Keka's Open Salon Blog

Jade "Soul" Zuberi animates--and elevates--SYTYCD

Sat, 18 May 2013 17:05:34 -0400

Jade "Soul" Zuberi animates and illuminates on So You Think You Can Dance

Did you feel that?

I did. And it changed me forever.

Back in the 50’s and early 60’s, in my godfather’s church on the south side of Chicago, I would join the congregation and choir to sing an old hymn that begins, “Praise God from whom all blessings flow…”

I do not think I truly understood what that meant until last week, when I saw that beautiful young man turn music into movement. And through the movement, teach the multitudes what it feels and looks like to be a vessel through which the Divine speaks.

I have a rather eclectic and unorthodox belief system. But I do believe, like the Hopi people who came closer than anyone save Jade to teaching me what God looks like in person, that there is an…energy, or a force or whatever you need to call it, which “animates” and “elevates” us.

The latter, that abiity to “elevate,” is reserved for a blessed few who have been called to teach by example.

John Lennon knew this. In his Transcendental Meditation days, he explained it quite eloquently. He said that if you were a carpenter who believed you had been divinely inspired to create the most beautiful chairs in the world, you would not need to preach. People would soon see and hear about your beautiful chairs and come from all over the world to buy them. And in the process of buying those chairs they might actually ask you how you built them.

And that’s when you could tell them your magical story. Or…maybe you wouldn’t need to. Because the beautiful chairs would tell that story far more powerfully than mere words ever could.

When I see someone like Jade perform, I know that there is a magical story behind it. He doesn’t have to tell it. I see it.

And after the performance, a part of me yearns to know more. And to know how it feels to have all that power flowing through and creating something so much more profound than a body could do on its own.

How I envy those who believe so strongly that they can give themselves over to those beliefs so completely that everyone who sees them feels the source of that power they’ve witnessed. I know we all have that opportunity every day. I know that sometimes we’re even aware that there’s something far greater than ourselves at work in something we say or do. Even the least devout amongst us has felt that.

The debate begins when we try to explain or defend or “demystify” it.

And that’s when the magic gets lost. The mind cannot explain or truly comprehend these things. And those who must always know the logic of life deny themselves one of the most magnificent moments life offers.

There is a logic in it. But you have to let go long enough to be led to that logic. And that kind of trust is hard to come by, especially in the technology-driven world of today which teaches us that we ourselves are almost omnipotent, creating and entering whole new worlds via The Cloud.

I myself, thanks to Jade, have pledged to be more mindful of those fleeting moments when I get a tiny taste of what he experiences on a daily basis. I will savor and give thanks for those times when the Divine is trying to give me a magical message that only I can pass on to others by doing that one thing only I can do the way I do it. Because I was “called” to do it.

When you allow yourself to be the instrument…the music is mesmerizing. And the message in that music needs no explanation.

But you have to pay attention. And allow yourself to be “used.”

Here’s another celebrity story—an truly moving one, about Steven Spielberg.

At the end of every interview on Inside the Actors Studio, James Lipton asks the guests a series of questions he admittedly stole from French TV host, Bernard Pivot. The final question is always, “If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?”

Upon being asked that question, Spielberg smiled beatifically and said he hoped God would say, simply, “Thank you for listening.”

Thank you, Jade, for listening. And sharing the messages in with us in your own inimitable way.

And in the words of a far less divinely inspired but appropriate Outkast song: I love the way you move.

The World According to Roger Ebert

Thu, 4 Apr 2013 16:04:29 -0400

Goodbye my dear friend...

I really can't write right now. But I can re-post this piece about Roger that said all the things I never got to say to him over the years we were out of touch after I left the Chicago Sun Times. They're worth saying again. And I'm glad he got to read them.

And right now...I just can't think clearly enough to say anything else...

Okay, let’s go there, finally.

Why does Roger Ebert “tweet” my posts?

Easy but sincere answer? Damned if I know.

