I was amused when I saw this article in The Detroit News last week where my blog is mentioned. I had not spoken to the reporter, but guess that he found me through Blogger and surmised what he did through my entries. It feels kind of neat to be part of this community who blogs, as we all do it for our own reasons. It's like an underground drumbeat, barely audible when one is standing, but if you put your ear to the ground, you hear the many different beats from all the drums and realize that there is a whole other world thriving just beneath the surface. For our own reasons, all of us who blog felt the need to type that first line and take the risk that someone out there will see it.

I took the afternoon off at the blessing of the manager. Sales are low, and they are still taking volunteers to go home early.

Once again, I volunteered. Tomorrow I do not work. I didn't want to be there today, which is becoming harder and harder to fight off. Especially when my company at the cashier is a 20-year-old "I know everything already about life" college drop out who usually bores me and others who have mentioned to me his rantings, with his drinking and partying tales. This guy lives for $1 beer night at the mall. Mostly, I just nod and smile, but sometimes I like to shake his tree a little bit about his views and get him worked up. Not hard to do. I can practically see him protectively guarding his comfort zone when I mention life outside Baltimore and what you hear on TV and talk radio. I'm working on other employment and have a prospect. It's once again not a career move, but anything is better than the situation that I'm in now.

I drove home, napped, and am getting ready to go to my art class. Last week, the assignment was a self portrait. I missed last week due to needing a break from my head. Sometimes one needs that, and I felt that I just couldn't output that night. I needed to look through someone else's eyes for two hours, so I walked to my mom's house and asked her to see The Pianist with me. We had been struggling for a night to see the movie, but couldn't find an evening that was good for both of us. The movie was playing in the Charles Theatre, an art film house that is exactly what one would imagine an art film house to be. Downtown, funky decorating, off-beat concessions, and pierced hipsters working the counters, pausing from their drawings to get you your refreshments. Just an all around pleasant experience.

The movie was fantastic. Worthy of the praise that it has received. I believe I may have found a refuge in The Charles Theatre, and will be going there again. I guess I can say that it was hooky, well spent.

I watched the Oscars on Sunday while I painted my assignment for my art class. It was a little alienating being out of Los Angeles during the Oscars. In LA, there is evidence of the awards every place that you look. Limos outnumber the cars, people are in a good mood, restaurants are booked for private affairs, catering trucks maneuver the roads like sports cars and idle chatter among those that are even the most passive movie business watchers is abundant. "Who do you think will win?"

I still feel like I have a foot here and there, but forget how really far in distance that I am from my former hometown. When things like the Oscars are going on, I miss it even more. I miss the fuss, the giddiness, and how LA shuts down to watch as soon as that first celebrity is broadcast walking the red carpet.

At the mall where I work, the movie theatre has an Oscar party for charity. Patrons buy tickets for $25 and are treated to dinner before the show, then watch the Oscars on the big screen inside the theatre. It's a good idea to raise money for charity, but I wasn't excited about it in the least. Usually, I like to stick around for festivities to feel a part of something, but in this case, having been exposed to the customers that frequent the mall, I just didn't want to be subjected to their interpretation of dressing up. It was going to be ugly. Really ugly, and probably too much for not only me, but their dresses to handle. Our store was selling the tickets as a convenience, and I'd sold them to many a customer with prominent teeth missing and hair that looked like double layered baked Alaska.

Plus, I'd be comparing it to the real thing.

During the Oscars in 2001, I lived two blocks from where most of the after parties took place. Morton's, the yearly host of the Vanity Fair Party, was two blocks from my place. That year, Elton John hosted another big party at a club right by Morton's.

After watching the ceremony on TV, I walked down to the area to see the spectacle. It was a last minute whim, and I figured that I'd just turn around and go home as soon as I realized that I wasn't going to see anything. As luck would have it, I ran into two West Hollywood Sheriff deputies that I'd befriended as a result of my constant calls to the department regarding one of the local nightclubs that was a neighborhood nuisance. Deputy Castano had been enormously helpful to me, and we had become acquaintances.

Melrose, where the restaurant is located, was blocked off, but the deputies pulled the barricades aside and told me where to go for the best view. I stood right across from Morton's, front and center to all the action in a spot that was yet to be discovered by congregating fans. I settled myself into a good spot and felt my pocket every few minutes to make sure that my camera was still there.

