Work Post: The Other Side Of The Coin

I have a lot of people ask me what I'm working on. I do a lot of different things. A lot of people don't know what I do, so I've decide to begin posting more info about work. Well, there are several reasons I'm posting more about work, not the least of which is that, if you've followed this blog up until now, you might think all I work on are nude photo shoots and bad action movies. Not so. I wrote about those because they are the aberrations, the side trips, the Vegas vacations of my work as an arteest. Yes, fun. No, not my bread and butter or focus.

There is a colleague named Andrew for whom I've worked the past five years ( yes, he's naked on his website ). He is an exceptionally talented Creative Director and Producer, and the brother of Bella. To me they are the Wonder Twins of the Chicago creative community. Bella has become a powerhouse in Chicago Comedy, and Andrew has become a powerhouse in the Chicago non-profit community and events industry.

Now, when I say non-profit I'm not talking about raising subscription rates at small theater (which I'm all for). I'm talking about more substantial endeavors. He was the creative force behind the Chicago's 2016 Olympic bid Millennium Park celebratory event "Chicago Believes, which raised $12 million for the city's bid effort; he created an exceptional event for IIT in the historic Crown Hall on the IIT campus ( which I art directed and for which my primary scenic element was honored by being installed permanently on campus... ahem...); and he's worked for over a year with the amazing global environmental group Conservation International, which brings me to my current project.

Conservation International is an environmental advocacy organization with amazing diversity and scope of mission. They work with major business leaders, politicians, governments and financial institutions around the world, in their quest to "safeguard valuable species, preserve the most important landscapes and seascapes, and support communities that care for and rely on Earth's natural resources." They aren't activists making bold, rash statements. They are scientists, business people, artists, educators, working with great thoughtfulness and innovation. Really a great group.

Andrew and I are working on our 3rd fundraising event for C.I. (his 6th) which will be presented in Seattle this coming week. The design of the staging plays off a new campaign of C.I. called "Lost There, Felt Here", and utilizes a concept of the empty space surrounded by lush greenery. I've enhanced the greenery motif further with the inclusion of green umbrellas – metaphors for protective canopies (i.e. rainforest) and a nod to Seattle weather and their "bumbershoots".

I'm painting the umbrellas myself and will have to haul them with me on the plane. I'm very excited to see them all in place and lit.

There are a lot of cool presenters and participants scheduled, but I'll tell you about them later.

I'm Apparently "It"...

My friend Mo has "tagged" me. I'm now required, according to the rules, to post "seven random facts about (my) fascinating self on (my) blog".

Okay, sure. Why not. I don't usually do things like this, but, well, it's Mo, so:

1. My first birthday was January 15, 1967, the same day as SuperBowl I. Green Bay played (and lost to) Kansas City. I was born in Green Bay. It was a big deal, apparently... (Oh, and for you Green Bay fans: my name is Brett).

I have very few compulsions. Two of them manifest as follows:

2. Before I close a locked door behind me I must look at the keys in my hand. Car, house, closet, it doesn't matter what kind. And...

3. I have a constant fear that I smell bad.

4. I'm allergic to giraffes.

5. As a young boy, I witnessed a horrific accident in which a schoolmate was rendered unrecognizable as a human.

6. My first rock concert was Guess Who at the Illinois State Fair. (I was 5.)

7. I was once asked to participate in a pornographic photo shoot. I declined. (I was 18.)

You're welcome.

UPDATE: Keeping All The Balls In The Air

Well, here they are:

The National Lampoon Girls

Out of over 2,100 photos we shot, Maxim.com used... eight (we didn't shoot Ali Larter or Shasha).

Ah, well, they look great. Walter did a fantastic job. I especially like Ali Cobrin's photo (wow) and Sarah looks gorgeous. I'm not entirely thrilled with the choices for the other women. The uncropped pic of Andrea is waaaay better (she looks over retouched too).

Perhaps I'll create an online album of some of my favs and post them. Stay tuned.

Keeping All The Balls In The Air: Part Two

"I saw her butt."

"Sir, all of the models are wearing swimsuits."

"I saw her butt!"

Lucky you...

We had several visitors that day. At one point in the early afternoon I ran upstairs to the main prep area and it was filled with 6 models, 3 stylists, 1 coordinator, a producer/director friend and his pomeranian, a production assistant, 2 or 3 representatives of the film company, a producer of the film who had not been part of the production for quite some time but now seemed to be available to visit our photo shoot, and a pizza boy. I'm sure I'm leaving someone out. It was a scene straight out of central casting. If I had put this in a film people would be rolling their eyes ("Gee, look, a pizza boy...how original").

As I walked into all this activity, Johnny, our assistant, looked at me and said "you look SO stressed."

"I'm just focused" I lied. The early, unexpected rush had me scrambling to keep up at first. And the roster I was given was a little misleading. We ended up having not 7 to 10, but thirteen models that day. There was A LOT to take care of in a short time. But, as soon as Johnny said that to me I took a deep breath and relaxed. It really was time to focus. A stressed out producer does no one any good.

"Brett, there's a neighbor at the door" said Ali.

"What does he want?" I asked but I was already at the door. I was greeted by a skinny, nervous man who was sweating as much from stress as from the summer heat.

"Any other day, I'd be fine with this, I really would" he began.

"What's wrong?"

"Really, any other day this would be fine, but..."

The house we were shooting in was in the West Hollywood hills, perched on the side of a canyon. During the afternoon, we did indeed see people out on their decks or walking through their yards. And, yes, we saw a party in progress on a patio across the way. We all laughed at this for a moment -- "they're getting a nice little show" -- then thought nothing of it. The women were all wearing swimsuits, and occasionally were asked to take off their tops. The nature of Maxim, though, is a general circulation publication. Though topless, the women had had to cover their bits. To help this we had generously styled them with beaded jewelry, necklaces and such.

"I'm hosting a fundraiser at my house, just across the canyon. I've got a house full of priests and nuns. And there are nude women out here. I saw her butt."

"Sir, all of the models are wearing swimsuits."

"I saw her butt!"

"I assure you there is no full nudity in our shoot. All the models have bikini bottoms on. Besides, we're done with all the exterior shoots."

"Like I said, any other day this would be fine..."

We went around and around with this for a minute. I was being as polite as possible but he was not comforted. He insisted that his guests, the whole bunch of priests and nuns, had seen a fully naked bottom (gasp) writhing around on the terrace garden. I didn't blame the guy. I was doing my job running a shoot, he was doing his protecting his guests.