Not so easy and scarier answer? I think he still remembers that tiny little ghetto girl who walked into the Chicago Sun Times totally unprepared and ‘way too young and naïve for the job.

There was something about my innocence, I think, that touched his heart. And for some very, very strange reason…I still do. Or…my writing does.

And that touches and astonishes me more than he’ll ever understand.

There is, of course, a long story behind all this. And he will remember all the details better than I do, so in advance, Roger: mea culpa. I get fuzzier on the details by the day. But let’s start from the beginning as Iremember it.

I arrived at the Sun Times having done some audacious little articles for local alternative newspapers and magazines--oh, and Rolling Stone andCreem, too. And also still believing that reporting was “writing,” based on the amazing OpEd pieces and reviews and “creative nonfiction” that I’d read by seasoned vets like the venerable Herman Kogan.

They wrote about life, love, places they’d been and places in the heart that we all knew about but couldn’t put into words the way they did. I wanted to do that.

I didn’t know that you had to work your way through a lotta “just the facts, ma’am” to get to do that. My being hired at the Sun Times after teaching for two years and being published for maybe less than that was rather like being shipped off to Afghanistan without going through basic training.

And I arrived during very tumultuous times. The evening paper, The Chicago Daily News, was rumored to be “folding” any minute. What that would mean to everyone at both papers was difficult to predict, but most of the vets were sure that if the Daily News went down, the top brass would use that as an opportunity to do some serious moving and shaking at the Sun Times, too.

I paid absolutely no attention to any of that. I knew nothing about the newspaper “business.” And I was living a fantasy life, traveling with bands I’d once idolized, interviewing movie and TV stars, going to parties and red carpet affairs most people only see on TV. I was on TV, and radio, often. My life was the stuff of dreams and diary entries.

Now, I had been warned that the party couldn’t last by some very, verysmart men. Lester Bangs, the legendary Creem writer/editor lovingly lampooned in Almost Famous, was one. But he wasn’t a Sun Timescolleague, so…that’s another story.

Among the Sun Times folk there was a wonderful reporter named Eliot Wald, who left to write for SNL and the movies before passing away far too young. He warned me that it wouldn’t be long before the music I wrote about wouldn’t be “my” music anymore. And that once that happened, I wouldn’t be very good at writing about it anymore, either.

He almost sounded like my mother, always warning me that I needed to find that “fall back” job, or at least move from critic to something more “substantial,” before I was too old to rock and roll.

The second was Gary Houston who was unceremoniously “let go” from the newspaper just in time to star in the very first production of Grease. He didn’t have to tell me anything. He was the kind of writer—and character--I liked. And they fired him for it.

And then I was asked, when Grease became the hottest ticket in town, tointerview him for the newspaper that had fired him. The show was a hit, a movie was in the offing and Gary was their “inside man.” Wow.

When I hemmed and hawed and stammered trying to do a fast phone interview, he chuckled and told me that that was what he liked about me. I could still feel ashamed of awkward assignments like that.

And after he had given me lots of quotes to use without my having to ask him anything--because he knew what they were after having worked for them--he told me to be careful. And I knew, just because they were firing amazing guys like him, that I might be a goner, too.

The third wise man, easily the wisest of all…was Roger. Now, the Roger we know now is a little different from the Roger I knew then. But if he hadn’t been that Roger, he wouldn’t be the Roger he is now. Let me try to explain this as diplomatically as I can. The old Roger just knew he was “the shizznits.”

And that’s because…he was.

No, really, he was. No ifs, ands or buts. The guy knew exactly what he was doing and how to do it better—and faster--than anyone else. And for me, he was God the way Clapton was for some other people.

Every day he blew into the office like a hurricane and typed his latest oeuvre in minutes. Often giving us a "play by play" of the day’s events as he wrote them and almost always, as I still recall with envy, without needing to do a second draft.

Then, he’d hit “send,” tell us a few hilarious celebrity stories he had either been part of or heard about through his also enviable Hollywood grapevine…and blow back out to do…whatever it was he did when he wasn’t in the office.

