It’s been a month since I’ve seen the Thinker. The time was spent luxuriating in thought and activity. They became days of resurrecting my business, writing, and staying at home, where my fantasia of comfort welcomes me. Above my bed, I hung an umbrella. A vintage peach faded Parasol. One day, while I was searching for a place to store my ribbons, I looked up and watched the light sprinkle through the Parasol. So that is where I stored the ribbons. When I am in bed during an afternoon nap, I see abstractions of figures: dancers, faces, gods, and gorillas. The Thinker noticed the abstraction. I think he said, ” Wow, this is incredible. Do you see the legs? And there is the face.” He took everything in and profited from imagination. He had a thousand virtues, that regrettably did not serve him. 
I don’t know why. You know I want answers, that is why I write.
Category: CREATIVE NONFICTION
THE THINKER & THE PUPPET
After I published this last story, I spoke with White Zen, my palgal in Santa Fe. She said the last paragraph of the story made her cry. Juxtaposed between the writers Zen of exporting such feeling, and the sadness we both shared. White Zen had a Thinker too. I guess there are more of them than I knew.
Having had six true loves in my life, who impregnated me with knowledge generosity, and loyalty is what made me so unprepared for the Thinker. He does resemble Macedonio; the first man to peel off the woman in me. They both have charisma, mystery, and good dark looks, Macedonio is dead now, and the memories of him still glisten; like the day in Golden Gate Park under the cherry blossom tree.
What I miss most, is the giggling, dancing, folly-maker that the Thinker pulled out of me as If I were a puppet. He called me Puppet because that’s how he saw me. I’ve got to get my Jojo by tomorrow. I love Thanksgiving as a day with admissions of selfishness and greed. I need to be washed away into thanks that I am here with a mouthful full of food, and a napkin.
LAST SWIM WITH THE THINKER
I love to swim; water has been my home since I was born. I wrote the Thinker stories in the water because I know the water. It was an experimental impulse to write as I did. I know when you break the surface; reality is indifferent. Breaking barriers, in water, in love, in business, is all the same. I have to work up a mental sweat to write, to create a dinner, a concept. Nothing is meaninglessness to me. I want everything to matter.
After the Thinker left, I have had two weeks of suck time to reflect the alchemy of our relationship. I believe in examination of relationships. It is the key to understanding who we are, who we don’t want to be, who we wish to be. I have ironed out the swimming with the Thinker. It is a bridge to my courage, to know it is time to leave Santa Fe. If you have ever lived here, you know it is not ‘ the land of enchantment’ , rather the land of entrapment. I don’t know who coined the phrase; but it is as true as Los Angeles being the land 
of movie stars. You may not become a movie star, any more than you may leave Santa Fe. I chose the challenge of living here. I discovered the conflict of leaving, and living it now as I write. I know I came to Santa Fe to discover the underbelly. That is what the Thinker gave to me.
ADVENTURES WITH THE TIDE OF THE THINKER
Audrey. Photograph By Edward Quinn
I asked the sky to send the Thinker. Then it rained in southwest furry, small ![22A65Ca5ndFhXTcktfb98jnckTJl4rZP0060[1]](https://odysseyofadventures.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/04/22a65ca5ndfhxtcktfb98jncktjl4rzp00601.jpg)
white knots of hail and dark feuding winds. The thinker heard and whistled to me. It was a sweet flutist tone, and he appeared in black and grey, the silver lining of his head like a crown of light. Flashing the boyish grin, he opened his wrestling toned-warm fins to my goose bumpy arms, and I swam along side tentatively. Even though it was my chime, I was unsteady, unwilling to climb on his back, so we swam on our toes, around my house, and the Plaza. We battled sharks from Beverly Hills, whose fins were frozen from love and kindness; we faced one of our own school, who would not lend a dollar on good faith and loyalty for their Merlot Cabernet fish oil, and we strung pearls around each other necks, with a clasp that is easily unhooked. The current drove us through three more days of rowing backward, sleeping quietly without intertwinement, and meeting as friends instead of lovers.