He went away unsatisfied with my response. Inside the house we all had a good laugh about the situation. I don't think they did in his house. After he left we looked across the canyon. On his patio where there once were party-goers mingling and sitting about in chairs there was now a line of broad shouldered men, their backs to the canyon shielding the view from the party-goers inside.

His guests did indeed see a butt writhing around on the terrace garden, though not fully naked. They had witnessed the voluptuous bottom of Ms. Darryl Hanah, an adult film actress (two Rs, one N), who, when in front of the camera became so charged with fuck-me-now sexuality that I'm certain more sensitive observer could not imagine she was not wearing clothes, much like our first model, Rebeca. I was a little surprised by the intensity of her look too. Ms. Hanah had such a laid back quality when she arrived. She was so easy-going and warm as she waited patiently for her slot, only to become filled with a hard, ravenous eroticism on the set. That's what she's paid for, and she knows her job. Her husband Jack -- also an adult film actor -- was there with her, and they settled in easily for several hours. When Darryl was finished the two hung around for awhile, at one point smoking a joint and watching the party of priests and nuns out on the deck.

"The Girls of National Lampoon's Homo Erectus" included straight actresses and adult film actresses. A few of them were in the initial shoot of the film and a few were only from the additional nude scenes. From the "straight" world were the 3 beautiful Zima sisters, Jilina Scott, a woman whose recent credits include a spot in the reality show "The Search for the Next Elvira", and a couple of other up-and-comers. From the adult side were Rebeca, Marie Luv, Faye and, as I mentioned, Darryl Hanah. There was also the lovely Andrea Lowell, a 2006 Playboy Playmate.

All of the models -- the novices and the professionals -- did impressive work. Many of the adult actresses brought their A game and looked like high fashion models. (As one person said to me "they're so happy that someone is asking them to put clothes ON that they eat it up.") And the straight actresses, though most were hesitant, had a great time exploring their sexy sides and became very playful and sensual. I'm very proud to say that we had more good photos than bad (kudos Wlater). It was all really a success in my book. Let's see what Maxim thinks.

It was a loooong day. We had to get the photos to Maxim on Friday so Walter, the director, Ali and I did an initial review of all 2100+ photos before heading home at about 1:30am. It took much of the next day to complete a second review and get all the submission info together. We weren't able to get the photos off until Saturday, but it all worked out well and I was just told that Maxim is very pleased with their initial review.

So much of my work is tangible: drawing, painting, etc. I've worked often as an art director and spent half my life as a designer, where my ideas are produced by others. Even then the final product is a tangible, tactile reproduction of my drawings and concepts. I've brought them to life on paper first. But a project like this is different. I have to provide ideas only, suggestions, thoughts, and then completely rely on others to produce the real work. It's an interesting change of pace. At least I'm confident in my eye, and I really thrive in collaborative environments, so when the opportunity comes to stretch the limits of my blah, blah, blah... Oh, and I really enjoy accessorizing half-naked women.

What...?

Keep your eyes open for the feature on Maxim.com: "The Girls of National Lampoon's Homo Erectus". Then you too will be able to say "I saw her butt!"

Keeping All The Balls In The Air: Part One

"I'd like you to be my producer on a photo shoot this Thursday. It's for a Maxim feature. We're shooting seven to ten women. All swimwear."

"You want me to produce...?"

"Yeah, it'll be fun. You can be in charge of the spray bottle, too."

I've been through a lot the past few years. The changes in my life have been tectonic in scope. I've lost much. I've gained much. I've made many, many sacrifices, and I'm working very, very hard to make those sacrifices matter, to make my decisions count. During the difficult times I've had several people close to me insist that I give myself a break every now and then, have some fun, and don't get lost in despair. These days I tend too often to throw myself into new opportunities with desperate vigor, eager (arguably to a fault) to channel my energies into something with long-term potential, something more roundly fulfilling, yet practical, something that can indulge my talents, blah, blah, blah...

"How many women?"

"Seven to ten. It's for Maxim, so it's gotta be really sexy. Walter's shooting. You guys did a great job with Josie's stuff, and it'll be a great credit for you, so I thought you'd want to help out on this. You interested?"

Yes. High profile career opportunity, utilizing my talents in a fun and supportive manner, partial nudity expected. Yes.

"Yeah, I think so. Maybe..."

When my friend sold his caveman movie, the releasing studio insisted on amping it up with an R rating. Their solution: more nudity. Over a year past the film's primary shoot and several months after its premiere at Slamdance Film Festival, additional footage was requested. Extending one of the film's gags that included an all-female cave tribe, my friend -- the film's writer/director/star -- had to endure take after take sitting in a pond getting "cleansed" by the cave women, each of them wearing only a merkin and the occasional leathery headband. Poor guy.

With some fresh silly, titillating, gratuitous nudity in the can, the studio then came up with the idea of a "The Girls Of..." photo spread as part of their promotional push featuring the cave-women. Contact was made and Maxim Online approved the idea (caveat: the photo shoot would be produced and presented by the film studio and the material is, at the time of this writing, still pending approval from Maxim; there are no guarantees it will make publication). Now, I've seen Maxim magazine once or twice. Being a straight man I can appreciate some of its more... admirable... content, but it's not exactly my first choice off the magazine rack ( I'm more of a New Yorker kinda guy ). I wouldn't have to read the magazine though, just help coordinate some content. And, really, I would do it to support my friend.

What...?

I've art directed photo shoots before. Mostly individual artist or bands, and usually I had some time to plan. 7 to 10 models in a single shoot is a big undertaking and we had only one day to prepare. Walter, the photographer, ran around furiously gathering wardrobe and jewelry samples and I spent a bit of time that same day on the phone helping wrangle some details, even though I would be primarily an on-site producer. We were both somewhat familiar with the location - a private residence in the West Hollywood hills - but there was no opportunity to map out specific set-ups. We were gong to have to wing it. Geurilla shooting again.

It was calm and workman-like when I arrived the morning of the shoot. The coordinator, Ali - who was one of the assistants during the promotional phase, and one of the models for the day - was there, ready to go. She had already been on the phone rounding up the talent (some were hesitant or just plain flaky) and rearranging the schedule for the 14th time. The director was there, optimistic and mellow. Walter was a little late, but no problem, we had to move things back anyway. The hair/makeup artist was there, as was the videographer for the film company ready to shoot behind-the-scenes footage for the DVD extras. We all went through the days expectations. The pieces were all in place.