One of the things he did when he wasn’t in the office…he did with me. And a few others, when we could sneak away. We went to some of the restaurants within walking distance of the Sun Times and just sat there eating and talking and drinking and laughing. Only when Roger was there, he was the king and we were all his subjects. Not because he said so, but because we felt that way.

And if you listened closely during those conversations over linguini with clam sauce or…something else Italian (I only remember that particular restaurant for some reason—not the name, just the food) you would hear The World According to Roger. And if you remembered any of it after hoisting a few, and took the advice he gave you, chances were you’d do very, very well for yourself in journalism and otherwise.

He has told me that listening to me back then made him happy. Listening to him…made me realize that I was in the wrong business. You had to eat journalism the way you ate those clams. With gusto, loving every bite. I…like many a writer before me…did not like sticking to just the “facts.” Unless they were the facts I chose to write about thethings I chose to write about.

When they sent me to the “news” side a few years later, as they always eventually did to help nervous novices become “real” reporters, I almost had a nervous breakdown. In fact, I did have one, but I was too young to know what it was or to tell anyone or ask for the help I needed to avoid it.

I muddled through for a while. And then I was sent to the airport, just after what was then the worst airplane crash in Chicago history, knowing first of all that the daughter of one of our colleagues had probably been on that plane and second of all that I was expected to interview the victims’ relatives.

It was my "worst case scenario." I was absolutely mortified. And terrified. I remember I did it the way rape victims “dissociate” and go through the motions. And of course that…is not good. But I was able to do it because I discovered what a lot of reporters know and use to defend themselves when people ask they how they can stand to do it.

I discovered that the relatives wanted to talk about their loved ones. They’re in shock, still, and they want to say the names, tell the stories to keep reality at bay just a few moments longer. I got great stuff. But I felt like I needed to vomit for hours, after.

That’s because I was also sent to the suburban home of a deaf couple who had lost their child. And I was not entirely sure that they knew about the crash yet. There, after the father tearfully bleated through the door for me to please leave them alone—in that “deaf” voice I will never forget--a relative finally came to the door told me, firmly and rightly so, to get lost. I knew the editors would have wanted me to interview that relative at least, but…I didn’t.

I got lost. In more ways than one.

I just could not understand why I wasn’t happy. It was a dream job—in fact, it was getting more dreamlike all the time. I’d gone to a reception for Prince Charles. I had taken Queen--the rock band, and thanks to Roger--to the Chicago premiere of Close Encounters of the Third Kind. I was the first face audiences saw after the credits in Continental Divide, John Belushi’s not-so-great movie about a real reporter at our newspaper that was shot at our newspaper with other real reporters. I’d dated Mr. Universe—you know that…Arnold Whatisname. Kirk Douglas had sat on my lap—never mind why.

Heck, I was sitting right next to Rick MacArthur when he called mummy speaking fluent, frantic French, demanding that they buy Harpersbefore it folded. I had not actually—God, how embarrassing—realized that our Rick was one of those MacArthur’s. The ones who pay for damned near everything PBS does. His father wrote The Front Page, the quintessential play about Old School reporters for Chrissake, but to me his son was just another crazy dude I saw moshing at some of the punk bars in town on the weekend.

I remember I turned to him that day and said, “Rick…what are you tryin’a pull, dude?” or something equally ridiculous. He said, “You’llsee…” with a twinkle. And I remained blissfully ignorant until I saw him on the Today Show the next Monday talking about what he’d been talking to mummy about behind me that morning.

I guess he showed me all right. You go, rich boy…

The beginning of the end for me was when the Daily News really didfold. And all heck broke loose. As I recall—and again, my memory is a wee bit wobbly—it was exactly like the scene in Broadcast News, people’s phones ringing or runners being sent to fetch this one and that one. And the Bataan Death March of pink-slipped reporters returning from “upstairs” to pack decades of memories into boxes.

I almost scooped the big guys upstairs, quite innocently, as I recall, a few days before the ax actually fell. I had been out to have my heinously infected tonsils removed and had received a strange call from the managing editor of our paper while I was still groggy with pain killers.

