18 October; 3 to 9 pm Monterey Plaza Hotel
“Applause,” a celebration of music, hope, and giving, fundraiser for Serrena, a non-profit organization offering integrative therapies to people with chronic illness, will feature a silent & live auction, raffle, and music by the fabulous Sirenz and Erin Gray, and the White Album Ensemble.
For their silent auction I decided to donate a copy of East Garrison, INCLUDING the Prologue and first chapter of my next novel. I’ve had a lot of fun putting together the pages for that lucky highest bidder. Whoever that is will get the very first “taste” (no pun intended) of my second novel-in-progress, tentatively titled, “Lupus.”
For information about the event call (831) 566-3712 or go to www.serrena.org.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
EMPTY HANDED HEART
I woke this morning with one of the Z’Man’s lyrics on my mind. It’s from a song called Empty Hearted Town…Nothing matters much but love and money. So, I had to locate the song amongst my Warren Zevon collection and make it a Z-fest today. Warren wasn’t recognized by many music lovers for his absolute genius. In fact, the ONLY song of his most people know is Werewolves of London, which immortalized him at least every Halloween. The funny thing about that song is how long he said it took him and a few others to write it. Something like 15 minutes. It was the silliest song he wrote, and his biggest hit. But he wrote a ton of great songs and each one tells a story. He also wrote the very popular song “Poor poor pitiful me,” one of Linda Ronstadt’s biggest hits, which you probably have heard. My personal favorites are French Inhaler, Carmelita, and Genius, and oh, there are so many!
Take a listen, if you haven’t. If you have heard of Warren Zevon, and are a fan, go to his website and sign a petition to help get him inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame: http://www.warrenzevon.com/index.htm
Check out Warren’s words to “Empty Hearted Town.”
Ain't life strange
Ain't it funny
Nothing matters much but love and money
Things don't work out the way you reckoned
Money comes first
And the love comes second
Cigarettes make the sun come up
Whiskey makes the sun go down
And in between
We do a lot of standing around
It's all I can do
To make it through the day
She wrapped it all in darkness
And I can't find my way, and
I'm walking down the sidewalks of LA
Wishing I had a warmer jacket
And the leaves are falling down
I'm just another man
With an empty handed heart
In an eee-mpty hearted town
It started out alright
Ended up all wrong
Shoulda done, shoulda done
That's my song
Now the night is falling hard and fast
All dressed up for the masquerade
And the lights of the city stretch as far as the eye can see
Look what wonders man has made
Look what wonders man has made
I'm walking down the sidewalks of LA
Wishing I had a warmer jacket
And the leaves are falling down
I'm just another man
With an empty handed heart
In an eee-mpty hearted town
I'm walking down the sidewalks of LA
Wishing I had a warmer jacket
And something more to say
Take a listen, if you haven’t. If you have heard of Warren Zevon, and are a fan, go to his website and sign a petition to help get him inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame: http://www.warrenzevon.com/index.htm
Check out Warren’s words to “Empty Hearted Town.”
Ain't life strange
Ain't it funny
Nothing matters much but love and money
Things don't work out the way you reckoned
Money comes first
And the love comes second
Cigarettes make the sun come up
Whiskey makes the sun go down
And in between
We do a lot of standing around
It's all I can do
To make it through the day
She wrapped it all in darkness
And I can't find my way, and
I'm walking down the sidewalks of LA
Wishing I had a warmer jacket
And the leaves are falling down
I'm just another man
With an empty handed heart
In an eee-mpty hearted town
It started out alright
Ended up all wrong
Shoulda done, shoulda done
That's my song
Now the night is falling hard and fast
All dressed up for the masquerade
And the lights of the city stretch as far as the eye can see
Look what wonders man has made
Look what wonders man has made
I'm walking down the sidewalks of LA
Wishing I had a warmer jacket
And the leaves are falling down
I'm just another man
With an empty handed heart
In an eee-mpty hearted town
I'm walking down the sidewalks of LA
Wishing I had a warmer jacket
And something more to say
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
LUPUS
The word “lupus” is the Latin name for wolf. Lupus is also short for “systemic lupus erythematosus,” a chronic autoimmune disorder, because, before the days of drug treatments, the skin part of the disease could eat away at the face and leave destructive injuries, as if the person had been attacked by a wolf. Lupus can affect the skin, joints, kidneys, and other organs.
