend a few minutes of the morning staring at the sky.  I’ll collect my thoughts.  It’ll be a new day.  New leaves will fall from trees and be blown down the street scratching away into oblivion and I wonder what my day will be like.  What will hit me next? What memory will fall into my mind?  And I’ll wrap myself tight in my duvet and ponder, feeling the breeze on my face seeing life’s clock ticking through each leaf that does a pirouette to the floor.

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

I suppose one day you'll see all of me. But, for now, here is an X-Ray image of my teeth (no, they aren't black---I didn't live in England THAT long!) I'm forcing a big old smile that does not come naturally to me. The reason I took this image with this filter on is because at the end of the day, underneath it all, a smile can really just be a facade and a straight face can be a very happy person but one caught in their thoughts. I dunno--a man once told me I'd be attractive if I'd smile more. Here's my story...

Dear Ether,

I was once told by a man that I would be much more attractive if I smiled more.  I wondered, “Did that stop people from approaching me because I looked like a sourpuss?”  When I catch my reflection in a store window or a mirror, I definitely look unapproachable.  My head is often lowered, my cheeks sucked in giving my lips a down-turned pout and sunglasses usually shade my eyes.

I was never the girl who was bought drinks at bars or was approached on streets.  I never got asked out on dates or was flirted with in public.  And I didn’t get it.  I know you guys don’t know what I look like, but you know I’m honest, and I will try and be humble, but I’m not bad looking.  And when I put myself together, I actually look quite nice.  So when I saw girls who I thought were less attractive, I never knew why I wasn’t getting any attention.

You know, some people have a great smile.  Their eyes crinkle beautifully, their teeth glimmer like ivory piano keys that explode in their mouths welcoming you to their face.  Their lips are full and their grin just makes everything more inviting.  When I smile, I lose my upper lip, my eyes almost disappear and it looks like I’m missing my back teeth because my lip casts a shadow over the last few molars.  I just don’t have a pretty smile.

When I had braces, I learned to smile with my mouth shut.  An almost pucker-like smirk.  I look back on these photos and see how dreadful I appear.  My chin juts out, lines gather around my nose and mouth.  No one would ever mistake me for the Cheshire Cat.

After this man suggested this about my appearance, I tried to take heed of his advice.  I actually felt the atrophied muscles in that region struggle and shake trying to hold the pose.  I felt stupid and foolish. After a few tries I gave up and my face relaxed back into its straight-lined position. The thing is, I don’t NOT smile, I just don’t have that kind of cheerful visage.

I will tell you one thing—(and it’s my surprise)—when I laugh—I give it everything I’ve got.  THAT’S when my teeth come out and sparkle and when my eyes shine and you see my dimples.  So, maybe the secret is you’ve got to make me crack-up.  And when you do, maybe I’m really damned beautiful.  So though I’m not on show every minute, what makes me special is that I come out from the woodwork and glitter every once in awhile.  And it’s the people who matter that get to see the really attractive me.  It’s the people who take the time to invest and not just enjoy the ongoing music of the large piano key teeth but maybe some of the flat notes hidden by my skinny excuse for lips.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

As the world spins around and people live their lives, I wonder, where do I fit in? Where do I belong? I've been a nomad--a bit of a gypsy my whole life. So tell me Ethers, where AM I from?

Dear Ether,

People often ask me where I’m from. It’s so hard to say. If I say London, they’ll cock an eyebrow, wonder why I don’t have an accent, and when I explain I only lived there 8 years, think I’m affected. If I say I’m from Los Angeles, I almost have to cough it out. I find it difficult to believe. Half my life I don’t even remember spending in California, and the last 8 were when I was a teenager and didn’t really have freedom to see the city. I spent 3 years in CT and 1 year in NYC. So I guess I have to technically say I was BORN in Los Angeles….but really, where am I from?

When I close my eyes and ask this question, I picture myself with my face plastered against the grimy plexiglass of the last row on the tube being jerked to sleep by its stops and lurches on my way home from an exhausting days work. I see myself in a magnificent coat with a full scarf and a sugar-free vanilla skinny venti latte from Starbucks. I imagine great jeans, my All Saints boots and a fag in Camden heading to a freelance job walking to the beat of my own heart amongst the throng of other colorful people, all while seeing the florist set up her hut diagonal from the tube station. I visualize English gent and I on a night bus when we first met laughing before we cared about money and being adults, heading into the depths of ugly New Cross. The feeling of a cup of tea to soothe you after a bitter day and watching the rain pour down and just being so grateful to be indoors. And what about fingering the wares at a market stall and being called ”love,” or walking through the Sussex countryside and passing the same river Virgina Woolf drowned herself in all those years ago?