“We didn’t want you to worry. You have a place at the Sun Times,” he said--or something like that. And I thought it was incredibly sweet of the Big Boss to call me at home. I thought he was reassuring me because it was taking me so long to heal--there had been complications. Adult tonsilectomies can be tricky and my throat was badly scarred from years of infections.

When I got back to the office, I told everyone how amazed I’d been to hear from him.

The room went quiet. A few people asked me to repeat what he’d said, word for word. I did. And a few faces went very, very pale.

A few days later some of those faces were tear streaked. And then, they disappeared. And in the weeks to come as editors came and went and reporters played musical chairs from department to department, assignment to assignment…I really thought I was going to lose my mind completely.

Each editor had his or her own ideas about what should be written and how. I was just finding my own voice to begin with and now…I was being told to change it, and to change it in a different way every few weeks.

Some of the editors were good, but left because the times weren’t. Others were not good, and were asked to leave quickly. My sole island of sanity throughout was…yep. Roger. He blew in…he blew out…he wasn’t the least bit worried.

He had written Beneath the Valley of the Ultra Vixens with Russ Meyer--yes, that Russ Meyer. He had this TV show thing he was thinking of doing and…well…lots of irons in the fire. If they messed with him, they would be sorry. And of course, they knew that. So…they didn’t.

I, on the other hand, was the new kid on the block. And though I’d been assured that my job was secure…I was, after all, losing my mind.

It was right about then that Roger said or…I remembered him saying…I forget which…that a reporter who was still a reporter after five years was …I also can’t remember if the ending was “a failure” or “in trouble.” But the upshot was that he felt long-time journalists were in danger of becoming jaded and unable to “feel” the way you need to feel to care about the stories you write.

I knew that was just the raconteur speaking. Because I also knew that he would never stop loving movies or the people who make them. And I knew that I would never stop loving music or the people who made it. I wanted to write about them with as much love and real insight as Roger did, but…I wasn’t Roger. I was new. And that voice I’d been trying to find was now beginning to stammer.

In fact, I quit being able to write. I quit being able to think straight. I needed a miracle.

Mercifully, after a long period of self-loathing and doubt…I met one. A fetching young man who fell head over heels in love with me and helped me love myself again, too. About a year later, he decided to move West to be a mechanical engineer at a rather amazing salary for a recent college grad. And he wanted me to go with him.

Oh, you know I said, “Yes.”

I told my family and friends—they were gobsmacked. And then…I told Roger. He…was not pleased. So I reminded him of what he’d said. And of how I really felt.

“Lifestyle change,” he said—or something like that--with a pensive nod. “That…I can understand.” I was taking his advice, sort of. But his eyes told me he wasn’t entirely ready to let me go just yet.

Despite that, he and and some of my favorite people (Irishpie, who writes here sometimes is another), threw me a little going away bash…and I faded out of their lives and the newspaper business, forever, I thought. And then a few decades and one very unexpected Arizona Press Club award later—I did a very brief reprise at the Arizona Daily Star that only reinforced the fact that I do not like writing for newspapers--I was watching the news and heard that Roger Ebert was “gravely ill.” In fact, I expected to be seeing obits by morning, given the way they spun it.

Frantic for facts—for once--I ran to my computer and read everything I could Google up. And as I am wont to do when I want to know what the hell is going on with someone so badly that I don’t mind dropping names or pulling rank, I emailed Roger’s old Answer Man email address with my former name in the subject line—that’s right, isn’t it, Roger? Ithink that’s how it happened…

Anyway, he wrote right back. And I was very, very relieved to discover that contrary to those reports of his impending demise, he was soldiering on. Due for more operations, but determined.

I exhaled and smiled…and that was that for a while. Until…I began to write these little blog thingies. I sent him a link to one. He told me how good it was. And then he tweeted one. And then another and another. And then he kept doing it.

And I realized that in his own way he was picking up right where he left off: believing in me more than I believed in myself. I’m not quite as confused as I was then, though. And I can, at last, write about only the things that move me.