I snapped this photo walking toward Morton's, which is on the left side (not visible in photo) at the end of the road near the farthest visible trailer. The pink lights at the end of the road were also part of the VF party, to handle the overflow of guests. The ceremony had just ended, and all of Hollywood was on their way to this point. Press, workers, and publicists were the only ones allowed in this area. As always in Los Angeles, it's who you know. In this case, it was the West Hollywood Sheriff's department.



This was the view of the party from my vantage point. On the left, the paparazzi piled on top of each other on bleachers. In front of them on the red carpet, the stars get their pictures taken and do interviews before entering the party. I saw everyone under the sun.

My little Elph point and shoot doesn't do well under dark light, so the scene wasn't as dark as it looks here. This was the last pre-September 11th Oscars, and little did we know that we had only months left of this kind of celebrating without the shadow of terrorism and war lurking nearby.

Eventually, about a half an hour before things started heating up, my little spot was discovered. The crowd around me grew to about ten thick. I held my spot firm though, gripping the metal barricade with iron fists. I laughed at myself, being part of the masses who were stargazing, but I was having an incredibly good time. Most of the people behind me were locals, which meant that about 60 percent were young gay men whom I would soon learn are the harshest and most vocal fashion critics put on this earth. Absolutely no one was spared.

Before the big celebrity limo train arrived, publicists, Hollywood insiders, agents, and press milled around outside the restaurant. There were two women in particular that the boys went nuts over. One who wore a black dress that sloppily hung over her concave chest, and sported a disheveled hairstyle, and her minion who was dressed almost identically.

"Messy!" the boys rang out in effeminate tone as she walked not ten yards in front of us, "messy!" Every time during the evening that woman made an appearance, the gay men's chorus would erupt, "Messy!"

I lost it. This was going to be more fun that I imagined. The Hollywood elite had no idea what they were getting into. Parading in front of the boys in West Hollywood. A punishment I wouldn't wish on anyone except the customers who frequent the store where I now work. Now THAT would be worth staying for. Talk about shock and awe.

On both sides.

The worst comment came from a singular voice, when an older man and a bombshell blonde, a perfect example of a May/December relationship, exited a limousine. One of the guys yelled, "You're too old for her!" That one got boos, as we felt it was a really mean thing to say. Yes, he was too old for her, but really. I saw the man struggle to keep his game face on as he escorted his girlfriend into the party. Talk about having your manliness and desirability questioned in front of your date.

Angelina Jolie got the award for classiest celebrity, believe it or not. She spent at least half an hour total signing autographs and greeting people. I took this picture before she made it to me, and as I shook her hand, I told her she got the classy award of the evening for doing that. She responded that this was the whole reason she came. I liked that.

Angelina makes her way through the line of fans.The tux clad arm to the left belongs to one of two heavily armed guards who were hired by Harry Winston to ensure that the several hundred thousand dollars worth of their jewelry hanging around Angelina's neck made it safely back into the store.


Angelina is protected by a Los Angeles Sheriff's deputy. Note the video camera in his right hand which also appears to be his gun hand. Gives a whole new meaning to "Stop, or I'll shoot!"


John Voight showed that the apple had not fallen far from the tree and shook the hands of everyone. I snapped his picture as he approached.

What was interesting to see, was that most of the celebrities stayed maybe a total of fifteen minutes to a half an hour at the party. I always imagined them going in there, hanging out and enjoying the free food and adulation, but it was really a rushed affair. Stars were whisked in and out after they made their appearances and had their photos taken by the paparazzi at the Oscars hottest affair. Dylan McDermott, who drove himself and his wife, waited about fifteen minutes for the valet to pull up with his black Jaguar, a scene one certainly wouldn't see on the glam montages of the parties on television. The public is led to believe that everything is as smooth as a dream, and dresses don't get stuck as Oscar winners like Julia Roberts exit SUV's, stars don't trip over the many thick electrical cables snaking across the road in front of the red carpet nor get lost when their publicists lead them astray into the party maze, the evening is supposed to be pampered and relaxed, but it is far from such.

However, it was a hell of a lot of fun, and I only had to walk a block and a half home.

Two profound things happened during my art class on Monday.

One, I found out that we were going to war in 48 hours. Two, I was called a good student.

In the midst of the world learning about a forthcoming war, there was a much smaller battle being won in an art studio in Baltimore. One of someone who set out to do something and did it. And that someone was me.

