I haven’t posted here this whole year so today, at the end of 2024, I am posting a story by a guest blogger. This story is written by my son Barnaby. The 72 hours that the story is about was the scariest of my life because I didn’t know if I would see him again. You’ll probably feel inspired to go out and eat Korean BBQ after reading this. I suggest the restaurants on Sawtelle in Los Angeles.
Locked Up Abroad written by Barnaby Duke
So, I was offered to shoot a dance commercial in South Korea. My immediate thought was that I’m not really a dancer in the way they probably expect, but it is a chance to experience a different country and that seems worth it. They offered me a few hundred bucks and a flight there and back — which isn’t that great in the entertainment world, especially since I was spoiled and lucky-as-fuck to have already booked national TV commercials at that point. I could make anywhere from $5,000 to $40,000 in residuals from one day’s shooting in a TV spot.
But I accepted, simply because I was getting a free trip to South Korea. I was pumped and ready, but also concerned about the choreography we’d have to learn when we arrived. See, I can dance and I’ve got rhythm from playing the drums — or as my mom joked, “Having James Brown knock me up to make you.” — but the one thing I couldn’t do to save my life was learn steps. It just wasn’t in my DNA, and I looked like an awkward uncle at a bar mitzvah trying to learn the cupid shuffle. I thought whatever, I’ll improvise and fake my way through it like I’ve basically done with everything my entire life. I’m not that great at anything, but I’m a good bluffer and can usually look comfortable enough to sell it. (more…)
Even I noticed the perfectly formed bottom of the woman sporting a clingy, ankle-length, knit skirt. She was perfect from the back–– and okay––the front.
From his vantage, he was totally drawn to the ass. Who wouldn’t be?
In this era of #MeToo, he just reached out and touched it, oh-so-slightly. His hand didn’t really fit around her bottom. But it was a rewarding grab. She did not whip around and slap him like in an old-timey movie. I wondered if, like me, she sort of still welcomes a nice touch on the ass.
“You have the whitest teeth,” some random older woman said to me at a dinner party in the ‘80s. Then her whole family from out of town chimed in, “We are obsessed with your teeth!” It was an unusual compliment. And, with a minor amount of self-deprecation, I proudly accepted.
I was in Paris on a trip with my best friend, Kimberly, and my one-year-old child, Oliver. We were staying in small quarters in an inexpensive pensione. “I have to tell you your breath is very bad,” Kimberly said to me in our little room. “I’ve wanted to tell you for days, but I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” Turns out, I had a leaky crown, which sends out a foul odor. One that I couldn’t, or didn’t, detect.
Colon cancer runs in my family. Procrastination runs in me. So, a few years after my suggested year to get another colonoscopy, I went to the doctor and negotiated a few more years. Then I let even more years slip by. At this point, I was way overdue. I went in again. Now when my doctor, Denise Hertz (read: hurts), saw how profoundly neurotic I was – she decided I could go in for the virtual colonoscopy instead. It’s offered by the same radiology group that does my equally dreaded, but not procrastinated (usually) mammograms.
Let me circle back quickly to when I lost my colonoscopy virginity. I’m around 50. Probably exactly 50, since it’s the age they want you to get your first colonoscopy. I make an appointment with some dude in Beverly Hills that other friends have been to. It’s in a surgical center at the bottom of an office building. I’m sedated and in the middle of the procedure. I say, “Owww!” (Don’t worry, I won’t circle back to my C-section without anesthetic – you can do that on your own in my blog.) I’m pulled out from being under and the doctor looks at me and says he can’t finish the procedure because I have — wait for it — “a mangled, twisted colon.” Yep, that’s what he said. So, I ask him, “How many fucking people in the world have a mangled, twisted colon?” He answers, “Two percent.” (more…)
Let me start this story exactly where it begins. My best friend Kimberly had been taking a few different acting classes. I audited them but didn’t spark to any for myself. They seemed cultish. As if the whole thing had to do with admiring the teacher. The students were like followers. And I didn’t like all the “acting” exercises.
I remember watching Arnold Schwarzenegger do a scene in Eric Morris’s acting class. Arnold was then just starting out and known only as a body builder.
Kimberly guided me to a class deep in the Valley. Though you could take the same class in Point Dume at the teacher’s house, I chose the Valley. The class was taught by a famous acting teacher named Jeff Corey. (more…)
First the joke I wrote while waiting behind the gauze curtains at a Jewish funeral. The first joke I would ever write.
Let me set the scene: Forest Lawn in Burbank, California. The year 1996. The chapel – is it called a chapel? Is spilling over. There are well over 200 guests and not enough seats so some people will be outside.
“I think I might need my dad’s cane here today and maybe his brace. God knows I have his balls.”