And one of the things that moves me most is that Roger is still there teaching and taking care of me the way he always did, even though I don’t really know why. It’s what he does that matters. The why…not so much.

I still love seeing myself through his eyes…even after all these years…

Coda--Roger's comment about the original post:

Dear Cynthia,

Awww... thanks.

This is kind of amazing, because I didn't guess the depths of anxiety you report here. To me you seemed cool, confident, serene. Our desks sat face to face in the feature department, and so I heard your phone calls (you discussed countless new albums with John Records Landecker), and what I loved was your speaking voice, so rich and warm.

You and I were sitting there when Bob Greene walked over to our desks with a sheet of AP copy and said, "Elvis just died."

Yes, that was a fraught time, with the Daily News closing. That the Sun-Times kept you is a compliment.

The restaurant was Riccardo's.

I don't know where I got that five year theory but I do remember saying that no one could be a film critic more than five years. (*Hollow laugh*)

I tweet your columns because...they're good. That seems to me like an excellent reason.

I have an idea for a column: You dated Arnold Schwarzenegger! Somehow you neglected to mention that. Curious minds want to know.

rebert

JUNE 12, 2011 02:10 PM

FIGHT it, Roger!

Thu, 4 Apr 2013 12:04:38 -0400

A very young Roger Ebert, a few years before we sat "desk to desk" in the features department

So...today I was supposed to announce that my "virtual book tour" had begun and to send you over to check out my first "appearance." And I will.

But I don't really care about anything much right now.

Except that Roger's cancer is back. Dammit.

Not long ago, when I head he'd broken his hip--dancing by some accounts--I playfully teased that he musta been bustin' a serious move when he did it. He joked about it, too, and thought it more an inconvenience than anything else. It would take some time to get back on his feet, but...he didn't sound worried.

And then I read the news yesterday. I don't know if he was just being 'way too brave by laughing it off a little...or if he just didn't want to go there at the time.

The only thing I know for sure is he'll fight it as hard as he can. And write amazing things about that battle. When I was so ill two years ago, his insights kept me going and taught me how to adjust my own attitude. And he kept up with me every step of the way.

I think it scared him. I know this scares me.

But I refuse to give in to despair. He won't. Maybe now and then--who wouldn't? But I know he'll come back swingin'.

My first tour stop is here today:

http://reviewfromhere.com

The entire schedule is here:

PumpUpYourBook--The Keka Collection tour

Pray for Roger. Wish us both luck. Hug someone you care about and tell them how glad you are to have them in your life--trite stuff I know, but today, I'm too heartbroken to be clever.

FIGHT it, Roger!

I'm on a book tour--without leaving home

Mon, 1 Apr 2013 15:04:07 -0400

My own "magical mystery tour" is a lot less magical than this--but it IS "virtual"

That's right, dear friends. I’m on my first book tour. For four weeks. Without leaving home.

No, this is NOT an April Fool's Day joke. Seriously.

It’s a “virtual” book tour, scheduled by PumpUpYourBook.com, a site and service provided by a couple of very publicity savvy women who were mentioned in an article by a writer whose books have sold very well thanks to them. And because I don’t have the budget or the “connects” to do an actual book tour, I was thrilled to discover that I could, for a price, have them do one for me. Virtually.

Who knew?

To find out more about my tour in support of my latest book, The Keka Collection, go here: http://bit.ly/YXaS4H And watch this space.

You KNOW I'm going to give you the skinny so you can do it, too!

Deadline--my diabolical literary "experiment"

Sat, 30 Mar 2013 13:03:34 -0400

Not long ago, I posted a very short story entitled, “Gettin’ my John Boy On.” It was written in fifteen minutes as a “quick write” at a gathering of other writers here in Tucson. And some of you really liked it.

Today, I’m going to share another story with you that was far more ambitious—if you like it, click that link and review it, if you wish. I’d love that!