Some animals, such as wolves, bite off their own limbs to free themselves from a trap, but the animals will die anyway. With autoimmune diseases like lupus, the body destroys itself. Normally, the autoimmune system is designed to keep the body safe by protecting it from foreign invaders. Think of the immune system as a little army inside your body that stands in defense against anything that’s not supposed to be there. When a person has lupus, that army, like a trader, attempts to destroy the body it was designed to protect.
People often mistake lowered immune conditions like aids or hiv for autoimmunity. In fact, both impair the immune system, but think of lowered immunity as your personal army with its hands tied--it’s unable to fight very well, but when your army attacks itself, it’s a very confused situation. Believe me, lupus frequently stumps even the doctors.
Exposure to sunlight often triggers lupus attacks. Photosensitivity or abnormal sensitivity to sunlight, teaches lupus sufferers to avoid sunlight. So, I often feel like the fabled vampire hiding from the sun and rejoicing in the cool of a darkened room.
Warren Zevon’s most famous song, "Werewolves of London," just finished playing. If you’ve read my column for a while, you know how much I LOVE Warren Z. So I’ll end this post with his line, which feels very true to me and the topic of lupus: “Werewolves of London. Huh, draw blood!” (Change “London” to Salinas.)
Some animals, such as wolves, bite off their own limbs to free themselves from a trap, but the animals will die anyway. With autoimmune diseases like lupus, the body destroys itself. Normally, the autoimmune system is designed to keep the body safe by protecting it from foreign invaders. Think of the immune system as a little army inside your body that stands in defense against anything that’s not supposed to be there. When a person has lupus, that army, like a trader, attempts to destroy the body it was designed to protect.
People often mistake lowered immune conditions like aids or hiv for autoimmunity. In fact, both impair the immune system, but think of lowered immunity as your personal army with its hands tied--it’s unable to fight very well, but when your army attacks itself, it’s a very confused situation. Believe me, lupus frequently stumps even the doctors.
Exposure to sunlight often triggers lupus attacks. Photosensitivity or abnormal sensitivity to sunlight, teaches lupus sufferers to avoid sunlight. So, I often feel like the fabled vampire hiding from the sun and rejoicing in the cool of a darkened room.
Warren Zevon’s most famous song, "Werewolves of London," just finished playing. If you’ve read my column for a while, you know how much I LOVE Warren Z. So I’ll end this post with his line, which feels very true to me and the topic of lupus: “Werewolves of London. Huh, draw blood!” (Change “London” to Salinas.)
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
BLOOD OF LIFE
I’m a little behind the times. Vampire novels have been hot forever and have been in everything from television to literary horror novels, yet I just came up with an idea last week that’s been extremely popular lately in a television show (based on a series of books) called “True Blood.” My idea didn’t come from my imagination though. It’s more like a realization based on personal experience.
I was given a blood transfusion.
I’ve had anemia of chronic disease from autoimmune diseases for over 20 years now. I just turned 46. A few weeks back, I had terrific gut pains and started bleeding. My husband took me to the hospital. Long story short, I ended up having a blood transfusion. Merely one unit of blood, yet the color came back into my face, and, like a magical potion, I appeared younger. I felt better, more energized. More vital. More alive.
Ironically, in the month’s prior, I’d been formerly requesting my health insurance to pay for two different treatments for anemia of chronic disease after they turned me down.
They said no again.
Then, I ended up in the ER and got a transfusion of someone else’s blood.