The absence of touch, struck like a lightning storm. I didn’t see it coming, and I may be wrong. To read the Thinker is to understand his language; a circumcision of predictability, logic, or reasoning. Like a tsunami, uncharitable waves of enlightenment he doesn’t even understand drown his soul.
I understood that he airbrushed my appearance, and dropped deep into my eyes as they widened for him. I blushed before he engulfed me, and pressed my undertow.
If tonight was the last swim because of a storm I didn’t see coming, or understand. It is because my eyes blurred by his presence.
The tide goes out, but it always come back. Sometimes it touches where we left off.
PART TWO OF ADVENTURES IN LIVINGNESS
On shore the land felt liquefied and unfamiliar without the sensual spark swimming along side me. The leaves glistened above my head, like golden gems you’d wear on a necklace. The Santa Fe river sang its song over rocks, branches and brush, while white butterflies and birds fluttered an awakening. I passed cafes, watched couples and families luxuriating in the sunlight, Canyon road art hawkers snapped photos, gallery owners chatted on the courtyards.
The stage of comfort as picturesque as a postcard. I was outside the activity. I rushed home, passing people who walked as if lost, and shoes stuck in tar. Thoughts trotted like ponies all going in different directions. No path had an answer, or a reason, or an understanding of our endearment.
The Thinker swims close by. Sometimes I feel him soaring past me, glancing for a moment, then he’s gone. The house is quiet, doors and shades closed. My nakedness is wrapped in blankets and the aroma of pumpkin spice from a candle. My stage is empty, no audience of any sort. These are the moments when examination of behavior, discipline, and self-honesty rise above the solitude. A woman of lovers rather than husbands, beckons my heart to open to the odyssey of love.
I appreciate all the new followers from the THE THINKER story. Thank you for
your comments and hope you return for more.
RUMINATING ON RELATIONSHIPS
Bob and Baez-JIM MARSHALL
He was going to keep me warm this winter. Toggle behind me in his overcoat and boots, making sure I didn’t slip on ice, or chop my hair when my anger meets my self destructiveness. He would plow the snow, keep the fire going, trim the roses that bloomed when we met, and hatch chilies in the kitchen. A boy, a man, and a girlfriend. He’s wrapped in primitive sensuality, gifted with athletic stamina, viscerally intelligent. There is the other side; a squadron of pointy fingers, family feuds, gossip, and the spark of emotional self-contentedness. He admits to it; and studies masters of consciousness every day. He strives for breath unscented, unencumbered childlike weightlessness. My star is dropping, the dream girl of adventures in livingness. Taking men in that hold impossible odds, the long shot that shoot you to the moon or dump you on a dirty bench.
I found someone once who held up all the right que cards; now we are best friends thirty years later. If
lovers are true friends than I don’t lock them out when they stumble on the script. Relationships between men and woman are unsolvable allegory poems. I read them over and over and never understand the meaning if I hold on to the wound. If I let the abrasion heal, I am still in love with them.
SEASONAL BEHAVIOR & ROSH HASHANAH
The throw of the dice this week lands on adventures in contemplation. Before the day begins to intersect with my solitude, I sit at my desk in a pre-dawn crystal of clarity. Only the light from a candle shines on a journal of hand written notes. I walked outside to asses the damage of a devilish storm that ravished the night. Leaves dropped from trees and the street is slick with the residue of the storm. Autumn is rising from dormancy; she is painting the leaves pumpkin and cranberry, while impregnating the atmosphere with the perfume of seasonal change. The inversion seeps into my pores.
While shopping at Whole Foods last week, for my first stockpile of chicken tortilla soup, I noticed expressions of ![20131003_160015[1]](https://odysseyofadventures.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/10/20131003_1600151.jpg)
contemplation on faces. Not in the choice of their groceries, but a characteristic of preparation for winter. Pumpkins, firewood and potted mums have replaced the outdoor display of flower baskets and lavender. The silence will blanket time beyond the hours of sleep. This is when contemplation is given the freedom to spread over my thoughts and feelings. September marks the disrobing of summer; as if the float of festivities, parties, and outdoor markets were moved into storage.