As time slots were shuffled around, we agreed Ali should prepare for her shoot so we could fit her in a.s.a.p. She is an impossibly cute young actress with a natural all-American quality that Old Hollywood would have killed to sign. She would have looked perfect on a billboard next to Mickey Rooney: god-given curves, peachy complexion, huge, flirty eyes, a kittenish grin, and naturally curly hair that would put Shirley Temple to shame. Ali modeled for us a bikini of a colorful plaid on a white background, like the tablecloth from a country fair. I looked at her and immediately thought: ice cream cone. She needs an ice cream cone, I said to the group. Perhaps a colorful sherbet. I was confident of my first executive decision of the day. What a pro...

We were running behind schedule. I had time to run to the store to get some ice cream and a few other supplies. Our first regularly scheduled model, Rebeca, arrived and needed time to get into hair and makeup, Walter was still setting up his equipment, our assistant wasn't there yet, so off I went. When I returned, the location was bustling.

Several other women had arrived, the makeup artist and her assistant had three chairs filled, and the director was suddenly impatient, asking "who's ready? Who's ready? We gotta get this going." Nervous about time, he and Walter had already begun to shoot Ali while I was gone. With her busy modeling there was no one to organize the personnel. It was a little chaotic. I quickly assembled the ice cream cone (rainbow sherbet), took it to the location, handed it to Ali, and ran back upstairs, ready to go.

I introduced myself to Rebeca and explained a little about what we were expecting. She is a stunning, petite woman from Spain with perfect proportions, pale skin, black hair, and a piercing, dark gaze. She has a sophisticated, femme-fatale quality that we enhanced with a blood red velvet bikini (hers) and silver jewelry. I was excited to start the day with someone of such distinction and the choice to go with a sophisticated look was cemented by me and Rebeca's stylist (she was the only model to bring her own).

Sophisticated. Stylish. Refined. Every time I used those words while we were choosing wardobe, makeup and location for Rebeca, her eyes flashed a little - just for a moment - as if she was unsure about this description. Did she not agree? Was there some glitch in translation (she had only recently learned English)? I couldn't place her hesitancy. I thought it was strange but said nothing of it and moved on. Her first set-up was on a beautiful white modern chaise, plate glass windows behind her overlooking Coldwater Canyon, Hollywood and Los Angeles stretched out beyond. It was gorgeous. We were ready to feel her out, carefully directing her past any inhibitions into the sexiest poses possible. Rebeca was a natural. We quickly realized this stunning young woman had no inhibitions. Our direction to her was minimal: "move your hand", etc. She writhed around on the chaise in ways that almost made me blush. It was effortless. The photographer snapped away furiously.

Very soon, Rebeca's poses evolved into something quite a bit steamier. Her hips and face morphed from sexy into sex. We all quickly knew that this girl wouldn't need any topless pics to enhance the sexuality as we had planned for many of the set-ups. Even thought she was still dressed in her bikini, it was impossible not to get the impression that her seduction was complete, and some lucky partner was already on top of her, or behind her, or inside of her. Yikes. These were gold. Sexy, border-line pornographic gold.

I left Rebeca to change into a second outfit, introduced myself to the other models and prepared the next set-up. The director came up to check in. "Did you catch any of Rebeca's set?" I asked.

"Yeah. She's gorgeous, isn't she?"

"My God...What a pro. Knew just what to do. Very sexy"

He laughed a little, then said "That's probably because she's a porn actress. Does really raunchy stuff too. Pretty much anything."

Really...

"There's going to be a few of them today. They were in the movie. Who's ready for the next shoot? Let's keep this moving."

When I was designing and painting for theater in New York several years ago - working on Shakespeare, Ibsen, new plays, with international directors and cast members - a joke about me circulated throughout the technical staff, always getting back to me. "You're going to be designing strip shows in Vegas someday. Just wait." This was a lark. Less intended as a true prediction than an absurd one: a joke of opposites. Since the beginning of my professional career I had a reputation for doing the meaty work, the difficult and complex theater that required both an artistic eye and a practical sensibility. The technical directors, stagehands, painters, etc. were just trying to keep me real and have a laugh with me.

This prediction, the "Vegas strip show" vision, was one I've kept with me. While I was working on operas, or upstart theater in Chicago, or struggling to find the next perfect project, I would pull this little quip out from the back of my mind, just to keep myself real: don't take it all too seriously. It's all entertainment. This day, suddenly surrounded by porn stars, models and straight actresses in bikinis, everyone looking at me for direction and input, it flew into the forefront of my thoughts furiously... and straight out of my head. I had a job to do. A lot of trust had been placed in my lap to manage this difficult shoot, and I still had the opportunity to give my two cents on art direction.

"I can tell you've done this before" several of the models said to me as we chose their looks. I'd smile at them confidently and say "A couple of times." Despite the tricky schedule the day was shaping up very well. And let's face it: there's some benefit to being a straight man who knows how to accessorize a half-naked woman.

"Brett, this is Darryl Hanah. She's one of our models today."

The day had only begun. Vegas, here I come...

"Producer"

When I first moved to L.A. last year I could imagine a lot of possibilities. I'm not star struck very easily and I really don't care about "the scene". I came here to work. But, I never imagined that my first time going to the famous and heavily trafficked Ivy restaurant it would be in a cheap caveman costume on a busy Saturday afternoon. Good thing I was wearing that wig.

I was recently asked to help with some promotional videos by a friend of mine who directed a caveman movie that was recently picked up for distribution. In return for some organizational work on a two day shoot, I would get the equivalent of lunch money, and even more important: credit as a "producer" for an actual film studio (albeit not for a feature).

There were a handful of segments that we needed from several locations. The director/star of the movie was to do man-on-the-street interviews in full caveman costume with movie-goers outside of several theaters . We also had to shoot a segment inside of a theater with absurd jokes concerning audiences watching the movie, plus, one of the actors from the film would be jaunting around various Los Angeles locations in costume.

The actor playing the caveman was late on the first day and I had to don the costume to join the director for the man-on-the-street stuff. Though the temperature reached about 98 degrees -- not easy to bear in animal fur and wig -- it was a lot of fun. I enjoyed the reactions of the people we ambushed. Many of them were great - very game, funny and clever.

The second day inside the theater was even more fun. We had several extras participating - also very game and clever - and I had to don several costumes for many of the gags. I especially enjoyed playing the luchador, but damn, I couldn't see a thing in the mask when I got to flailing around. I don't know how they do it.