And it truly is the blood of life. It got me thinking about a story, as I usually do when something finally occurs to me to be true. My writer friend said, “Oh, yeah honey, that’s what True Blood is all about.”
Reminds me of Sheryl Crow’s lyrics, “It’s a black fly in your chardonnay. It’s a death row pardon one minute too late. And isn’t it ironic? Don’t you think?”
But then, no story is original. Everything’s been done before. It’s the writer's personal slant on it. His or her (or them's) voice. One's individual voice. That’s what we fall in love with when we read. At least that’s what I do. I fall in love with that particular's writer's placement of words on a page. There's nothing new about words. And there's nothing like reading an entertaining story. One that endures like "Dracula" in its many individual interpretations is testament to the fact that a good story cannot be over told.
Maybe I will write a story about a new breed of vampire called vampireanemiacs.
I was given a blood transfusion.
I’ve had anemia of chronic disease from autoimmune diseases for over 20 years now. I just turned 46. A few weeks back, I had terrific gut pains and started bleeding. My husband took me to the hospital. Long story short, I ended up having a blood transfusion. Merely one unit of blood, yet the color came back into my face, and, like a magical potion, I appeared younger. I felt better, more energized. More vital. More alive.
Ironically, in the month’s prior, I’d been formerly requesting my health insurance to pay for two different treatments for anemia of chronic disease after they turned me down.
They said no again.
Then, I ended up in the ER and got a transfusion of someone else’s blood.
And it truly is the blood of life. It got me thinking about a story, as I usually do when something finally occurs to me to be true. My writer friend said, “Oh, yeah honey, that’s what True Blood is all about.”
Reminds me of Sheryl Crow’s lyrics, “It’s a black fly in your chardonnay. It’s a death row pardon one minute too late. And isn’t it ironic? Don’t you think?”
But then, no story is original. Everything’s been done before. It’s the writer's personal slant on it. His or her (or them's) voice. One's individual voice. That’s what we fall in love with when we read. At least that’s what I do. I fall in love with that particular's writer's placement of words on a page. There's nothing new about words. And there's nothing like reading an entertaining story. One that endures like "Dracula" in its many individual interpretations is testament to the fact that a good story cannot be over told.
Maybe I will write a story about a new breed of vampire called vampireanemiacs.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
LIFE IS NOT A GAME
In the game of Monopoly, if you land on a bit of bad luck, you go straight to jail. You don’t pass go. You don’t collect $200.
In real life, it’s been 5 weeks since little Sebastian Balch was killed by chronic drunk driver Dion Thomas Gussner, who is expected to receive 16-years in prison when he’s sentenced in two weeks. Mr. Gussner is 31-years-old. Ironically, Sebastian would have just been turning 21 (the legal age to drink alcohol in California) by the time Mr. Gussner is eligible to get out of prison. Considering Mr. Gussner’s prior like offenses: dui and reckless driving, I feel this sentence is too light. Will we all be safe from his obsessive need to drink and drive? Yes, for a time. But what kind of message is this to others who have the same addiction? And yes, it’s also true that there’s no way to bring Sebastian back. Does that mean our criminal justice system is equitable? Does it hold people to task for their crimes? I have to say no, and I’ll tell you why.
I’ve had my share of driving problems. Yes, I’ve been in accidents. In fact, too many, however, the only thing I hurt was myself and my car and never while intoxicated. Because of my 2 speeding tickets (and accidents) I pay around $200 a month for the privilege to drive. This penalizes me in the one place that really hurts every month-- my pocketbook. The accidents won’t drop off for 5 years; the speeding tickets, 3 years. If you add up all the money I’ll be paying for insurance over the next 5 years, the monetary cost to me is right around $12,000. Do you have any idea what it will cost US to imprison Gussner? The price to house every prisoner in the state of California is around $30 grand a year (that doesn’t apply to geriatric and sick prisoners who cost much more). You don’t have to even be a third grader to see the problem here. Call me crazy, but it would be a lot easier to have MY meals made for me, a place to sleep, FREE healthcare, and NOT to have to go to work every day. Excuse my sailor language, but that doesn’t sound like punishment; it’s a fucking vacation.