Last week was the beginning of the new Year on the Jewish Calendar, Rosh Hashanah. Unlike New Years for the traditional American, is a time of contemplation and reckoning of ones faults. We are asked to examine our behavior and plant new seeds of integrity from within.
“Another popular practice of the holiday is Tashlikh (“casting off”). We walk to flowing water, such as a creek or river, on the afternoon of the first day and empty our pockets into the river, symbolically casting off our sins. Small pieces of bread are commonly put in the pocket to cast off. This practice is not discussed in the Bible, but is a long-standing custom.” Excerpt from Wikipedia.
What I do is to take my emotional and physical wardrobe, and move it from the closet in my casita, to the upstairs storage closet. The skimpy and sexy finery are replaced with turtlenecks, leggings and wool. The emotional wardrobe, is pressed down to the fibers, so it can be studied. In this examination, the reflection of myself is not as important as it has been, the stubble of age has bitten me but not in a bitter way. It has burned down my childish selfishness, insistence of acknowledgment, intolerance of behavior unfamiliar to me, and detached me from the wayward choices made by our government. I used to work with the news turned on and the volume down.
This summer, beginning just after my adventure in Malibu with my friend Chantel, my grip on aloofness towards Santa Fe, frustrations associated with publication, and narcissism dissipated. It is possible that one month in the company of Chantal, her vibrancy and generosity softened my reserve. In the last four months, I’ve at last given up tightening against the unmanageable forces that intersect with me, and meet the pleasures of humanity in nakedness. I stood in my doorway, shaded by trees and shrubbery, naked – simply to feel the sensation. In return for this placation of behavior, I was invited by my vacation rental guests into their gatherings and parties; a wedding couple and their twenty-five guests included me in their after party. We cajoled, roused, sang and danced until my neighbor, JD, shamed our festivity and ordered me to shut the party down. It was one-thirty in the morning. I wrapped my arm around his neck, and whispered, ‘Oh, you are so right; I will take care of it. Don’t worry.’ JD, a man with twenty- three civil complaints for noise ordinance disruption against the La Posada Resort across the street, replied ‘Well LouLou, if you don’t, I’ll have to call the police.’ I hugged him tighter, and said. “Of course you will, and you have every right.’ This is not the behavior that guided me last year. I returned to the party and made the announcement to the guests, who were by now leaning against the walls, drinking shots of whisky in bowls, and I said:
‘ Party to dawn kids, but keep your voices down.’ The lights went out at four-thirty in the morning. When I left the house, empty bottles, uneaten meals, flowers, shoes, and scarfs scattered everywhere. This disruption of my polished tidy home would have erupted me into a silent rage a year ago. After they checked-out, my new pal and assistant Marc, entered the house. Stepping over pillows, popcorn, sticky wood floors, and into a kitchen of stained counters and food crumbs; a counterfeit of my dear old hollering father shouted; ‘ This is outrageous. They’ll pay for this!’
“ Stop. We were part of it. It was a wedding party. What did you expect?”
“What the heck is that? Marc said pointing to a clump of food stuck to the wall.
“ Looks like salsa and chips.” I said with a sponge in my hand. By the time we reached the rooms upstairs, I too was chuckling. Two days later the house converted from slipshod to spotless.
The spell of silence has now been broken. The sidewalk blowers stir the leaves, doors open, the clatter of buffet trays wheeling down the street from the kitchen at La Posada pushed by employees in white jackets, swipe greetings, and converse in Spanish. My birds are screeching for more seeds, and the candle is just about burned out. The unknown outcome of our state of affairs in government and society has padded me with extra elasticity, tolerance, and love. Maybe our collective kindness will intercede with the poisonous bitterness and vengeance that titillates through the news.
