The delightful Miss Dornacker and Miss Goldberg, with hats.
Some years ago one of my photographs was included in a feature on SFGate.com's blog. There is plenty of nostalgia for those days in the Bay area and many die-hard fans –gods bless them! Enterprising journalist, Peter Hartlaub, haunted the SF Chronicle's photo morgue to unearth some gems. The dream-come-true: receiving a proper photo credit for this photograph of yore. Even more amazing that it survived along with this timeless image. Seems just like yesterday…
Whoopi arrived for the session early, so we perched in my front window-seat and talked 'comedy' while we waited for Jane. At the time, she was working with Berkeley's Blake Street Hawkeyes and already honing her characters—the junkie Fontaine, the Surfer Chick, the Crippled Lady and the Jamaican Woman—that would become part of The Spook Show. These staples were likely part of her show at the upcoming Great American Music Hall with Jane.
At that time, many comediennes chose the stand-up joke telling model which assured them booking in nightclubs and bars, where the short attention span of drinking patrons was rewarded with quick get-to-the-point punchlines. The tougher road to forge was character sketches, which seemed an inherent female talent and the province of theatrically trained actresses. Those that ventured into character work were a tougher sell to the club bookers and their audiences. Conversely, as a showcase for television or films, it was ideal to show ingenuity, range and versatility to possible casting agents in the crowd… if you could book yourself on the club circuit to pay the bills while waiting for your big break.
The most memorable part of our conversation, was her certitude of success and fame. She knew she was going to be a big star, and said so, out loud, in so many words, with conviction. Impressed with her confidence and long a believer in 'naming your intent', I had no argument with her sharing her mantra and plans for destiny. I understood the ego required for performing, so it was familiar in my world, not arrogant, rather matter-of-fact. She knew fame —big fame— was coming, maybe not knowing how it would transpire, but assured it was within her grasp. This was nearly a year before her off-broadway debut, Mike Nichols's 'discovery' of her talents, and 'the rest is history' inevitability…
Jane finally arrived in true glamazon style, costume changes, props and make-up bag in tow. The style contrast between the two was apparent, unimportant, so unmentioned. We got down to the business/fun of capturing the right image for what would become a flyer for the show. As an improviser, I was ready to play with their ideas and add mine to the mix, on-the-fly. Good photographic practices call for a variety of poses to yield surprises during the session and a range of choices afterwards. A bit like bracketing for exposure, it's a way of covering the bases while the talent is in the studio. During the shoot, despite encouragement from Jane, then me, Whoopi was reluctant to remove her hat for some alternate looks. It may have been the vanity of a bad hair day, but she was not having it, demurring our requests with a child-like reticence. After the bravado of her future trajectory talk, it seemed like a contradiction to her fearlessness and self-assurance. To this day her reaction still puzzles, and while we did convince her to de-hat for a dozen shots, I will honor her mysterious reasons and keep those in the vault for a while longer.
By the way, I believe Whoopi's dreams came true, as well.
Re-animated fun from that shoot… an ill-advised and out-of-character idea from Jane's prop bag.
There is much chaos in the streets outside, several celebrations are happening i.e. Critical Mass, Sunday Streets etc. and most seem to have devolved into protests of disgruntled mad max mobs. Their war cries and whooping coming from near and far. Those on bikes are circling intersections and holding cryptic signs. One reads: We are all born in a box to live in a box. It is held by a guy riding on the shoulders of another guy pedaling an elevated tall bike among other contraptions. There seems to be no cohesion to the groups, just restless and relentless discontent bubbling up. It is dusk so the light is eery and oddly multicolored. I have a ticket to a play downtown with an 8:00 curtain. I am not concerned about entering the fray, but decide to flag down a cab at 24th and Mission. Traffic is impossible and he decides to take South Van Ness, which is no better. This older cab driver has a silver short cropped crewcut and seems Slavic. In defeat, he pulls over to the old Cala parking lot as I decide to seek other transportation to the play. It is already late and I am calculating my time and wether to return home a few blocks away. The meter reads $71.41 and is obviously a swindle, so I begin to argue with him. He's an old pro at his scam and shouts invectives and threats back. I give as good as I get, eventually screaming "Fuck you" and walk away from the scene without paying. No one notices as there are small fires, mayhem, many brawls and much chaos as previously mentioned.
I am sitting in front room rocking chair talking to Tina. She heralds the arrival of a small baby pig into the room as others come up the stairs. It is not only a Francisco-like tall man roommate, but his young short blonde girlfriend. She is moving in unexpectedly and my first reaction is horror and dread. I am not able to hide my reaction from her, even as she is placing a check for $40 on the desk as her half of the rent with her tall boyfriend. He is not visible yet, has not warned me of this change in the living arrangement or even asked. The young girl is some sort of desperate straits, and is relieved and not wavering from the inevitability of moving in. This is a done deal as far as she is concerned and may be saving her own life from the previous arrangement she is fleeing. The little pig is running around, perhaps playing with other small dogs in residence, in a very happy frolicking way. I begin to see the writing on the wall and apologize for my initial reaction. There are hugs and general making nice. She is a sweetheart and I start to make mental adjustments to my new living situation, even asking if she is working during the day. She replies with an "I wish" negative. I have to answer the door several times and knock collected papers to the floor at the bottom of the stairs. I have to pick them up again and again, re-stacking them in their wire basket cubbys attached to the wall. Inconvenient and obviously inefficient. Chris Frieber comes upstairs or is on the street with conversation as one visitor. He also shows me a picture book(?) of old weathered French doors of great architectural splendor.