Many moons ago I studied law enforcement and wanted to be a cop, but once the Department of Fish and Game hired me as a warden, I suddenly realized the truth of what I’d be expected to do: go out into the middle of nowhere and approach hunters with loaded weapons. I wasn’t comfortable with that scenario, so I went back to school to study something more appropriate for me. Still, I received a decent background and degree in our administration of justice system. It simply doesn’t work. The kind of punishment for taking a 4-year-old’s life, for taking any life, except purely through no fault, should be one’s life. I believe in the death penalty for many reasons. Sure, swift, and harsh punishment is the only deterrent to criminal behavior.
Interestingly, the book I’m currently working on (Unknown: The Devil’s Corral) includes a real person, a man named August Vollmer, who is known as “the father of modern law enforcement.” He didn’t believe in putting anyone behind bars, and that doing so only made the person more likely to commit further crimes once he/she got out of prison.
I used to feel that way, but no longer. What changed? Me, I guess. I grew up. It’s easy to train a young child, but once that child grows into adulthood it becomes much more difficult. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. This kind of aphorism didn’t come from outer space. Those are honest words. As I get older I realize the truth more. It’s always inside trying to tell me if I listen to myself. And it knows right from wrong.
I wonder if Mr. Gussner heard his own mind warning him not to drive on that day he took Sebastian’s life. After all, he’d done it before, been caught, slapped on the wrist, told not to do it again, and he still threw five shots of whiskey down his throat before getting into his truck. I suppose it doesn’t matter because he didn’t listen to himself, his past, or anything else. We can all relate to that, I’m sure, and feel sorry for our poor choices, but death is final. It’s not a game. You can’t get a Get Out of Jail FREE Card.
Well, maybe in California you can.
In real life, it’s been 5 weeks since little Sebastian Balch was killed by chronic drunk driver Dion Thomas Gussner, who is expected to receive 16-years in prison when he’s sentenced in two weeks. Mr. Gussner is 31-years-old. Ironically, Sebastian would have just been turning 21 (the legal age to drink alcohol in California) by the time Mr. Gussner is eligible to get out of prison. Considering Mr. Gussner’s prior like offenses: dui and reckless driving, I feel this sentence is too light. Will we all be safe from his obsessive need to drink and drive? Yes, for a time. But what kind of message is this to others who have the same addiction? And yes, it’s also true that there’s no way to bring Sebastian back. Does that mean our criminal justice system is equitable? Does it hold people to task for their crimes? I have to say no, and I’ll tell you why.
I’ve had my share of driving problems. Yes, I’ve been in accidents. In fact, too many, however, the only thing I hurt was myself and my car and never while intoxicated. Because of my 2 speeding tickets (and accidents) I pay around $200 a month for the privilege to drive. This penalizes me in the one place that really hurts every month-- my pocketbook. The accidents won’t drop off for 5 years; the speeding tickets, 3 years. If you add up all the money I’ll be paying for insurance over the next 5 years, the monetary cost to me is right around $12,000. Do you have any idea what it will cost US to imprison Gussner? The price to house every prisoner in the state of California is around $30 grand a year (that doesn’t apply to geriatric and sick prisoners who cost much more). You don’t have to even be a third grader to see the problem here. Call me crazy, but it would be a lot easier to have MY meals made for me, a place to sleep, FREE healthcare, and NOT to have to go to work every day. Excuse my sailor language, but that doesn’t sound like punishment; it’s a fucking vacation.