But first…the story behind the story. I wrote this story as an “assignment” for a wonderful…I’m not sure what to call this thing I’ve got myself into. It’s called Story Cartel.

And its purpose is, according to Joe Bunting--the young genius who also created a very informative online writing “workbook” called The Write Practice--is to help writers create their own “cartels,” with whom they can share ideas.

They can also use that cartel to buck the system used by Amazon.com and many other sites which allow authors to publish their own books almost instantaneously, whenever they bloody well please. That system will publicize your book more eagerly if you’re able to convince say…100 friends and family members to write reviews of your book.

And if people see you at the top of the “best seller” lists on Amazon and sites that keep track of what’s “trending” on Amazon, they may decide to buy the book to see what all the gushing is about.

It’s a smart, common sense way of playing the “game.” And it works. Which is why Amazon is now devouring other sites like Goodreads at an alarming pace. Goodreads boasts tens of thousands of members whotell the world what’s hot and what’s not. And Amazon, which publishes through their Kindle Store and Createspace, where I created The Keka Collection not long ago, is blazing.

But…my very short story’s not the kind of story that hits the top ten. And that’s fine with me. Because it got me back in touch with that young girl inside me who sometimes still loves to write even more for herself than for anyone else.

I was experimenting with several things.

First, I wanted to see if I could write a story in the same way I write scripts. Present tense, as if it’s happening “right now” as you watch. Lots of “white space” on the page: bare bones.

No character descriptions—or just the tiniest bit, because you have no control over what actors will play the characters you’re creating. Very little description of the settings, because…ditto. You may get that mansion on the hill, but…probably not.

And it is just good writing in any genre to “show, not tell.” If you cannot tell what the characters are like by what they say and do…it’s not good writing.

Or so they say.

So I throw you into the "middle" of a much longer slice of life. No life vest. You gotta swim through it. That's a screen trick, too--"...start as late in the scene as you possibly can," the gurus suggest. The audience should, if the scene works, be able to figure out all the backstory over time.

I have found, when toying with this approach previously, that a delicious “ambiguity” occurs—of the sort you find in some poetry. There are clues about how the characters look and think and where they might be…but you have to find them. The way you have to find tidbits and decode the language to help you figure out what a poem “means.”

I like that. I liked that cryptic first chapter of Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury so much as a kid that I was determined to do what he did. I also liked Joyce’s Ulysses. And Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead—Stoppard is another of my early heroes. Waiting for Godot? Loved it. Including the waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

Plot? Feh. Action? Well…if you insist. But…I’d prefer a tantalizing puzzle—bring ‘em on and let ‘em walk and talk. Force me to put it all together and make the light go on “manually” and I’ll follow you anywhere. I'm weird like that.

So…I’m going to give you that story now. And leave you to pick up the little crumbs of clues that tell you what’s going on here. As I’ve said, I’d love to have some reviews—and it’s being sold for all of $.99 so if it gets on one of those top seller lists, it’ll probably do well.

I wanted to make it free, but Kindle wouldn’t let me under the marketing choice I preferred. I want people to read it. And if it needs reviews to get that to happen, then…so be it. But I’m obviously not going to get rich. That ain’t the point. At least this time.

It’s called “Deadline,” and…there’s the link again.

Later, if you wish, I’ll “explain.” But those of you who go in for this sort of thing probably won’t need it. Here you go:

###

““You don’t take me seriously!” she says, plopping onto a sofa.

He swivels his desk chair to face her. She grabs and hugs a large pillow, one foot jiggling impatiently.

“Women always say that—what does that even mean?”

“What do you care?”

“Perfect! You ask for attention, then you don’t want it. I really cannot understand—“

“I love it when you become the subject of the discussion I started!”

He sighs and folds his arms. Then swivels, shuts the laptop, and swivels around to face her again.

“I’m all yours!”

“Really?”

“What is this about, huh? Seriously—I’m on deadline.”

She raises her chin slightly.

“Truer words were never spoken.”

“And now I have to be a mind reader, too.”

“You don’t have to be anything!”