COMPASSION RELIEVES THE SUFFERING
Woody Allen commented on depression in all his films; the one I remember most went something like this; ‘I get depressed if one person is suffering in Africa.’
Remember those days; when all we had to concern ourselves with was: Africa, a bit of Russia, and powerfully silent Cuba and China. The Europeans loved us back then; we gave them something to laugh about.
I turn on the news intermittently during the day; and whatever activity had occupied me suddenly dissipated into bothersome dust. Murder, beheadings, shootings, corruption, deception, fear and helplessness swept away the dust, and my consciousness wept.
Whether it is the unfathomable death of a woman who seemed immortal, the young journalist beheaded on television, the left and right parties swinging obscenities at each other, all soliciting a reality show of our government. My choice of sorrows is mounting.
Today is a cabaret of: weather, activity, and excitement as Fiesta Week begins in Santa Fe.
The city will converge on the Plaza for the performing arts, parades, musical improvisations, dance and Northern New Mexico chow. Policeman will be stationed alongside the booths to protect us. They look grouchy and irritable; but in my experience, the friendliest cops I’ve ever met. Try talking to a cop in Los Angeles.
The butter on the tortilla of Santa Fe, is that our community events, processions, and traditional religious enactments are safe havens for Spaniards, Native Americans, the mixed, the foreign and us Anglos. I can ask to be invited into any assemblage and chances are they will accept my presence.
The safety and care of people depends on all of us. If I recognize a stoned drunk stumbling; I should take his hand to shelter. If an old woman needs help crossing the street: I should lead her. If insults and arguments draw my attention; I should keep my eye on the situation. This is where my consciousness rises from dust and sorrow; to a strong wind of humanity.
MALIBU- CANDLES OF THE MOUNTAIN
Interaction with strangers in the same house lit my anxiety alarm. The last time roommates occupied the same house was in 1972. I lived in a three-story twelve bedroom mansion in San Rafael, California. There were thirteen of us. Disbro lived in the attic and inhaled laughing gas all day. I was twenty-years old.
This anxiety was visible even at twenty. Sometimes all of us sat down to dinner at one dining room table. The conversations literally wrapped around the room, the halls, and the windows. My voice was restrained; they were too conversational and intellectually humorous for me. I was the youngest.
This brings us back to the Puzzle of Solitude. When there is conversational nuances, improvisations, laughter, dancing, cooking, dressing, showering, slacking, without strain or tension, then it is time to leave out solitude and hook the bait of adventure.
Fragments of my fragmented spirit reincarnated this summer at Chantel’s. There were three full-time roommates that shared the house, Chantel, Speedy, and Nathan and an occasional Nico. There are up to eight visitors occupying the private cottages, and a flexible showing of hungry men and women at dinner time. Added to this is the number of languages spoken, English, Spanish, French, German and Koui’s (Chantel’s dog) welcoming bark.
Interaction on the routine, necessary, and impulsive terms of cohabitation in the morning: preparing coffee in two Turkish pots, buttering bread, stretching, checking email, cuddling Koui, and taking showers. The first morning my mask shed when I walked into the kitchen in my nightie and open robe. What happened in twelve hours to my belt of modesty? Speedy and I chatted in English, and then he’d Skype his wife. One morning he introduced us. I looked forward to his Skype discussions; the most fluid and rhythmic language to my ears. The art of conversation has vanished from many factions of our society. The phone and laptop are now our mouths and ears.
Not so with Europeans.
“ Loulou, so you have a gallery of photography?
“ We had one; now it’s a vacation rental decorated with photography.”
Nico leaned against the wooden island table to hear the story. You can’t look Nico in the eyes without lusting just a little.
“ How’d you start this gallery? Nico asked while chopping perfectly unmeasured tomatoes, mushrooms, and onion.
“ I called photographers; and a few friends pushed my cart to the right door. One time I walked into a gallery on Robertson Blvd and noticed this exhibition of celebrities on the beach in St Tropez. It was incredible!”
