Mackenzie, baby...

Buy your drugs when you get into town, OK?

Sweet Mackenzie. I grew up right along with you, suffering the indignancies of a 70's childhood. I still think of you fondly and often, especially when I find myself singing the One Day at a Time theme song, thinking how cool was it that off the set, you were all about the glitter, girl - a Bowie kid hanging out at Rodney's English Disco on the Sunset Strip with silver lightning bolts painted on the sides of your face - an unofficial teen queen of the gilded gutter life. And as one of those still amibivalent about coming of age in that era - not knowing whether to celebrate or come to terms with it already - I mean that in the most worshipful way possible.

On a more serious note, my love, I do know how you've struggled with this particular demon for years now - and how when keeping the g.d. demons at bay becomes a full time job in itself, we're powerless to resist the lure of our self-medicated cocoons. Absolutely. Being far from perfect myself, I only wish I could put my arms around you and hug you like a sister, not in a Valerie Bertinelli kind of way, but more in one of those 'you're not alone' ways, not saying much of anything.

And while I don't know if you're simply dabbling at the moment or deeply into the funk of full-on addiction, I pray you find your true path in life and that it brings you joy, whether it's through chemical-free means or moderation. But for the love of God, you've got to remember that moderation means staying mindful of the fact that 9/11 killed off the golden days of stuffing your stash down your bra, or hoping the baggage screeners themselves were too wonky to notice those little baggies in the side compartment of your carry-on.

Now, who else feels a little Redd Kross coming on?!

McKenzie baby you blew your mind
Like mine with mine
We could not find
You got it back
Baby got it back

Everyone here all looks to you
To show us all just what to do
Got it back, baby got it back ...

Oooooh ... we really dig you

I ponder the world I don't understand
Why did she stay?
Why did she go?
I don't know, baby I don't know
But I can't stand here and wait for you
'Cause you don't know just what to do
Want you back, baby want you back

Oooooh ... we really miss you

You're just a nasty shag - yeah!
Give us everything you've got!

She can make you happy (happy!)
I can make you happy (happy!)
We can make you happy (happy!)

McKenzie baby, I'll wait for you
Until you know what to do
I want you back, baby want you back

But I can't just stop loving you
I guess you're just as screwed up as you know who
Want you back, baby want you back

Oooooh ... we really miss you
You're just a nasty shag, yeah!
Give us everything you've got!

She can make you happy (happy!)
I can make you happy (happy!)
We can make you happy (happy!)
I can make you happy (happy!)

The George Bush piñata has arrived!

Honey, you know you can't wait to whomp the bejeezus out of this one. At any rate, you'd be helping out one of the grooviest entrepreneurs ever, and buying American to boot. Whack away!

RIP: My days of being a good listener (and editor)

OK, is there anybody out there offering up lessons on how to be an asshole? There are so many books out there on good etiquette, but none on how to pay dickheadedness back in kind. And that saddens me.

In the interest of full disclosure: yes, I should go ahead and let you know that I’m already a bitter old crow. But now it’s official, and you can go ahead and cue up Mozart's Requiem for my days of being a good listener. I'm afraid they're pretty much dead and buried. O-V-E-R. Gone. Kaput. In my dotage, I've become more conscious of time wasted with the self-absorbed, the toxic, and just in the past few years - those who can’t wrap up their stories up in three minutes or less. Every good story has a beginning, middle and an end. Getting too mired down in the middle part is the unfortunate tendency of some, but being the other party – stuck there while waiting for someone to get to their point – is even more unfortunate.

It’s depressing. I used to love being everyone’s ear. Being a good listener is an invaluable tool for writers, not only because you're a sponge and can steal at will, but you invariably become a good editor, too. You’re responsible for coming up with ways to better tell your story, and shaping ideas into something your potential audience might give a shit about. And being in the business I’m in, time is of the essence. My colleagues and I are all about economy of words, baby. Just give is the basics: the what, when, where, who and how – and why we should care. And if you can sum it up in five minutes or less, well, what can we say? You’re a golden god.

Now, whenever someone compliments you on something, your usual response is to smile graciously and thank them, right? You’re either the type that gushes effusively back, or you’re the quiet sort who nods your appreciation and then goes off to do your little Snoopy dance somewhere in private. Me, I’ve never been one of those end zone dancer-types, the ones who require constant validation and praise. Not that I’d knock it, but Christ, it’s just so undignified.

A recent example: a writer friend of mine had a piece that aired on a local station. It was one of those classic driveway moments so I stayed in my car and listened, struck as always by their sense of rhythm and heartfelt sentiment. Sure, they tend to get carried away with the flowery language and steamroller-strength clever quips – but that’s just their way, and that’s why we love their pieces.

Later that day, when I called my writer friend from the road to tell them how much I enjoyed this one, they asked me what I got out of it. And I indulged them, as I always do, prepared to spend the next half hour discussing every nuance and beat, as we always do. But no. This time, their response was a terse, “That’s not it. You didn’t get it at all. Go back and re-read it, and we’ll talk about it next week when we go out for a beer.”

Stung at their lack of manners, I wrapped up the conversation quickly, wondering why I'd even bothered. I only got out of it what I got out of it, right? Jeezus. Anyway, I'm sorry to say my writer friend and I haven’t gone out for that beer yet. They just had another piece in the local paper yesterday, too, but I've not read it. My hard-headed ass probably won’t now, either, because I'm a childish ding-a-ling like that. So sue me. Anyway, I might not ‘get it,’ so what's the point.

Maybe I’m a hard-nosed bitch. But unfortunately, this prime example of sniping at the hand that feeds you has spawned a new rule here in my bristly little world. From this moment on, and I don't think it's the PMS speaking - unless you’re in my Sunday writer’s group and we regularly critique each other’s work, or unless you’re actually paying me to be your editor, then don’t ask me to read (or listen to) your fucking piece.

Jeezus, is this what fair has come to?