And what of Los Angeles? Again, I slam my eyes shut, feeling my lashes against the tips off my cheekbones, and I see memories too—just in different hues. Bright blue skies with sun that warmed your skin and made you golden after a day at the beach. Nights when my brother and I would be bundled into the back of our old station wagon and my mom and dad would take us to drive-in move theaters (relics now) in our pajamas. Every year on my birthday being taken to the same Mexican restaurant that had been around since 1927 and having mariachi’s sing to me and have my picture taking wearing a sombrero so big that it covered my whole face. Looking down at my feet and seeing the heavy tan line my flip-flops left on my feet. The smell of the gardeners laying down fertilizer in October for seed to grow for fresh grass. Pumpkin pie and gravy for Thanksgiving and catching my dog on the table while we were all in the other room having hour d’oeuvres. The overwhelming beauty of fuchsia bougainvillea growing wildly all over neighbor’s gardens. My darling standard poodle whom I used to lay out in the backyard with and talk to for hours until it got too chilly and then we’d go inside and we’d talk for even longer debating issues of the heart!

I now reside in Los Angeles, but in my soul I know it is temporary. I know I am bound for somewhere else. This place and I, it never had a connection. And being here, I remember that now. And I pine for London. But boy did she and I have our problems too. Where’s next? Where will I end up being from? I don’t know. I feel just because you’re born somewhere doesn’t make you from there. It just makes that the place you were issued your birth certificate. Like I’ve said before, I feel like more of a Londoner than a Los Angelino—but not according to my records or when I’m issued jury duty.

I always thought it was so funny that I was considered an immigrant. Me. A white, upper-middle class girl, with a Master’s degree and some cash in her pocket. Terrible. I know. That I should feel like I shouldn’t be looked at as the same as someone from Africa or Mexico. I’ll never forget sitting in East Croydon in the Home Office waiting for my papers. I was very nervous. I didn’t know if my visa was going to get reissued. A guy about my age from Nigeria spoke to me. He saw my passport in its clear folder. “You’ll have no problems” he smiled. “I don’t know, I’m really worried this time. I’m applying for residency.” He grinned and said, “You are white, American and a woman. Me, I’m black, a man and from Nigeria. I have been here 6 times. If I get rejected this time, I am out of chances.” I looked down to the floor and didn’t know what to say. He said cheerfully, “Don’t feel bad. Remember, you have a good home to go back to. I have a good family too. I just want a better life. Just remember, it’s all about where you’re from.” We chatted a bit more and his number was called. I wished him well. Then it was my turn to go to the desk.  I was shaky but determined. Within ten seconds I was approved. They were most concerned about how I was going to pay. I still wonder if 7 was that man’s lucky number and if he really meant what he said about remembering where you were from—that no matter where you are in the world—you can always go home again—wherever that may be.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

Ahh the yin and yang of life, people, Hollywood. But I always find the truth behind the real backwards and forwards--the stability of ones soul REALLY is the cliche. It's all in the eyes. The clearest can cloud over and cut you. It's been a long time since I've looked anyone in the eye and seen total clarity. Shame. I really miss that connection. Dark or light, what those lashes behold can't fool me anymore. Help me believe again Ethers. Please.

Dear Ethers,

Forgive me for the late post.  I was up until 5am last night covering a lovely event and it was an all day shin-dig that took all of the energy out of me.  I DID sleep, but I’ve just now stopped working.  

Last night was the first night I actually felt an affinity for anyone in Los Angeles.  I met some wonderfully talented people who were in the industry but not pretentious or stuck-up or any of the other stereo-types you might expect from shows like “Entourage” or even “Sex and the City.”  These were really hard-working people who made it happen for themselves and were intelligent and engaging.  I was shocked.  Some of them were celebrities, some of them behind the scenes folks, but it was so refreshing to see the flip-side of Hollywood and not the people who arrived through nepotism or the Paris Hilton’s of the world.  