Our teacher had brought a radio into class so we could hear The President address the nation at 8:pm on Monday. I was in a surly mood, already forty minutes late due to some personal matters I had to take care of. I was mixed about wanting to hear President Bush's speech, as I had decided to sit this one out. Ever since 911, it's been a struggle to feel optimistic about things, and I'd been making a concerted effort to not watch television or listen to the news. If that's called sticking one's head in the sand, then I'm about to lay an egg the size of a cantaloupe. It's just too much right now, and I am not willing to visit the feelings surrounding 9-11.

However, I was glad to be surrounded by my classmates. As 8:00 ticked closer, we painted a still life and talked about things other than the war. Like I said, I was surly and didn't feel like painting that much. My classmates though, with their lighthearted chatter and camaraderie perked me up a bit, and by the time the speech came on, I was ready. As President Bush spoke, the class quieted, and students who had been painting in other classes or the hallway gathered around our door to listen. It was a classic scene, with a bunch of young, passionate, and idealistic people sitting around a radio. Eyes concentrated, brows furrowed, in some cases heads were bowed, lost in thought, listening to the President of the United States. I was glad to be listening to him in that room, and not alone in my apartment where I would feel like the only person in the world affected. No one to look at, or to see thinking like I was, and know that I was not walking alone in this changed and frightening new world. Once the speech was over, we continued our paintings. Some talked about the speech, but I didn't. I have mixed feelings about the war, and those feelings I wanted to keep to myself. So I did, and painted in silence, but glad for the people around me who openly discussed what we had just heard. Glad to be in company, and not in isolation.

Our teacher took us one by one and had us put a semester's worth of work up on the wall for her to critique. And that's where she turned to me and said, "You are such a good student."

Not because I came to class, and not because I completed the assignments, but because of how I approached the assignments and tried to take out of them what was intended to be learned. To explore, break out, and tread on unfamiliar and uncomfortable lands. And that showed in my artwork and my performance in class. I dove into the assignments, not worried about the final result, but what I would learn in the process of obtaining that result. My teacher had supplied the hand, and I was willing to take it and follow. And, she recognized that as "good."

I wish I had realized growing up, that being a good student is when you open yourself up to learning. In the school systems that I went through, good students were the kids who sat up straight in class, handed every paper in on time, memorized facts to ace tests, and did some extra credit work to plump up their chances of getting an A. The goals were always on the grade, and not the learning. As a result, I was not a good student. Unfortunately, I took that approach with me to college at Parsons School of Design. I worried what the teacher wanted and not about what I was learning. If I had relaxed, allowed myself to walk through the process of learning, then perhaps I would have gotten more out of my college education. Perhaps I would have retained some of it. Instead, it became a struggle between me and the teachers about expectations that felt I could never meet, and eventually that led to my barely average performance in my classes. It became about what I could get away with not doing, instead of understanding that these assignments were not a test to see if I could measure up, but to teach me something about my craft.

It took years to unlearn.

And the result of that unlearning happened on Monday. I am taking this class for a grade, but that is secondary to what I came there to learn. I know that part of this comes with maturity, and in college I was not willing to be a just a grade factory. So I rebelled, simply because I did not know what else to do. Now, I am a good student, in the truest meaning of the term.

And that makes me proud.

I slept from 7:30pm on Saturday to 10:00am this morning. The first part of the sleep marathon started on my couch, then I awoke at 9:45pm and moved to my bed. My cats followed me from one sleep surface to the other, where the three of us resumed our slumber. I don't know if that was caused by sheer exhaustion or my interrupted sleep fits have finally taken their toll.

Part of me is scared that it may be depression, though I've been feeling fine lately. Actually, a bit better than normal. However, when my body craves sleep, wondering if it is depression revisiting will always be the case. Once one has become depressed and slept a lot as a result, the fear that any out of the ordinary sleep patterns may the big beast will haunt you for a long time. In this case, I think I was just tired.

I think.

I just bought a digital camera and am learning how to use it, so I took a photo of this sketch that I drew of Legolas over the last couple of days. He keeps visiting me in my dreams, at least three more times since my last post about it. He seems to come around during times I need encouragement to stay the course. The sketch still needs work, but it's coming along. In my dreams, he's a lot less warrior-like than this picture, but I liked this one, as he is looking off into the distance and anticipating what is ahead.

So, I drew it.

I have yet to master the digital camera, and have no idea how to photograph artwork to capture the subtleties, but that will come in time. The camera was an expense that I really couldn't afford, but since I got a big tax return from my payday heyday, I splurged. This year's tax return will not be so large. So, I get the tools that I need while I can, then figure out how to get the other ones later. A digital camera has been in the works for a year or so now.