Many moons ago I studied law enforcement and wanted to be a cop, but once the Department of Fish and Game hired me as a warden, I suddenly realized the truth of what I’d be expected to do: go out into the middle of nowhere and approach hunters with loaded weapons. I wasn’t comfortable with that scenario, so I went back to school to study something more appropriate for me. Still, I received a decent background and degree in our administration of justice system. It simply doesn’t work. The kind of punishment for taking a 4-year-old’s life, for taking any life, except purely through no fault, should be one’s life. I believe in the death penalty for many reasons. Sure, swift, and harsh punishment is the only deterrent to criminal behavior.
Interestingly, the book I’m currently working on (Unknown: The Devil’s Corral) includes a real person, a man named August Vollmer, who is known as “the father of modern law enforcement.” He didn’t believe in putting anyone behind bars, and that doing so only made the person more likely to commit further crimes once he/she got out of prison.
I used to feel that way, but no longer. What changed? Me, I guess. I grew up. It’s easy to train a young child, but once that child grows into adulthood it becomes much more difficult. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. This kind of aphorism didn’t come from outer space. Those are honest words. As I get older I realize the truth more. It’s always inside trying to tell me if I listen to myself. And it knows right from wrong.
I wonder if Mr. Gussner heard his own mind warning him not to drive on that day he took Sebastian’s life. After all, he’d done it before, been caught, slapped on the wrist, told not to do it again, and he still threw five shots of whiskey down his throat before getting into his truck. I suppose it doesn’t matter because he didn’t listen to himself, his past, or anything else. We can all relate to that, I’m sure, and feel sorry for our poor choices, but death is final. It’s not a game. You can’t get a Get Out of Jail FREE Card.
Well, maybe in California you can.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
NUMBER NINE IS DIVINE
From somewhere in the back country of Fort Ord, I hear Jack Erslager’s disembodied voice telling me today is special. It’s 9-9-09. Remember, number 9 has magical properties. And the swastika? It’s the only symbol with nine points. Oh lucky day. Unless, of course, you’re in Japan. People from Japan attribute bad luck to the number nine (kind of like how Americans think about the number 13).
Recently, I browsed through Jack’s book about the history of the swastika and looked through pages of black and white glossy photos of good luck tokens, all with that most misunderstood of symbols, pre-WWII swastikas. One token in particular captured my attention: a mystical seer gazing at a crystal ball with the numeral nine floating in the middle of it. Other good luck symbols covered these tokens: a rabbit foot, four leaf clover, wishbone, and, if I remember correctly, something Egyptian, like a pyramid or all-seeing eye. The tokens, once owned by Jack, were from all over the world, which leads me to the conclusion that in the not too distant past, we were believers in luck. I wonder how many people carry tokens like this today. Jack did. He carried one in his wallet: the hovering “9” in the middle of the seer’s ball.
I don’t believe in luck. I think we are the makers of our own destiny, our own luck. Yet, whenever I write out the date, or see an address, phone number, etc., I count the numbers. Through osmosis I’ve learned to do that, even though I have no idea what number four means, or five, but I remember being told about numbers many times. The only one that stuck is 9.
May the four winds from the four corners of the heavens, ever upon you gently blow.
Recently, I browsed through Jack’s book about the history of the swastika and looked through pages of black and white glossy photos of good luck tokens, all with that most misunderstood of symbols, pre-WWII swastikas. One token in particular captured my attention: a mystical seer gazing at a crystal ball with the numeral nine floating in the middle of it. Other good luck symbols covered these tokens: a rabbit foot, four leaf clover, wishbone, and, if I remember correctly, something Egyptian, like a pyramid or all-seeing eye. The tokens, once owned by Jack, were from all over the world, which leads me to the conclusion that in the not too distant past, we were believers in luck. I wonder how many people carry tokens like this today. Jack did. He carried one in his wallet: the hovering “9” in the middle of the seer’s ball.