After lunch we planned the rest of the day. We had hoped to get our caveman actor out in public places - the LaBrea Tarpits (haha), the beach, Santa Monica pier, a bar, etc. - "clubbing" a bunch of women, reflecting an ongoing gag from the film. No, I don't mean the "dance-til-I-puke" variety of clubbing, but the caveman courtship activity of hitting women over the head. Yep...We had one problem though: none of our extras stuck around. We had no women to club and we weren't going to go after unwitting civilians. The solution? Riffing off another gag in the film - a play on the term "homo erectus" - we would chronicle the meeting and subsequent love of two cavemen. Which meant I got to put on the costume again.

During most of the rest of the day me and my fellow Neanderthal walked hand-in-hand around West Hollywood, a renowned gay neighborhood, carrying clubs and spears, window shopping, sightseeing, arguing, going to art galleries, crashing kitchen design showrooms, and - as I mentioned - trying to get a table at the Ivy. Which was incredibly crowded.

This was guerilla filmmaking too. No permits were solicited. Needless to say, I and my fellow faux caveman were bounced from almost every location. No one was pissed about it. Most people laughed. Some were game to play along. As my partner and I browsed inside of a high-end modern furniture store, discussing the merits of post-modernism, one of the salespeople generously asked if we wanted to look at more samples. "We have that sofa in purple upstairs," she said pleasantly, "would you like to see it?"

A lot of people thought we were shooting a Geico promo. A gorgeous couple from France enthusiastically asked to take our picture and we immediately got them involved, getting footage of them snapping pics. The manager of an art gallery invited us inside to shoot us looking at art, which got us out of the heat for a bit and gave us another good gag.

At the end of the day I found myself outside of Grauman's Chinese Theater in Hollywood with the director shooting some lead-ins for the movie theater gags. We fit in pretty well with all the costumed goofs who entertain the tourists (my god, it was crowded). People got excited however when they learned we weren't there just to pretend to be Jack Sparrow, but that we were promoting an actual movie with actual stars.

All in all, I had a blast, despite the brutal heat. I wish I was more brave though. I have to admit that I couldn't quite get myself to recline on the fur-blanketed bed in the window of that showroom, and I got cold feet for a minute before we went to the Ivy. But the director and D.P. said we got what we needed and it was fine. The director also said very nicely "It's okay. You just became a chicken-shit for a minute." He then told me how, for one of his movies, he and an actor actually sneaked into the Academy Awards. He got all the way backstage carrying an Oscar and wearing a top hat and a t-shirt with a tuxedo printed on it.

The Oscar thing took a lot of balls. And all I had to do was ask for a table...chicken-shit. No wait: that's Producer Chicken-Shit.

Are You Ready for Some F-f-f-football...?Super Bowl XVI, Part Two

"After 15 games in warm weather climates, Super Bowl XVI was played in the Pontiac, Michigan. Pontiac Silverdome, 25 miles from Detroit. While surrounding areas shivered in below zero chill factors, 81,270 fans enjoyed 72 degree comfort in the huge, 5-year-old stadium." - www.superbowl-history.com/1982.php

Yeah, "comfort"...

A steamy haze of sweat and cigarette smoke quickly filled the dome. It was as if the entire crowd was thawing out. After our long wait in the frigid cold we all began to sweat immediately in the warm air inside with our many layers on, peeling them off slowly as we became warmer, but I can't say I was ever comfortable. Also, the shot of warm air made we want to fall asleep. But, hell, I was at the Super Bowl.

There was a special connection to the Super Bowl for my father. Super Bowl I was played on my first birthday, January 15, 1967, with the Green Bay Packers playing. I was born in Green Bay. My father was a journalist there and had known several of the players, even reputedly having had some over to the house for barbecues and such, so it was exciting for him that the Packers were to play in the Very First Super Bowl. (Football championships had been played for decades of course, but not until the National Football League merged with its rival American Football League did these games become Super.) To this day, my father tries to go to every Packers vs. Bears game whether played in Green Bay or Chicago. It was a big deal for him to be able to take his sons to a Super Bowl, and my brothers and I are still grateful that we went.

We were spectators, however, not fans. None of us had any emotional stake in either of the teams playing - the San Francisco 49ers nor the Cincinnati Bengals - but it was just so cool to be there. My oldest brother had chosen to root for the 49ers because he had followed the exciting rise of a young Joe Montana. Knowing nothing of either team, I brushed off the San Francisco team with ignorant male adolescent and mid-western bigotry by determining that they were from California and therefore freaks, and furthermore they were from San Francisco and must be gay. I chose the Bengals largely because of the aesthetics of their uniforms. The irony of my decision-making completely escaped me at the time.

I joined in the newly minted chant "Who Dey?! Who Dey?! Who Dey tink gonna beat dem Bengals?!!" and marveled at the players' super-cool helmets, which boldly sported not a logo but tiger stripes! Hell yeah! And not gay at all...

One of the most grueling aspects of the entire event was half-time. The entertainment was by Up With People. Remember them? You MUST, they also played for Super Bowls X, XIV and XX. Now, I know the organization has done a lot of good things, and I've even known a few people who have been in their touring shows, but really...Up with People? They danced around with hyper positivism in stripey jumpsuits to clappy, kicky choreography. The music was insipid, uninspiring, and downright annoying, like twenty year olds singing stuff from Sesame Street with unwaivering seriousness. The fans in the stadium looked around, puzzled, and many booed. And it went on ENDLESSLY. This was not entertainment for the football fans. It was entertainment for the football broadcast, live muzak carefully chosen for it's complete lack of controversy, long before the days of wardrobe malfunctions and Prince. Entertainment that allowed a viewer out there in televisionland to get up, take a piss and get more beer. We, however, were locked inside the dome with them. Ugh.

The Bengals lost 26-21 despite passing San Francisco in total scrimmage yards, 356 to 275. Joe Montana was named the MVP with 14 of 22 completed passes for 157 yards. I was disappointed by the loss but I don't know if I cared that much. "Who Dey?" got old really fast. It was time to go home. The whole thing had been supremely anti-climactic. I was exhausted.

We had planned to drive back home immediately after the game. It would be another brutal, cramped trip, but the whole thing was almost over. I couldn't wait. When we left the Silverdome it was dark and even more frigid than at the beginning of the day. Everything was covered with that dirty frost that shows up only in the coldest weather when every drop of moisture is squeezed out of the air. We looked out on a sea of gray, frost-covered cars and trudged hurriedly to ours. When we got in it was like sitting in a freezer. The little Accord started right up however and my father gave himself a pat on the back for deciding to take it instead of the Cougar. As we sat there waiting for the engine and the interior to warm up, we noticed several stranded drivers around us, their cars frozen and not starting. Suckers, we thought. Ours had fired up...