I spoke to an Emmy award winning writer who did a documentary on Autism.  What a brilliant woman.  I spoke to the daughter of a VERY famous singer who was so down to earth and very intelligent.  And for being so young and so rich (and could have gone the way of Ms. Ritchie or Hilton) she was humble, interesting and knew the value of hard-work and earning a living.  We were talking about expensive purchases and she told me that she saves up for a whole year and only splurges on one thing and treasures it.  Trust me, this girl could live a lot larger.  Did I mention she was also extremely beautiful?  And you know what?  When I asked about her visage–she turned crimson and said she never even thought about it—–that what mattered to her was finishing her degree and acting.  I hope her career soars.  

It is so yin and yang in this city.  Last night reminded me of what I grew up with–a generation I thought had died out with men like my father.  Men who came to this city with a dog-eared script and dreams.  Men (and women) with talent and hope from humble backgrounds who loved the art of writing or performing and were grateful every day for what they had.  I wish I could go into detail about last night.  I can tell you that it was a balmy evening. That champagne flowed, a DJ played great music and it was luxury all the way.  I can also tell you that I got to take English gent with me to the after party for this event and I really enjoyed having him there and seeing him experience a Hollywood moment with good people.  And, of course, he ended up speaking to all the ex-pats there!  But, alas, I was really happy that he was with me.  I couldn’t stay with him for long–I had to schmooze–I was on the clock—but knowing he was there to experience something new and that we were actually living outside of our confined box made me feel happy.  That we could get a little dressed up and have a destination.  It reminded me of London and our days of talking to people and being able to smoke freely (I know, I know…)   For you fashionistas who like my blog, you’d be very proud.  My photo was taken for an L.A. mag as being the best dressed at the party!  Yep—now, that’s pretty cool given it was a high-end fashion event.  See, I might fuck up sometimes on “Fashion Fridays” or my “Wish Lists” but when someone snaps their fingers and says, “Get snazzy” I’m there with the best of them  

But in all seriousness, I’ve lost a lot of faith in people.  I know, it’s very sad.  You hope nights like the one I am describing will repeat themselves—but the shame is they are so rare.  You’d be proud of me Ethers.  I really tried to soak it up–because I knew this was a rare gem.  I want to believe in the world.  In people.  In the goodness of humanity.  But, I’ve had to lick my wounds so often I’m afraid to expose myself. 

Ethers, thank-you for starting to make me believe that there are decent folks in the world.  This is part of the journey of One of 365.  But, I cannot see you or touch you or hear you.  I need to look someone in the eye and see a warmness.  An intelligence.  A gentleness.  A realness.  THAT is going to take a long time because I’ve seen many eyes clear with kindness glaze over with gross ugliness in a flash before……and it is scary.  

Be good……..and I’ll be seeing you for “Fashion Fridays” tomorrow.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

Celebrity is all a bit blurry. The girl in the picture has a stunning figure and stands out in a red dress, but where she's standing and what her emotions are seem fuzzy. What goes on behind the scenes of the rich and famous is an odd one. They will never fully be just like you and me. But when you get close enough and things become clearer some of the fantasy goes away and it takes the magic with it.

Dear Ether,

So, I covered a red carpet on Thursday night.  I can’t tell you anything (yadda, yadda…the close lipped contract….) and this entry isn’t going to be about the party itself, but about the vulnerability of the celebrity.

My job went as it should.  I did the normal carpet chit-chat.  Some celebs were better interviews than others.  The waifish ladies did their poses for the cameras looking confident and gorgeous.  And then they sauntered off into the affair itself.  After I was finished doing my interviews, I went into the party for observations, to grab a drink and take some visual notes on what the event looked like because sometimes cameras aren’t allowed in.  Also, you might get a chance to chat with a celeb a little more in-depth and get something juicy.  It’s also a fun perk (though I find it a little awkward because I don’t know anyone and hanging out with famous people for the sake of it has never been my thing).  You might also walk away with a goodie-bag and you are guaranteed amazing food and cocktails.  My favorite perk of going to V.I.P. shin-dig’s has always been that I get to explore a club or a hotel that you would normally never be granted access to.