She sits back, staring. It’s an impressive poker face.

He sits back and stares, too. It’s not quite as effective—his impatience shows.

He says, “Veiled threat. Well played.”

“This is not a game.”

“No?”

She throws the pillow toward, if not at, him.

“I hate it when you do this!”

“What’s…this…exactly? So far, I ‘ve turned to give you my undivided attention and…that’s about it.”

“That’s ‘this’! That…thing you do, that makes me feel about 10-years-old!”

“Well—“

“If the shoe fits, right? I’m ‘way ahead of you!”

“Baby, what is—“

“Oooo, very Freudian.”

“No, not really. It wasn’t…well…it wasn’t Freudian.”

She smirks and rolls her eyes. But doesn’t speak.

He rises and heads over to the sofa. But sits on the arm of it. The arm farthest from where she’s sitting.

“I really do have a deadline, okay? Can we get to the point of all this or—“

“So what’s more important? Having me in your life or making that deadline?”

“That deadline…deadlines…are how I pay for…everything! And God knows everything is what keeps you interested.”

“Wow.”

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. Notices, in his reflection in a mirror on the wall not far away, that he’s gone a little more gray at the temples. Runs his fingers through the gray on the right side.

“You have to be kidding me!” she cries.

“What?”

She folds her arms and stares. He smiles.

“You are really lookin’ for a fight today! Let’s do it! Start swingin’!”

He puts up his “dukes” like a fighter in the ring. She doesn’t smile.

“Baby girl…this is what I do. And all this,” he swings an arm in a slow arc, as if inviting her to take a good look at the opulence surrounding them. It’s a penthouse apartment. Expensive décor. Incredible view of an incredible city. Some would say the most incredible city of all.

She hugs herself even tighter.

“It’s not mine, it’s yours.”

“It will be yours,” he says. “Someday. A day which you are probably hoping will come soon.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Ah. Predictable, but…effective.”

“I-don’t-want-it!”

He sits nodding pensively, for a few beats. Then smiles at her.

“What do you want? World peace doesn’t count—real answer, please?”

She looks away. Runs a hand through her long, blond hair. He smiles. He likes that hair. He likes her. Loves her. Even when she’s like this.

He slides down onto the sofa and folds his arms the way hers are folded. She does not look at him.

So he slides over an inch or two. She turns and glares.

He slides over another few inches. Arms still folded. Letting out a little petulant puff of air as he lands a little closer to her. She continues to glare, but there’s something in the eyes…

He falls over, resting his head on her shoulder. She tries to push him off, but he falls right back—gently. And turns his face so that she can see the puppy dog eyes and the playfully quivering lip.

“God, you are so annoying!” she cries. But she’s smiling—she tries to make the smile less…smiley. But then she laughs. And shoves him harder.

He sits up straight. Turns to face her, folding his legs into lotus position. Grateful, suddenly, for the yoga lessons he’s paying a small fortune for. Because she insisted he exercise more instead of sitting in front of “that damned computer” all the time.

“If I didn’t take you seriously, I wouldn’t have all this. It’s the scripts I’ve written about you and me and your mother and…everything else—that word again—that has given us all this. You…are my inspiration, my dear.”

“And you…are full of shit. My darling.”

She says it almost lovingly. He leans to kiss the shoulder he leaned on a moment ago.

“Many critics agree with that assessment,” he says, adding a little nose tweak for good measure.

He loves her nose, too. Even if it’s like her mother’s. He loved her mother once, too. Still does, but the way he loves her now is very different. But also, very real.

“I just want…I wanna spend some time with you when I’m spending time with you,” she says with a resigned sigh. “And quit being so damned charming—listen to me, for once.”

“Oh, I always do! It’s money in the bank, the stuff you say—no kidding.”

“Stop it, damn you!”

He attacks and she squeals as he tickles her relentlessly. He loves, most of all, her laugh. And does not stop until he has heard every version of it. He will write about it later after her visit is over. But not because it makes him money.

He will write about it because he misses her. So very much.”