The car in front of us was one of the frozen ones and needed a jump. Sure, why not. My dad was ready to oblige quickly and then hit the road. We couldn't get the other car started however because the Honda didn't have enough power. My father went to help the other driver find someone else able to jump his big car. But as my dad looked around he saw row after row of stranded cars. Grabbing my oldest brother, he set out out to help whomever he could. It was another hour before we left the parking lot.

The snow started right away. This was the big winter storm that my father had been expecting. The winds were furious and the snow blinding. It piled up into massive drifts before our eyes. We crawled slowly westward toward Chicago with almost no visibility, our front-wheel drive pulling us through the tracks of whatever car was ahead of us. Through the blowing, falling snow we saw the shadows of dozen of cars and trucks off the side of the highway, either having pulled over intentionally or slid off, out of control. Certain stretches of the interstate looked like a parking lot. Still, we chugged along.

It was an eight hour, white-knuckle ride. My cramped legs were secondary to my worry. We all studied the road ahead and around us with great intensity, and my father reminded us of what a good decision he had made in taking the Accord and not the Cougar. "Look at all those big cars sliding around the road" he'd say. We all gratefully conceded.

There was nothing easy about that trip. And though there were a lot of great things about that game, it was not very satisfying to me because I had no connection to the teams playing. But I appreciated how important this was to my father and that he had gone through so much just to give us that experience, and how great it was that I had actually been to a Super Bowl. It was cool to show the program to my friends and brag about how I had been there, where they had only been in the record-breaking 85 million or so that had watched it on TV. Pfft...yeah...And, later, that little Accord that pulled us through the snowstorm would even become a pivotal prop in one of the most life-changing events I've ever experienced.

I don't care about sports at all anymore. I don't know why. They just don't interest me, even though I've played a lot: football, baseball, track, gymnastics. But, yep, my dad was right. I'm still talking about that frigid, exhausting, but cool Super Bowl XVI experience.

PS- Just a few hours before I wrote this the Green Bay Packers lost the NFC Championship game to the New York Giants at their home field, Lambeau. The temperature at kick-off was minus 1 and the wind-chill dipped to 24 below. My father, having high hopes for another Packers Super Bowl, is very disappointed. A friend back home in Chicago just sent me a text message out of the blue: "It's 4 degrees".

Brrrr...I live in Southern California now...

Are You Ready for Some F-F-F-Football...?Super Bowl XVI, Part One

January 24, nineteen-hundred and eighty-two. A bitter, blood-freezing wind blows across the Michigan plains, as two titans of the gridiron square off in the ultimate battle: Superbowl XVI. Or something like that...

At the time my father worked 6 or 7 days a week. So when he planned vacations or special events, he liked to plan them well. Real quality time. This usually meant long drives somewhere - Disneyland, Arkansas... One thing he wanted to do, before his boys grew too old and moved away, was take my brothers and I to a Super Bowl. We had gone on men-only vacations before, including an adventurous fishing trip, but this would be the biggie. Something to remember. Something to talk about years from now. Neither of "our" teams, the Chicago (where we lived) Bears nor the Green Bay (where I was born) Packers were in the championship that year, but my father wanted to treat us to what was possibly a once-in-a-lifetime event.

I was excited. I watched football...some. I played football...some (I was very fast, playing both offensive running back and defensive back; but my heart was never in it). I may not ever get (want) the chance again, so it was pretty cool.

We had decided to drive. It was only a 4 to 5 hour drive to Detroit from Chicago. My oldest brother had a comfy, roomy Lincoln Cougar that he had proudly restored and was offering for the trip . With me being the smallest guy in the family at the time, at 6 feet and 190 athletic pounds (uh-huh, oh yeah) comfort was a pretty important component to a long drive.

The day came to for us to leave, it was a partly sunny, crisp winter day. My brothers and I gathered outside with our luggage, and my father pulled up in the car: his 1981 Honda Accord hatchback.

Where was the Cougar? Not taking the Cougar, my dad explained. There was a big winter storm coming, and he wanted a car with front wheel drive.

What? Front what? Storm? Hatchback? What the...? Where is the...? Where am I gonna...? I was panicking. The hierarchical dictates of a family full of men stated that I, the youngest, got the shittiest seat in the car. Which was behind my dad. Who weighed 250 pounds. And had to fit in the drivers seat of a HONDA ACCORD HATCHBACK. The hierarchical dictates - and the fact that I was only 15 and didn't drive legally yet - also stated that I had no say in the matter.

We hit the road. Crammed behind the driver's seat, pushed all the way back, my legs were on fire from the start. I was extremely active at the time, with football and track. My large sprinter's legs could not be confined or immobile for long periods of time without serious cramping or pain. This was going to be a loooong trip.

I felt like a clown in a car. We were four large men, layered against the cold and crammed together. Our heads all brushed the roof. Mine, as I sat in the back seat, also bounced against the top of the sloping hatch, just behind me.

We must not have looked that imposing when my father chugged the Accord into Michigan, as we were set upon by some shithead in a tricked-out Charger with tinted windows. Threatening us with dangerous braking at high speed or side-swiping, and riding our rear bumper, the driver must have thought us an easy mark in our little four-cylinder with Illinois plates. This went on for some time. The car would disappear for awhile, ahead of or behind us, only to reappear and threaten us again. My father kept a level head, despite my brother's insistence we pull over and teach them a lesson. No, no, we had a schedule to keep, said my dad. But it went on too long and my father's patience was chipped away. Frustrated, anxious and angry, he gave in, and pulled the Honda over to the shoulder in a cloud of dust. The Charger pulled up right behind, ready for a fight, revving his engine. The four of us piled out of the car, out teeth gnashing, our fists clenched, and we began marching toward the Charger. Apparently underestimating the size of the occupants in that little Honda with Illinois plates, the driver of the Charger immediately floored it. Kicking up gravel, he sped back onto the interstate and disappeared far ahead, not to be seen again.

At least I got to stretch my legs.

Detroit. Finally. My father was anxious to get to there. He was picking up the tickets for the game from a friend of his and didn't want to be an inconvenience and make him wait. I don't remember it quite the way my brothers do, but I believe we waited for some time outside of a hotel or office building as my dad retrieved the tickets. I was so cramped up that I thought I would go crazy, and no one else thought it was any consequence if I said anything. I was the kid, so I should just suck it up. Them's the breaks.