Fabian who owns a gallery on Robertson moved in closer as I continued.
“I walked in and asked the Swedish owner if he’d co-exhibit in our gallery in New Mexico. He said yes, we didn’t even sign anything. He kept his end up. So I showed the Edward Quinn’s in Santa Fe. I should have bought the Audrey Hepburn one; when she was eighteen.”
“I know the Quinn photographs. Bridget Bardot– yes– what was the name of the Gallery?” Fabian revealed enough interest to spark mine.”
“ Christopher Guye.”
He moved closer so we were face to face.
“I know Christophe! My first gallery was next door!”
All of us applauded the connection; I think I moved a notch closer to the group.
This is what happens when joining is more exhilarating than not. In the next few weeks: we dined in French and English, watched Soccer, teased and laughed, cooked and drank. There were parties with Jennie, Chantel’s assistant, who has two congregations of friends, all uniquely different and robust. I had walks on the beach alone, and time to write; but the real vacation was interior. I left the old LouLou, who paced, fretted, vacillated and deconstructed behind. She lost the battle to interior florescence.
The thread of interaction followed me outside the compound. I discovered Malibu is not all celebrities and rock-stars. There are families that go to the beach, hang out at Vintage Market, and attend community events tied to the ocean, horses, and surfing. The school of surfing for children is worth a visit just to see the little boys and girls riding waves. Malibu has its own Playhouse, a Movie Theater and two upscale outdoor shopping malls. The Getty Villa perched on cliff- side overlooking Pacific Coast Highway has reopened and it is free to the public.
The vacation sabbatical ended last week; though the effect remains. This adventure was supposed to be all about ocean swimming, window shopping, revisiting former favorite spots; what I really needed was to revisit myself. Do we ever stop emerging? I hope not.
Candles of the mountain are a cactus plant that hopscotch the Santa Monica Mountains. Their 
flowers are white and when the sun sets into darkness they light up the mountains like candles.
CANDLES OF THE MOUNTAIN
ADVENTURES IN MALIBU DINING. ![20140725_193214[1]](https://odysseyofadventures.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/08/20140725_1932141.jpg)
The fog today has brushed the mountains with a thick white mist almost like a snow mass; yet the temperature is warm. What I found most entertaining in a writers way, was the night Chantel and I visited NOBU; “No One Beats Us.”
ON THE OTHER SIDE OF UNTAMED, UNDRESSED WILDERNESS are the unhurried pocket full of cash residents, or resident visitors, that line up in waxed sports cars and convertibles at the entrance of NOBU. I wonder if they have summer and winter cars as I watch them slouching on the terrace sofas: women in latex tight jeans, bottoms-up mini skirts, and men in tight V-Neck T’s and designer jeans.
“ Oh Chantel this is going to be so fun.”
“ You think so?”
We sat down on the terrace sofas and ordered drinks. As a thirty-year old
this sort of stylish trendy expensive dining was all I cared about and I can’t tell you why because I never got inside the groups that I followed. Thirty years later my sense of belonging is unimportant; it is the observation deck of a group that is
capable of supreme prating, joking, excessive drinking and charismatic behavior.
I spotted two men dressed in musicians gear, top hats, and dancing lace up boots swaying towards us.
“ Hello girls, do you mind if we join you.” I didn’t look at Chantel until they swayed a bit more indiscreetly, and realized they were hammered.
“You guys rock n roll musicians.” I asked
“What? How’d you know?”
“The British accent, two bottles of beer in one hand and the hat.
They bent over at the waist in laughter and collapsed on a sofa across from us.
Thirties, with squinted red eyes, and big smiles; they laughed at everything I said.
“ I like that you call us girls; but we really are. Aren’t we Chantel?”.
She smiled and when they asked her what kind of music she liked she said
‘ All kinds.”
What about you?” The less than stupid drunk one asked me.
“ Mick Jagger.”
He spread his arms out wide and then slapped the table.
“The guy is unbelievable. No truly the best man today, still. I can’t believe the guy.”