But Thursday I had the strangest epiphany. As I was observing these make-up clad women and trendily dressed men that I had seen on the big and small screen, I realized that they were vulnerable.  I think all my life I’ve always thought of celebrities as being super men and women.  That they were touched by fairy-dust and were infallible.  I think some of these people think they are too.  Look at the classic case of James Dean.  But, I think as the walls are crumbling with privacy between the media and the public, stars are starting to realize that they actually are just like “us” with a bit more cash and possibly more problems (though don’t get me wrong, I’d like to have the problem of what dress to wear to the Academy Awards or what movie to choose from instead of how the hell I’m going to pay my water bill….).

I can’t drink heavily when I attend these parties for 2 reasons.  1: I’m on the clock so it would be unprofessional.  2: I drive and so I have to be sober come time to leave and go home.  But a lot of these celebs either come with PR people who drive them home, they have drivers or scarily, they might even take the risk of the road themselves.  So, if you’ve ever been to a party where everyone around you is drunk and you’re sober, it’s like walking through a madhouse of slanted eyes, cockeyed grins and loose limbs.  And that’s what I saw straight and clear with these well-known folks.  It was like a weird party at college.  Their eyes were darting around if they were standing around without anyone to talk to looking desperate and embarrassed.  They used the old texting on the mobile phone trick if they were sitting alone so they “looked busy” and they seemed jittery and had uncomfortable silences just like you and I would have at a party if we were in their position.  I was really surprised.  You always think they have a zillion people to chat with and are the king’s and queen’s of the balls.  Not so!

You know, when I went to parties for my previous line of work, very few of them were celeb functions.  They were mainly cozy press affairs so most of the people who attended were PR’s and fellow journalists.  Also, Hollywood is a whole different kettle of fish than London.  People are star crazy here.  The people who are reporters are so hungry for some sort of claim to fame that they froth at the mouth when they see any celebrity.  It just doesn’t do it for me.  Do I smile or chuckle to myself when I see someone famous?  Of course!  But these people—they will literally stab you in the neck if you get in their way of a possible meeting with anyone recognizable.  I find it really pathetic and it actually made me feel sorry for them.

But I digress.  When I saw the vulnerability and the desperation in many of these celebs eyes, and the look of being lost and not having anyone to talk to, I actually felt depressed.  I felt sorry for them.  I know I shouldn’t and I’m probably reading WAY too deeply into this, but it just felt like the barrier between audience and stage had fallen and I had seen the actor through their make-up.  It was kinda ugly.  I grew up in Los Angeles and my dad, as mentioned in earlier posts, was a TV writer.  I also went to a school that was laden with celebrity parents.  I used to go on studio lots and see famous people daily.  Fame is not anything terribly shocking or heart-stopping for me (except for Sienna Miller—and I keep meaning to explain that one—but alas, it will have to wait for another post).  But I can understand how people who aren’t jaded like I am are crazed when they see someone they adore in the flesh. A couple of the other reporters wanted to stay and try and see if they could hang out with some of the famous folks.  But as soon as my revelation came, I wanted out.  I busted a move, handed the valet my ticket and thankfully got in my car and was pleased to leave and get on with my work.

Look, I’m sure I am over-analyzing.  But, it really is weird when you see the mask fall and underneath isn’t the glorious face of Dorian Gray but the plain visage of John Doe.  These people get pit stains, spill on themselves, step in shit, and get lonely and lost at a party.  I guess the reason it made me feel so bad is because somewhere in me was the dream of wanting to be famous. The perks are great—the money, the opportunities, the chance to play roles in locations that are exquisite.  But a the end of the day, they go home and check their e-mail where they delete their spam about Viagra, open up the fridge and stare wondering what they want for a snack and cry when they have a down day.

Funny how one stupid event can just remind you of that, eh?

I love the magazine I’m working for.  I’m grateful for the opportunity and I adore the inside chances I get to experience and the interesting people I get to speak to.  But for some reason on Thursday something hit a bad chord in me and I had to share it.  I don’t know, I’ll let you know if the next one brings out these emotions in me.

In conclusion, flashbulbs and canapés, there will always be famous people.  And there will always be fans.   But there are very few people who actually get to see what goes on behind the curtain.  And you know what, a lot of their life is a big old set.  A fake reality.  Their truth is no different than ours.  So next time your eyes are darting back and forth wondering “why isn’t anyone talking to me” or “shit, I don’t know anyone here, I’m nervous,” just know your favorite celeb has been there too.  She’s just been wearing a designer dress that’s more expensive than you have on while doing it.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365