Tickets in hand, we hit the road again toward Windsor. We were staying across the river in Canada because all the hotels in the Detroit area were filled up. It was getting dark. We hadn't eaten yet because my dad wanted to meet his friend on time, so he only then, many hours into the trip, decided to stop at a diner outside of Detroit. Again, I got to stretch my legs. This time, inside the restaurant, I pleaded for my brothers and father to switch up the seating arrangement just for the brief remainder of the trip. To my surprise they agreed, with a catch. I sat in the front passenger seat, but - unlike when I was in back - I had to push the seat all the way up, jamming my legs against the dash. I was practically leaning forward. Another battle lost by the youngest boy.

We finally reached the motel, tired, cramped and cold. The temperature had been dropping steeply all day. It would be nice to settle into a warm bed and rest well for the next day's excitement. I had to share a room - and in fact, a bed - with my dad. It was a large bed, but this is something no one past the age of two would ever want to do. Oh, well. This was a once-in-a-lifetime event. I guess I had to pay my dues a bit more. Sleep came uneasily, but eventually it did come. The weirdness of actually being in bed with my dad subsided enough to let me nod off.

Until the Hartford Whalers came into town. The Whalers - a hockey team, for those of you don't know - had played against the Detroit Red Wings that night, and, I'm told they won so they were especially exuberant that night. They also could not find a hotel to accommodate them in Detroit with all the Super Bowl ferver, so they chose the very same motel we were at there in Windsor, Ontario. And they were loud. One of my brothers doesn't remember them being too distracting, but my father and I do. Perhaps it was my already strained nerves, but at about 3am it sounded like they were tearing the place apart. So much for a good sleep.

I don't remember waking up, or eating breakfast or the drive to the Silverdome in Pontiac. But I do remember discovering that the temperature had plummeted overnight to sub-zero levels, and I remember what it was like as we approached the stadium. We were in the middle of nowhere it seemed, far from the bustling cityscapes of Detroit and Windsor. The stadium loomed up out of the plains like a strange rock formation, surrounded by vast fields of empty concrete that were its parking lots. It felt like we parked a mile away in some remote lot, and had to take a long overhead walkway to the dome. Overhead of what, I can't recall. More concrete, it seemed. Nothing, it seemed. The wind was ferocious and my eyes burned. Tears froze on my eyelashes and cheeks. I tried to cover every tiny spot of bare skin but it didn't seemed to work. We trudged on quickly. We would be in the dome soon, warm and excited.

We walked all around outside the stadium's perimeter until we finally found our gate entrance, and...we waited. The doors were not open yet. People crowded around us. Game time approached. And we waited some more. The temperature was deathly cold, and everyone - football fans, strangers - huddled together against the side of the building for warmth. Some people were so cold they cried, but choked back their tears so their cheeks wouldn't freeze. Closer and closer to game time and still no open doors. Ambulances arrived to treat some unfortunate fans overcome by the cold. People banged on the doors. Nothing seemed to be happening. The ultimate football championship was becoming a nightmare.

The doors finally opened, as I remember, very close to game time. There were some logistical problems - who knows what - that prevented them from opening up, but now we were all inside and thawing out. The air inside the dome quickly became a steamy, sweaty fog. All of our winter layers hung limply off our bodies. But we were finally there.

The Fires

I woke up very early on that Sunday morning and turned on the television to watch the news prior to leaving for work. 6:30am: there was a report of a "small fire" that had started near Pepperdine University sometime in the early hours. Firefighters had it under control. Welcome to Southern California, I thought, shrugged, and left for the day.

Sometime mid-afternoon, a friend in San Diego sent me a text message. There was a fire near her community and smoke was in the air, but nothing to worry about. She was waiting in a bookstore cafe for her youngest daughter as she spent a couple of hours with her aunt. Haha, we said to each other, wasn't that a coincidence. My friend had just recently told me about experiencing the last big fire and even drove me past the scene. Less than an hour later, she messaged again saying that they were closing the bookstore. Smoke was rapidly filling the building and everyone had to leave. Another hour and her oldest daughter was evacuated with her husband and kids from their home farther north near Escondido. The fire lines had cut them off from each other and my friend worried. My poor daughter, she said. I wish she could be with me. The next morning another message came from her: I have to start packing...

That next day, Monday, seven counties in Southern California were on fire, spread over a massive area with astounding rapidity. The news coverage was constant here, and on some channels you could watch - via the television news helicopters - the fire spreading faster than a man could run. (One reporter watched his home of 25 years burn while on the air.) One report played often on the news, local and national, about a fire truck that was engulfed with flames. Four firefighters were injured. Another call from my friend revealed that one of them, a volunteer, was a very close friend of her daughter. She had been hurt badly, the doctors inducing coma until they could treat some of the burns. Everyone was sick about it.

Where I'm staying, Hancock Park, there was only a slight smell of smoke. As I left for the day it reminded me of autumn fires back home, leaves and fireplaces. Driving north toward Burbank I began to see the smoke in the distance. The sky northwest of the Valley was covered in a gray-brown haze. To the West, an enormous column of smoke snaked out of the hills near the ocean, filling the sky over the water and making the setting sun an incredible red disc inside of a brown smear of soot for many days after.

All around us there were fires. San Bernardino, Malibu, Ventura, Rice Canyon, Santiago...In San Diego, the fires came within 2 miles of my friend's home, stopped only by highway 15. The line on the map was striking. It gave me chills to see it so close to her neighborhood, which was also the neighborhood of the first college I attended. Throughout the week, the smoke settled heavily on the Valley. At the Burbank Airport, near the theater where I was working, the planes were still taking off. I'd watch them eerily break through the brown clouds like something out of a sci-fi movie, all sepia-toned cinematography. It was a week of headaches and lethargy and low visibilty. And smoke EVERYWHERE. Early during the week the authorities announced that an historic number of people - 250,000 - had been evacuated. By the end of the week it was close to a million.

My friend didn't have to evacuate. Her home was spared, her daughter's home was spared, her sister's brand new business, a half-million dollar investment not even completely opened and only one mile from my friend's house, was spared, though thieves broke in and stole several pieces of new equipment while the businesses were closed. One of the best pieces of news was that the injured firefighter was much better than reported. Though she was indeed burned, it wasn't as bad as the media made it. She's recovering well. You all know the rest, I'm sure. The firefighters worked themselves to the bone while FEMA held fake news conferences. Governor Schwarzenegger petted dogs and said he wanted to "pump up" those who lost their homes. President Bush swooped in for one of his worthless photo ops. Fingers were pointed on all sides. Too many lost everything.