Common ground in music stroked our conversation, until the stupid drunk one
tipped over one of his beers, while trying to stand. They drifted off to their crowd and I remained fixated to the garden of youth circulating the terrace.
The indoors were crammed with shiny female legs, and beautiful male arms. There was no identification of loners or singles; just one large crowd hip to hip. No one place I’ve been to can beat the sizzling sexuality, liberation of theatrics, and prices. Two pieces of tuna are $8.00 and Sashimi is $25.00.
I left my phone that night and when I returned the next day at noon there were twenty people waiting to get in. Thinly disguised in hat, ankle length bathing suit wrap, and glasses, I did not look like I belonged and I liked that feeling. It was a star-spangled banner sort of celebration that I really don’t mind being on the outskirts. I am staying in Malibu; but I am not a Malibu moneyed account.
The next evening outing I stopped at Geoffrey’s Restaurant; in my southwest dirty 2002 Discovery. The valet was directing traffic as if he was a pilot commanding a landing of private jets.
“ You are very good with those signals.”
He nodded. No time to talk. 
I tried to walk in without looking at the floor; as if I’d been there before.
The bar was half full; and the dining room tables were all taken. The backdrop was cinematic; a glorious china-blue sea, with seagulls and surfers marked through floor to ceiling spotless glass. There was so much reflection and light; the groomed and jeweled diners looked like actors on a movie set. That makes me a little uncomfortable; to be so transparent. I noticed a spot on my shoe, a tiny one that turned brownish the more I stared.
The bartendress breezed over,’ Hi. May I start you with some sparkling water’ one I’d never heard of.
“ A wine list please and the appetizer menu.” She gleamed at that.
My journal was my partner; so I scribbled away casually and felt inducted into Geoffrey’s. I ordered the crab cakes appetizer, wafer size but so delicious I would order them again. As soon as the gloaming hour arrived it was time to leave. I had not mastered the swerving mountain roads to Chantel’s in the dark.
” Check please.” I said.
What a sensational feeling to sign the slip and know there is more than enough in my bank account.
” Your card didn’t go through.”
” Try it again please. There should be no problem.”
” Sorry. The card is — not accepted.”
Not enough cash to pay a thirty-five dollar bill was more than humiliating; so I pulled an Allen Smiley.
” I’ve never heard of such a thing. Wells Fargo will hear about this!” I called Wells Fargo and followed all the instructions and then waited. By this time the owner, thirties and as pretty as the Blue Boy, appeared.
I signaled him to wait a moment just as Wells Fargo disconnected me.
Then I pitched up my voice melodramatically to the owner and talked up my frustration. As I am explaining that I am visiting and that all my ready cash was spent in one day in Malibu and I was so sorry; I went swimming in his almost Paul Newman eyes.
” It’s no problem. It’s okay. I”ll run the hand written receipt tomorrow.” He said with suave charming lips and teeth.
Then he left. I turned to the Bartendress and asked if this ever happens at Geoffrey’s. She smiled and said, ‘ No, but it used to happen in a bar I worked at.’
I left in a roundabout reminder that I should stop galloping around without cash; especially on a vacation.
The next day I walked into Wells Fargo at Trancas Canyon. Three employees welcomed me: coffee, water, how can we help, all in sync. After I explained the story to a college age man behind a walnut desk, he called someone at Wells Fargo and then I learned the trick to traveling.
” If you go out of state you need to let us know so we won’t block your account.”
” For thirty-five dollars? Don’t tell me you do that when Cher leaves town.” She didn’t laugh.
” The block is removed. Is there anything else we can do?’
” I hope not.”
The suntanned jolly man at the desk began a conversation: where do you live, how long you’re in Malibu, have you been to Trancas Beach and then he asked why I didn’t have a savings account. I leaned in real close and whispered, I don’t have that much money.
‘” I see we just sent you a platinum credit card.”