I looked straight into the audience and saw Red Buttons and Shecky Greene laughing. That’s when I knew I had this. Though I’m not great at public speaking. It’s my biggest fear – among so many fears. Maybe I didn’t inherit the large balls after all. My father was fearless. Oh, did I mention this is my dad’s funeral? Now you know.
The beauty of my father was – well – so many things I’ll try and share with you. But one of them being that he would grade you. He’d give everyone an A or 100%. But, it was always a perfect score. So, first off, I’d like to give my dad 100 for being the best dad a little girl could ever have. (more…)
His adoption story: It was “the fastest ever,” according to the militant dog adoption folks. We looked for a dog for two straight years. Every Sunday without fail, my husband and I combed through the available dogs at the Farmers Market, on Sunset, in the Palisades. Nothing did it for us.
Then one Sunday, before I woke up, my husband called and said there’s a very cute dog here. The owner is giving him up, but hanging around for the day, hoping to find him a home. An out-of-the-ordinary, not-in-the-system-yet, dog. I said just bring him and the owner to our house. I’ll see him here. Not something they do. But, they did. For me.
Two hundred dollars and an hour later, we had our new dog with the adorable “Disney dog” face. They didn’t do their usual home check. The adoption people knew us well by now, and trusted us.
Our dog came with a name: Dre. Scratch Dre in the first minute, because we’d already agreed that we loved the name Bing. Bing, our new nine-month-old, wired-hair, tan and orange, mid-sized, human-faced boy. (more…)
I think of my friend Dave as the patron saint of divorce. Why, you may ask? Well, Dave came to my rescue when my long-predicted-to-end-marriage, ended.
Let me start at the beginning. I was in my late twenties. All, I mean some, of my friends were swept up in the wedding/baby thing and I thought, me too. And no, if they all jumped off of a bridge, I would not jump. But in hindsight, getting married was a lot like jumping off a bridge. And my body is tiny and breaks easily.
I showed up one day at Jane Fonda’s workout dressed in full early-80’s workout gear. I didn’t even exercise, you should know, I just liked costumes, especially the look of those scrunched-up leggings on my ankles. I was there to corner my best friend Stacey, to whom I would reveal and process the secret news. I had to wait until her hardcore class was over. Then I followed my out-of-breath, sweaty girlfriend to the bathroom.
“I think I just got married.”
Stacey stared back at my reflection in the mirror while splashing cold water on her face. “You think.” (more…)
One is the Loneliest Number is the loneliest number that you’ll ever do.
I sit alone for hours brooding. If you meet me, you’ll think I’m a happy-go-lucky kid. But sometimes I live in a darker world.
Two can be as bad as one. It’s the loneliest number since the number one.
The need to smoke my first cigarette is profound. I think it will give me that teenager lift I’m looking for. Smoking is camaraderie. I’ll be a comrade. My mother isn’t around today — which is rare. She’s always a figure in motion around our house. Or she’s sequestered in her bedroom fighting her own private demons.
No is the saddest experience you’ll ever know. Yes, it’s the saddest experience you’ll ever know.(more…)
At the time, two women, who seemed almost elderly, but were only in their mid-50s, were my feminist role models. They didn’t know it.
My own mother was a very independent woman and was already a pretty good role model. But she wasn’t as forthcoming and strong. I felt my mother’s strength was just the hand she’d been dealt. That’s another story for another time.
These two women, who had just entered my life, were fierce and unapologetic about their strength. Janet had a degree as a medical doctor and was a New York shrink on the Upper East Side. Ruth had an MSW and practiced therapy out of her duplex in Beverly Hills. She also happened to be the mother of my then boyfriend.
When these two besties got together, they wore matching (although in different colors) Lanz nightgowns to bed. They’d giggle all night during their two-week long, if not longer, slumber parties.
The headboard of Ruth’s bed was a spectacular mural of hand painted cherubs (angels) and clouds. Their lives, their friendship, their headboards, their taste in music and books and film, all seemed fantastic to me. I was captivated.
Ruth and Janet turned me onto my anthem. I knew and recited the words by heart. I bought the album and played it more than some people were playing Joni Mitchell and Crosby, Stills & Nash. Over and over all day long, I pulled the needle back to start my favorite song again one more time. This was 1972. The album was released a year earlier. (more…)
I haven’t posted here this whole year so today, at the end of 2024, I am posting a story by a guest blogger. This story is written by my son Barnaby. The 72 hours that the story is about was the scariest of my life because I didn’t know if I would see him again. You’ll probably feel inspired to go out and eat Korean BBQ after reading this. I suggest the restaurants on Sawtelle in Los Angeles.