It's hard to relate what all this looked like. I only experienced the fallout and saw the smoke from a distance. I wasn't near the fires, so I didn't have first hand experience with the center of this overwhelming event. But it was my first experience as a new resident of L.A. with the vitriol this town gets. Too many people on the outside of this disaster shrugged it as another problem of the overpriveleged. So what that Malibu burned. So what if all that high-priced real estate was leveled. And, of course, there are those who believe Southern California deserves such things for being a haven of sin. Say what you will about over-development of southwestern desert areas, or of depletion of the water-table, or poor forestry practices, or natural burn cycles conflicting with human populations. I understand all that and more. Enough of my midwestern, outsider smugness comes out time and time again. But I'm certain there weren't 950,000 celebrities evacuated from their homes. And I'm certain no one deserved any of the fear and devastation.

Whaddaya think?

Woman: "I have a tattoo of a rose on my hip. I got it because my maiden name is Rose."

My Mother: "My maiden name is Johnson, what should I get?"

Petition for Dissolution v. Negative Space

Recently, I was forced to consult an attorney on some unpleasant matters. I had been given, by the Circuit Court of Cook County, the task of completing and filing a sizable stack of legal documents on my own ("pro se" they call it) within a certain deadline, yet it sat on my desk, a coded mystery, as the deadline approached...and went. I poured over the whereases and wherefores many, many times, the words of another attorney ringing in my head like the non-chalant rap of a knife-juggler: "it's really simple". This is never true, except for a lawyer. And it shouldn't be, considering the weight of responsibility inherent in legal documentation. (Legal matters, like knife juggling, should always come with a disclaimer: Don't try this at home. Consult a professional.)

Now, I'm not always a stupid guy and have done a lot writing and filing of business papers over the years. But there was enough confusion that my eyes continually lost focus and frosted over with a thick, waxy haze, while certain areas of my brain went black, and I would regain consciousness, wandering with hollow purposelessness down Clark Street muttering "zoo!" So I sought a lawyer. I just didn't know if I was doing it correctly. I didn't need much from her really, only the equivalent of a cheatsheet to crack the code and a tissue to wipe the wax from my corneas.

"All right" she said immediately, automatically, as I handed her my papers, "first, you need to do this, this, and this, plus file two other documents..." rattling off notes rapid-fire.

"Wait, pretend I'm stupid" I said, (well, I didn't really say that, she already was.) "Slow down and write those out for me."

"This is Law 101" she replied.

"Yes, and you went to law school, not me."

"True" she smiled.

"That's why I'm here. What I do I do well, like you."

Knowing my occupation--I had had to write it on many of the forms--she sighed, shook her head and said "yeah, I've a close friend who's an artist. She keeps explaining it, but I still don't know what 'negative space' means".

"At least you know the term 'negative space'."

"But, I just cannot wrap my head around it"

From this moment our conversation changed tone. We were talking now as one professional seeking advice from another. This doesn't happen much. Too often I'm treated as an outsider--usually fine with me--even though most of my work is mainstream. But this instance of respect was welcomed as it eased my anxiety. I'd even say became a very pleasant meeting, despite the subject at hand. She mentioned her knowledge of the design profession and I my experiences with lawyers and law students. I got my questions answered.

As we shared stories of "the other side" it immediately brought up memories of another encounter many years earlier. I was standing in line at a cafe with a young woman I worked with. On the wall next to us was a painting. Next to the painting was a price tag. The young woman squinted at the tag and exclaimed "two-hundred, seventy-five dollars! That's SO expensive!"

"Not really" I replied. In my opinion it was too expensive for this terrible piece, but generally not for a painting of it's size.

"That's incredible!"

"Why?" I asked.

"Art should be free! Given to the world like a gift to be appreciated!"

"So" I said, "an entire lifetime of skill, knowledge, education, talent and personal progress should be given away for nothing?"

She laughed, embarrassed. "Yes!" Then she confessed she never thought of it that way

To her art was in impulse borne on something intangible called "talent". The thought process behind art stopped at the 'idea' and spilled out into the world with unfettered action, the depths of its meaning to be divined after. Though this may be true for the rare few, and though artists often strive for that level of immediacy it is a deep injustice to believe that because you don't understand how art is created and how the artist's mind works, it is not of worth.

I'm not talking about the commoditization of art when I say 'worth' (though I believe artists should be able to make a living doing what they do.) I'm talking about the impression by too many that art is superfluous to basic living, too ruled by things that lack structure like desire and the subconscious.

This attitude is most alarming to me in the area of education. When school budgets are tight the first to be cut are classes in the arts. Seen as extracurricular, entire departments disappear. Art is deemed unnecessary. This couldn't be farther from the truth.

Art--wether it's music, painting, dancing, theater, sculpture--is an essential language of our species. When we discuss the history of mankind, it is art that guides our knowledge and inquiry. Sculpture and drawing appeared at the dawn of man as a way to express the intangible, make sense of the real world, and create a bridge between thought, sensation and action. It is too simplistic to say that drawing and carving was the precursor to written language. Whatever it's purpose--fertility goddess, self-portrait of pregnancy, paleolithic pornography--the Venus of Willendorf was certainly not created solely of a lack of written language. It was meant to be held, not discussed. It was an expression unto itself.

At the highest level of thought is the highest level of artistic endeavor. The complexity of human life cannot be expressed well in balance sheets. It must be novelized, sung about, painted, banged out on the skin of a drum, needled into the skin of the arm, dramatized, carved out and made tangible. We create bridges between our thoughts, relationships and emotions through art. We make the slightest details of our world better through aesthetics. Anyone who scorns the 'creative' or 'artsy' should always remember that progress is fueled by creativity.

A good friend of mine has a better way of saying it: people don't realize we live in design. Everything we use, wear and dwell in has been made with aesthetic consideration, from modern loft space to military uniforms to street signs to books. In even the simplest cultures aesthetics are inseparable from practical considerations. Aesthetics give us cues to gender, political change, status, warn us against danger, provoke thought, examine the internal and external, change environment, describe God...

We cannot continue to cut budgets for arts education and expect a well rounded human experience. We cannot claim art to be a subculture. That would be false. We cannot dwell on the most narcissistic, or most over-payed as typical examples of the culture of art. That holds true for any industry. The appreciation of art is not pretension. Art relies on great skill, inutuition, thoughtfulness and experience. The professional artist is as valid a professional as any other. The nurturing of the arts in education is as essential as learning language.

OOF! UGH! A-A-RGH!!

My first week in L.A. I got a job doing voice looping for an action film. A woman I know, a producer on the film, heard I was in town and called me in. In case you don't know what looping - or ADR - is, it's the replacement of dialogue and vocalizations on a film soundtrack after photography is completed. It's an important part of any film, and most pertinent to action films, where you have to cover the sounds made by actors getting the shit kicked out of them by the tough guy lead action hero. As an action sequence is cut together from many angles and takes, a stuntman or actor isn't going to go OOF! the same way each time.