” I never received a platinum credit card.” He leaned back in his leather executive chair that really didn’t suit him at all and said, ” You probably thought it was an advertisement and threw it away.”
” Do you know what the limit is?” I asked.
He tapped on his computer and I watched in anticipation.
” Three thousand dollars.”
” Really?”
” Yes. Now let’s talk about you opening up a savings account. You have to have one.'”
I wanted to stand up and hug him. Instead I asked him if he surfed.
” Yea, but I’m not that good really.”
” It doesn’t always matter that you’re good; some things are just about doing it.”
To be continued.
CANDLES OF THE MOUNTAIN-MALIBU
CANDLES OF THE MOUNTAIN PART 3
“Ahh Nico! Come meet LouLou.”
A young man with cha-cha rhythm danced in and kissed me on both cheeks. He and Chantal are speaking at a galloping speed in French, embossed with the wildest sort of laughter, and then another man, Speedy, a leading Parisian graffiti artist walks in, and addresses me without movement; just eyes that seem to sum me up speedily. Behind him is Nathan, a man of composed attentiveness. Then came Fabien, although we met a few days later, I include him now because creative nonfiction allows poetic license of time and place. Fabien is a Frenchman who owns a progressive gallery in Culver city, Castanier Gallery, and shows Speedy.
If the address is Malibu on the mailbox, it is not inside the house. This party began as they all crossed the threshold. The ooh la la’s, kisses, hugs, gifts, and food that joined the beef, chicken and my guacamole was an appetite odyssey.
The evening began as some sort of theatrical reenactment of a French film. I have longed to return to Europe; instead I found it in Chanel’s home. You must meet Bibi, and Bruce. I coined Bibi, Joplin, because when she danced on the dining table, with her flowing blond hair and abandonment to free spirit she reminded me of Janis. Bruce, her husband wears a flag of acceptance for human imperfection and relished a young Walter Matthew. He is highly educated and so grounded in realism his wife’s antics do not astound him as some husbands may disapprove of such a blooming spirit. There was a Swedish beauty and her friend Shawn, a British theater actor, who inflamed the party with the grandest authentication of the English language in conversation, and joking that turned everyone into belly aching laugher. We were also joined by two Brits from London; superbly mannered and educated professionals, Rebecca and James, and then a French woman with delicate features and European charm.
“Let us have a toast.” Shawn raised his glass in the light of candles and softly sliding sunlight. I suggested everyone join in with their own toast. When it came to my turn I said,
“ L’ chaim”
“Oh, you are Jewish?” someone called out.
“Yes. Can I stay?” I said with a smile to encourage laughter and not the awkwardness of being the only Jew. I’d rather people know so they don’t trip up and provoke my Jewish temper.
To be myself amongst strangers is rarely so effortless for me. Like the new moon rising over the mountains; the time for full powered laughter and elation had captured all of us. I felt that we were ravenous for a few hours of relief from the catastrophic state of world affairs that we are not personally suffering. There is very little discussion of current events in public places; and I have not seen many people reading the news. My gratitude for the freedom to luxuriate in a pampered and nourishing environment enlarged every time I watch the news.
The fog today has brushed the mountains with a thick white mist almost like a snow mass; yet the temperature is warm and humid and my pores feel moisturized. The wilderness holds my attention to reflection as the natural beauty of eucalyptus trees fanning the wind and wild flowers feeding hummingbirds surpasses the perfection of model bodies and designer outfits of 92065 residents.
Malibu is not all celebrities![20140718_174353[1]](https://odysseyofadventures.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/07/20140718_1743531.jpg)
and rock stars as you may think. There is an abundance of families that flock to the beach, and live the art of hanging out around the Malibu Mart. The community offers weekend festivals, and fund-raisers tied to the care of the ocean, landscape and horses. They offer child and adult surf classes, book readings, hiking clubs, and even have their own Malibu Playhouse and a Movie Theater. The Santa Monica Mountains open into a hikers paradise, and full suited black leather BMW bikers are everywhere you look .