I don’t believe in luck. I think we are the makers of our own destiny, our own luck. Yet, whenever I write out the date, or see an address, phone number, etc., I count the numbers. Through osmosis I’ve learned to do that, even though I have no idea what number four means, or five, but I remember being told about numbers many times. The only one that stuck is 9.
May the four winds from the four corners of the heavens, ever upon you gently blow.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
IN PURSUIT OF A PUBLISHER # 12
It’s been a year since beginning this column, “In Pursuit of a Publisher.” I succeeded in getting my book, “East Garrison” published on my own terms, without the help of an agent or traditional publisher, and, although anyone can do it, everyone shouldn’t do it.
The story started from my imaginings, staring out my foggy office window on the former Army base, Fort Ord. I drove and hiked around the eerily-empty decrepitude and wondered what it would be like for a woman to be stranded on part of the deserted base (where even the police don't patrol) under the most physically difficult circumstance I’d been through (having a baby), and then I added a mountain lion protecting her cubs. A screenwriting teacher summed up the formula well, "I got my protagonist up a tree and then began chucking rocks at her."
However, what began as crazy musings quickly became a personal study into my deeply disturbing relationship with my father, who inadvertently materialized into my main character. Yes, I’m sure it sounds cliché, but it’s not. I grew up with a would-be Nazi who had me removing “Made in Japan” stickers off Gestapo badges and antiquing German battle flags in the washing machine with Rit #1 yellow dye, then stamping the edges with bizarre numbers and letters. I knew the words to the Nazi Party anthem, Die Fahne hoch (the flag on high) before I ever heard The Star Spangled Banner. I recognized Adolf Hitler from his picture and bible Mein Kampf (My Struggle), but had no idea who was the president of the United States of America. I had no clue what my father was doing, although I couldn’t help but be acutely aware of the strange looks. My feelings of not “fitting in” quickly turned me into a candidate for the suicide hotline.
Only now do I understand why I grew up with a keen sense of “outsiderdom.” East Garrison’s plot is fictional; many of its characters are not. And I’m fairly certain that my childhood was unusual. Hopefully people will want to read it and will, in fact, enjoy it.
In my next column I’ll tell you about my media training in Texas with my PR team—Phenix and Phenix Literary Publicists. In the meantime, visit my website, www.gmweger.com for upcoming events near YOU.
To be continued…
The story started from my imaginings, staring out my foggy office window on the former Army base, Fort Ord. I drove and hiked around the eerily-empty decrepitude and wondered what it would be like for a woman to be stranded on part of the deserted base (where even the police don't patrol) under the most physically difficult circumstance I’d been through (having a baby), and then I added a mountain lion protecting her cubs. A screenwriting teacher summed up the formula well, "I got my protagonist up a tree and then began chucking rocks at her."
However, what began as crazy musings quickly became a personal study into my deeply disturbing relationship with my father, who inadvertently materialized into my main character. Yes, I’m sure it sounds cliché, but it’s not. I grew up with a would-be Nazi who had me removing “Made in Japan” stickers off Gestapo badges and antiquing German battle flags in the washing machine with Rit #1 yellow dye, then stamping the edges with bizarre numbers and letters. I knew the words to the Nazi Party anthem, Die Fahne hoch (the flag on high) before I ever heard The Star Spangled Banner. I recognized Adolf Hitler from his picture and bible Mein Kampf (My Struggle), but had no idea who was the president of the United States of America. I had no clue what my father was doing, although I couldn’t help but be acutely aware of the strange looks. My feelings of not “fitting in” quickly turned me into a candidate for the suicide hotline.
Only now do I understand why I grew up with a keen sense of “outsiderdom.” East Garrison’s plot is fictional; many of its characters are not. And I’m fairly certain that my childhood was unusual. Hopefully people will want to read it and will, in fact, enjoy it.
In my next column I’ll tell you about my media training in Texas with my PR team—Phenix and Phenix Literary Publicists. In the meantime, visit my website, www.gmweger.com for upcoming events near YOU.
To be continued…
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