An friend of mine from my old job NewTek tracked me down through my blog and emailed me a couple of days ago. We hadn't been in touch for years but a few times since both of us departed the company. At first, I was nervous that an avenue had been opened to that old network. We were all so full of fire then, and I was afraid of what he might think, and others who knew me back then that my current job was working in a book store. I was afraid that I'd appear like some lame loser, having people who perhaps thought that you would make something of yourself, discover that you are working retail. There's always the fear, once my whereabouts get known in the not so kind hands of that gossip train, growing stronger and faster as the fire grows in its engine.

"Did you hear what Anne is doing?"
"No, do tell."
"She's working at a Barnes and Noble."
"No, get the fuck out of here! How lame!"
"Totally!"

Yes, I know why I'm doing it. And true-hearted friends will always understand. When we talked on the phone today and caught up, it wasn't an issue.

We have our mid-term evaluation in my art class tomorrow, and I'm struggling with the last assignment that was given to us two weeks ago. It's an inside/outside theme, and for some reason I just haven't latched on to this one. When taking a painting course, it's sometimes hard to keep up the "mojo" as they say. There are times when your painting arm just wants a rest, and you have to dig that much deeper to come up with something interesting to bring to class. Or, to get inspired.

Part of this is because I've had an odd work schedule, with one day off here and there, but not two in a row where I could ramp up and then paint. This week, I get two off in a row, but that will not help me for Monday. Next week, I have three days off in a row, and I'm going to use that time to search for a new job. What that will be, I have no idea.

But be, it will.

I've been having some thoughts lately.

About my decision to move to Baltimore and the effect that it has had on me. The things that I gave up, the things that I miss, the mornings that I wake up excited to go to my favorite coffee shop in Los Angeles before I realize that I am not there. My Audi TT Roadster, the sound of the engine, the wind in my hair and the impromptu caravans with other Los Angelinos with like cars. One of those caravans in particular comes to mind when I was driving down Wilshire through Westwood, and myself, a Mercedes SLK convertible, and a convertible Porsche Boxster fell into a line and "played." All of us had our convertible tops down as we weaved in and out of other cars, keeping up with each other, the noses of our cars splicing through the warm Los Angeles air as we wondered if life at this exact moment, could get any better. At stoplights we lined up three in a row, our German sports cars humming, anticipating another run. Like minded souls who were okay with owning a completely materialistic item for the sake of turning up the amp a notch on enjoying life.

Cut to, a year later, as I get out of my used Honda Civic on a grey day, cold, tired, wind gripping my ears like a vice. My feet crackling against salt left over from the snows and seagulls gliding overhead. An invisible soul going to work at a Barnes and Noble in the middle of low income suburban Maryland. A job that I have to drive to, and thankfully, drive far away from. A job that brings me no satisfaction and puts me face to face with dim, cynical people.

And that's where a thought occurred to me.

I am in the part of my life that for lack of a better term, takes balls. The reason why I'm not the pillar of happiness at this time is because I'm going through the hard part. Gritty, ugly, at times feeling pointless. Surrounded by unfamiliar things and people (save for a few exceptions) with whom I don't have that much of a kinship. So many people tell me that I was crazy to give up the high paying job, the car, the apartment, or that they wouldn't have the guts to do what I did, what I am DOING, now. To toss it all aside and say that I want to go on a quest to accomplish finding the path that I was supposed to follow and veered off. Somehow, I knew it couldn't be any other way. So, I persevere. Head on. Blinders off through uncharted and sometimes hostile territory. And in order to get real with myself, the frills had to come off and I had to take a good look in the mirror.

So I did.

And I didn't flinch when I saw myself.

Now, I've feel that reached a pivotal point where I don't have to fly so low under the radar. I've mentioned this before, but now I understand it much better. I'm now supposed to rise above my current situation. Not much, but just a little bit. Raise the bar, so to say, to see if I can jump over it without knocking it down, and move away from people who cannot support this next stage. That move, will hopefully push my creative endeavors a little further. And, it's that thought helps me get through the day, and feel that much less invisible.

There are some things that we women just don't have to endure, well, because we're women.

One being an incident that happened to a coworker yesterday. He was in the men's restroom, washing his hands when an ample sized customer walked in and cut a huge fart. Without shame, he fired out about three more loud blasts, then turned to my coworker and said, "Well, if you can't do that in the men's room, where can ya?"