Now, the tough guy lead action hero in this film is a bit passed his prime and now makes direct to DVD films. He's also a little overweight, and not as...nimble, as he used to be. I mean, he doesn't kick the bad guys anymore. He resorts to these furious little hand movements that are meant to overwhelm his opponent. He whisks his lethal paws around in front of the faces of his opponents and they flail their bodies around furiously...overwhelmed. The other actors were clearly doing most of the work. UGH!

Also - and I can't say this is because of his...lack of nimbleness - he has two sequences in the film where he sits down at a table and surprises the guys he doesn't care for with a move I call the "steak-knife-in-the-face". In one of these sequences he doesn't even get up from his seat, while his opponents thrash around all over the place. This might have been a cool premise when action guy was in his prime, but now it just seems un-nimble. HURKH!!

The steak-knife-in-the-face brings up another point. He uses weapons a lot rather than his lethal appendages, plus the element of surprise (nimble-deficient?), in ways that make him just look like a murderer. He's doling out his own brand of justice, but do you really murder a table full of guys for insulting a woman with sexually explicit requests? Hmmm...they were "bad guys" anyway, right? OOF!

I got to get beat up a whole bunch. At least vocally. It's not always easy matching the physicality and timing of the actors in action sequences, and though I've acted a lot since I was a kid, it's been awhile since I've done ADR and my voice skills need a little work. But it was a BLAST and I was called on to do some tricky individual work: multi-part ass kickings, such as "gun shot in the shoulder, fly back on casket, slump forward" and "elbow to the face, chop to the neck, punch to the solar plexis and flip on back". Also, I was very excited to get to work for my friend, the Producer, whom I had only known socially up until then and is one of the coolest, smartest people I know. This was a real breakthrough for her in terms of position and I'm really happy for her and glad to have been even a small part of it.

AARGH!!

For Bella

"You should keep a daily blog about your move!" she said. "Blogging is good promotion" she said. "You should definitely blog about this" she said.

Okay. Though I'm dubious about the "promotion" part I'll write stuff here for the entire world to see in perpetuity. Because I'm that interesting...

I just moved to Los Angeles from Chicago, and my friend Bella, a formidable blogger herself, encouraged me to chronicle the transition, beginning with the road-trip that brought me out here. I began writing daily about the trip for myself, but I found it to be so bone-deep exhausting that reliving it so soon just made me more exhausted. And re-living it in daily detail made it worse. Big picture is better.

Chicago to L.A. in 4 days. I had planned on making it sooner but my father insisted on coming with me. He's 71 and not in great physical condition so we had to take our time. When he initially invited himself he believed he would drive my car and I would drive the truck. No way. I knew my car would be too small for an overweight elderly man with a fake knee to be crammed into for 7 to 9 hours a day, four days in succession. So he drove the truck. He also insisted on taking the Northern route through the mountains. He didn't want to drive through the desert. Full truck. Old man. Mountains. Slo-o-o-ow. Now, I drive a little 4 cylinder, so it's not that zippy in the mountains either, but it can manage better.

Needless to say, I was a nervous wreck because of him. His driving reflexes aren't too great anymore, nor is his eyesight at night. At one point, on our first night, he slowed down to 30mph on the interstate looking for our turn-off. Trucks whizzed by, engine brakeing, annoyed. This would set a tone for the rest of the trip. But I'm glad he came with me. I knew it was his last chance at a good, long road trip (I know, that sounds like he's died, but he said so himself when we arrived in L.A.) . He has always traveled a lot by car and never flinched at taking a cross-country trip. This is something he and I share.

When I first went to college at a small school in San Diego, my father wanted to go with me then, too. We took the train. I only had a few trunks and boxes of stuff so I shipped them ahead. My father reserved handicap accessible sleeping quarters for us, which were a little bigger than most and had their own toilet, so I was very grateful. It was my first time through the Southwestern desert and I marveled at it. The train tracks were nowhere near the highways so the night was completely dark except for the stars. The colors of the landscape were stunning. At one point a coyote ran along the tracks with the train for about a mile. It was all very exhilerating for a midwestern boy. I can't say that my father and I became closer then because of our interaction. Though he told me some stories about growing up and being in San Diego when he was in the Navy, we didn't share too much. We became a bit closer solely from taking the trip together. After our arrival he stayed a couple of days with me then took the train - the northern route this time - back home. He left a long letter with me before he went, an extrememly personal and emotional statement of good wishes and pride. For the first time in my life I had gotten a glimpse of my father as a young man my age.

On this trip, in what should have been the most beautiful part - the drive through the mountains of Colorado then the highest elevation in Utah - we hit torrential rains, adding further to my father's and my anxiety. It was white knuckles and full bladders all the way. On day four, our last, just as we entered Arizona from Utah, the resonator dropped from my exhaust pipe uner my car. On a Sunday. In the desert. My little four-cylinder chugged through the mountains with the deafening rumble of a dozen Harleys openining up full throttle. With some fortune we found a small town with a small auto shop that was actually open. They had no welder available that weekend however, but at least the mechanic was able to rig the pipe so it wasn't dragging on the ground. I had three-hundred miles to go. The sound was almost unbearable, and my whole body was rattled but I pressed on. My friend Dianne called me on my cell phone as I passed through Las Vegas, and she laughed that great laugh of hers. "White trash! Leaving Las Vegas with your exhaust hanging on the ground!" Yeah, yeah. Made me smile.

The traffic from Las Vegas to Los Angeles that Sunday was INSANE. The weekend gamblers from Southern California were all going home. It was 300 miles of solid cars, trucks, SUVs. And me, my Dad, my white trash ride and the truck. Ugh.

Though we arrived later than planned because of the car repairs, we made it in time to watch the Bears lose. My father confessed that the trip was harder than he expected, but he also said he was really proud that we did it. I, too, was really proud, as so many times before with my father. It was a very affecting journey of giving and taking the lead, of worry and confidence. My friend Donald and I recently talked about parenting the elderly parent. I got my first taste of that on this drive, but only in the slightest way. My Dad was still my Dad, remaining "in charge" and incredibly strong, and I'm glad.

This is, indeed, the short version, though I'm not sure it seems that way. So much more happened in those four days and the few days after arriving (don't ask me about the "pig rig"), but this is the big picture. This is how I'll remember the trip. I'm so grateful I made it for so many reasons.

So, Bella, it's a start.