The night life begins at Sunset when a litter of limo guests enter the driveway of Geoffreys Restaurant for glistening views and cocktails. Down at the Malibu Pier the plank boards are as weathered as I remember as a teenager; only now the restaurants are uppity scaled organic. My favorite restaurant, Malibu Seafood, is still sitting on the shoulder of Pacific Coast highway and as the locals know, you don’t get tossed for another reservation. You can bring your own wine, sit on a deck overlooking the Pacific and taste the freshest fish in California.
What I found most entertaining in a writers way, was the night Chantel and I visited NOBU; “No One Beats Us.” To be continued….
STILL A MYSTERY WHO MURDERED BENJAMIN ” BUGSY” SIEGEL
July 23, 2004
Still A Mystery…Who Shot Benjamin Siegel.
Several months ago I received an email from a reporter in Las Vegas. George Knapp had read some of my memoir posted on my website, and asked for an exclusive interview. He asked about my father’s relationship with Ben Siegel “Bugsy” and what I knew about their friendship, and why Ben Siegel was shot. I declined the interview, but George persevered. Three weeks later I agreed to the interview, because my father was not there to stop me.
We met in Del Mar at the Inn Auberge. I showed up with a notepad to remind me what not to say, a photograph of my father when he was a producer for Cecil B. De Mille, and a borrowed calmness that comes when I am approaching an extremely anxious situation.
My first interview about Dad was not anything like I imagined. George approached the subject with respect, and I relaxed and began talking, and talking, and talking. The only time I hesitated was when he asked if I knew who killed Ben, and I had to answer swiftly, “I think Bush did it.” He was not too impressed with the answer; but it saved me from theorizing.
At the end of the interview, I walked out of the hotel without regret. I said what I felt should be told; that my father’s best friend was Ben Siegel. If he loved Ben and my mother loved Ben, than there is a lot more to “Bugsy” than what the public has been told.
The interview aired on a Friday night, and my life was no different from before. George got a call from someone who claimed my father once told him, Virginia Hill’s brother was the shooter. It sounds like my father; he enjoyed sending people down the wrong path.
He always said, “You don’t inherit friends,” and so I declined to remain friends with family members of his group, because I respected his orders, even after he died. I don’t know if any of his mob friends are still alive today. Many people claim they knew my father, but in essence, what they mean is they met at Ciro’s, or had a game of cards, or went to the racetrack. My father’s only friends were connected to organized crime. I learned this when he died; three people showed up for the service. He warned me to keep away from reporters, and not to trust anyone. Still, strange incidents followed his death that I was unprepared to handle.
A man I’d never heard of called and informed me, ‘ your Dad and Ben buried a safe deposit box in downtown Los Angeles. ‘You should look for the key, there may be a lot of cash.’ My father was not about to leave this world without telling me he had stashed money in a safe deposit box. I will bet every dollar on that.
Another man, posing as a friend, came to my aid offering help settling the estate. A few weeks later another man I had never heard of, placed a claim on the estate for an old gambling debt of $5,000. The two of them were conspiring. Had I known gambling debts are erased when the bettor dies, I would not have sold his Patek Philippe pocket watch, which I suspect belonged to Ben Siegel at one time. The end of my father’s life was as mysterious as when he was living. That is how he liked it, and that is how he lived it.
I had to wait until my father was in his seventies to go to the racetrack with him. He took me to Santa Anita, we sat in the clubhouse, and he watched the track from behind dark glasses. He was quiet and observant. He watched me eat, and then handed me a C note to bet on the Exacta. He told me how to bet and which horses to bet. I walked away from the cashier thinking I would be a big winner. Instead, I walked away a big loser. ‘Now you know even your Dad loses at the track.’ There wasn’t anything exciting about going to the track, he made sure of that. I suppose he was concerned, that I had inherited a taste for betting. Lucky for me;
I throw the dice on a different game. Photo: Leaving Beverly Hills Police Department day after the murder.
ADVENTURERS IN LIVINGNESS 