My coworker replied completely deadpan, "Hey, it's you're underwear, not mine," then walked out.

I just can't see that happening in the women's room between two women.

This same coworker had a similar incident today. He walked in to the men's room and noticed that the stall was out of toilet paper. He went to the supply room and grabbed a roll, and was on his way back in when a fat guy rushed past him into the stall. Seconds later, he heard let's just say, some rapid fire farts and waste expulsion. Thoroughly disgusted, he walked out, but not before he heard the man jiggling the empty toilet paper dispenser.

He told me to keep an eye out for a customer who might be missing a shirt.

Yesterday wasn't a shining example of my better judgement when I drove to work on a car that was running on fumes. The night before, the last thing that I wanted to do was go to the gas station, so I didn't. I thought I could eek out one more drive to work.

I was almost right.

About half a mile from the store, my car started to gasp, thrust, and cough. "No," I said, as it continued to die. A large pickup behind me was on my ass, and I turned on my hazards. It lurched again, and I had hope that I could make it to the gas station, but then it just died. It was the first time ever that I had run out of gas, and felt like an enlarged idiot. Traffic piled up behind me and the truck pulled around my helpless car. A man in an SUV pulled up beside me and asked me if he needed me to call someone or I needed a ride. I told him, "I'm out of gas, I'm such an idiot." He shrugged and said, "It happens."

I then told him I'd take him up on the ride, and was just about to get out when I said that I'd try it one more time. I turned the ignition, and my little Honda fired right up. I thanked the man and told him that I'd try to make it, and he pulled in behind me to be a buffer from the other traffic in case it quit again. I don't know if it was the sight of the gas station, but after lurching and spitting and teetering on another stall, the car shot into high gear and made it all the way to the pump.

I felt like a complete and utter fool. It was a lesson learned.

Perhaps that's why I've been in a better mood the last couple of days. A stranger who could have kept driving extended help to me. Kind of like a pair of gentle hands that had my back when I almost fell. I think the reminder that we are never alone even when there are no familiar faces around, was exactly what I needed to know on that cold morning.

Perhaps it was meant for me to run out of gas, so I could see just that.

Today was the 2nd anniversary of the day that Rob took his life. I got through the day pretty well, all considering. As the hours came closer to the time that I got the phone call, I wondered what must have been going through his mind to do something so drastic. I miss him and still think of him every day. However, a lot of those memories are happy ones and I giggled to myself several times today thinking about the chats we'd have on IM, the tangents we'd go off on, and the uncontrollable laughter that ensued. The teasing, one liners, and funny observations. Incidents like when my dad got a fancy meat thermometer for Christmas, and as we were outside on the terrace cooking the Christmas bird, Rob held it up to my dad and said with a completely straight face, "Now Jim, under no circumstances are you to stick this up your anus." I almost died laughing. My dad was speechless but took it in good stride. Rob could take the grandeur of my dad and reduce him to an object of fun ridicule. Or, dubbing the knitting group that my stepmother Marie attended the respectful name of, "Geezers with Tweezers."

And, there wasn't anyone in the world who knew more about baseball and particularly the New York Mets than Rob. He was an encyclopedia of sports knowledge, perhaps because due to his mild cerebral palsy, he couldn't play them. He always had everyone else's happiness or well being in mind before his own. His intelligence was astounding, as was his sensitivity. He was twenty years old.

It is also the day that Blogger chose my blog as a "Blog of Note." I do not think that the two are merely a coincidence. I started this blog to deal with the loss of Rob, and in place of our Instant Message chats I started to write to him in a blog called "Letters to Rob," hoping that somewhere, somehow he'd get them. I started this blog after that one, needing a cathartic outlet for the day to day things of life going on. Because life does go on. It's a huge pain in the ass sometimes but it's supposed to be that way. No one has all the answers or ever will. There will be many wrong turns, but the important thing is to work your way back to the right road. Not to stop. Not to give up, but to understand that this too, will pass. And when it does you may find yourself in an art class really glad to be alive as you paint, knowing that you are responsible for getting yourself here. And, proud that you have stuck to it and in the greatest moments of despair, kept going. Kept going, so you can see what you are capable of when you are at your best, instead of ending it all when you feel your worst.

I plan to keep going. I wish that Rob had, too. But just because he didn't, doesn't mean that he never was. So, I'll take this opportunity of increased traffic to let the world know:

Robert Detoro was.