I have left a dream-forgotten situation in the Richmond and am on a standard bicycle wending my way through a series of right-angle wooden covered tunnels as an approach to the GG Bridge. I encounter and avoid oncoming tourists who may or may not be on the right path, as it is narrow and does not seem to be designed for this double passage. I am not traveling at top speed so this is more of a pleasant surprise when they pop up from around various corners. After what seems a long convoluted and Byzantine journey, I finally come out near the ramp to the Bridge. I must walk my bike and avoid a muddy patch of long grass that leads down to a path. Tourists from both directions are milling about and I give directions to a few who I overhear talking. I correct their confusion about the name of their location, but restrain from telling them the history of the buildings in the Presidio and the architectural timeline they portray.
Robin and me, Comedy Day, San Francisco c.1984 Photo Credit: Sue Murphy
Everyone that survived the 80's comedy boom in San Francisco has at least one story that includes Robin as the main attraction. We all wanted to share the stage with one of the best and brightest, hoping to up our own personal game or just bathe in the same spotlight while hoping a little of the fairy dust rubbed off on our otherwise meager talents. As is the nature of ego, others may have hoped to hold their own with his rapid-fire brilliance, or even best the genius of his rolodex mind. I often witnessed the self-satisfaction of lesser talents basking in landing a personal bon mot in front of his adoring audience. The crown jewel of achievement was catching him off guard and actually hearing his surprised chortle of amused recognition of your bit of funny. I often thought his gracious appraisal was at once congratulatory and encouragement to fly further with him to the rarefied air of his orbit. Few did; all tried.
Certainly a recounting of that moment was shared and re-shared in pissing contests with others lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time, a battle of "Oh yeah, well once he joined me after my set and..." those encounters became legend in each of our minds and were told as proof that the possession of genius was ripe for the picking, and not the sole proprietorship of one freakishly talented individual. Those treasured moments were likely looped in memory to revisit the thrill, perhaps elaborated and enhanced, and likely called in to service as self-soothing on nights when the gig was less than stellar, singular and truly lonely on similar stages with hacks and wannabes. Our minds, when left to our own devices, yearn to be special, unique and above the pedestrian. The brutally honest part of a performer's brain, or maybe the built-in insecurity and doubt, knows better. That moment was certainly hard evidence of our untapped abilities and the destiny of greatness in the pursuit of stardom; the type of stardom that Robin was scouting ahead and dancing with before our eyes. It seemed wonderful and magical and within our grasp, at least in that glimpse of a moment. At least, at that time within San Francisco's comedy enclave.
One of his kindest contributions was graciously sharing and collaborating, even as his circle was widening beyond the hothouse environment of SF. He allowed us a peek behind the grander curtain, what it was actually like... each bringing our own hopes and dreams of belonging and being included in the exclusive club. I suspect that he also loved to play and required playmates who understood the shorthand and lingo. Maybe just a stretch to keep the comedy muscle tuned and limber, but he was likely seeking the joy of collaboration or making something out of nothing, disengaging the calculating brain and leaving the imagination to its own devices. Nothing is better than being surprised by your own mind and the wonders below the surface waiting to be tapped and un-trapped. It has its own addictive qualities, to recreate that high of the high-wire, to be blameless and shameless for a shortcoming, failure or transgression and move on through the glorious pell-mell of creativity unleashed.
For many he was the reason that comedy as a vocation became a way of life. I watched him burst forth from my small TV on a local comedy show filmed at the Great American Music Hall, on a bill with other rising stars in the comedy scene. He smoked every one of them; that’s not to say they weren't entertaining and garnered laughs, but Robin erased their triumphs with a new kind of authenticity. No one was like him, as his methods were madness and otherworldly; almost foreign and incomprehensible to translate what was happening in real time in this new way of funny. He was the undeniable star of the evening and soon to be for his generation/the ages. I was left speechless, gasping and sputtering with incredulity and vaguely grokking my new aspiration, perhaps similar to mortals gazing on the gods when they deigned to appear before them. That night his talent soared from the stage through the audience and into the stratosphere, transmitted by way of a 13" television. My subsequent journey began to steep myself in countless improv workshops, learning the way of those before me to honor the ancient craft, then performing, and hanging out in comedy clubs for further research or as an insatiable sponge for all things funny. My fellow travelers were possessed with the same compulsive desire and the City's fertile ground nourished and sprouted all sorts and stripes of humor.
Robin stops by to play with Femprov at Cobb's Pub in the Marina Terry Sand joins the trio in a Madrigal. Photo Credit: Mark Pitta
Of course, my path crossed again with Robin. When he was in town as a respite from his burgeoning career, he also turned up in the small clubs we frequented to grab a bit of stage time. His presence was always met with a murmur of excitement and anticipation among the comics. We knew the night had already become special and we were about to become audience members held in his thrall. The scarcity of patrons in the club magically transformed into SRO. Somehow ‘word on the street’ spread like wildfire and a literal stampede engulfed the room. The subsequent roar of the crowd when he took the stage upped the ante and the energy became electric and immeasurable by standard comedy gauges of entertainment. Everyone sensed, no, knew, they were in the presence of a remarkable entity and it was now our job to witness this shooting-from-the-hip superstar.
Among the working comics, ambition and competition were temporarily put on hold... it was time to be entertained and schooled. Heads up, the Rosetta stone has taken the stage and we had yet another front row seat and chance to decipher the method to his hilarious madness. The clues had to be there, it was just a matter of paying close attention. Doing justice to these performances is feebly captured with mere words. Take yourself back to the first time he flabbergasted you; re-conjure that for yourself and attempt a description. Mind-blowing and boggling all at once, preternatural and spellbinding, and oh-so-very funny only begin to scratch the surface of that singular experience. I’m guessing you’re smiling, but words fail.
Afterwards and off stage, he was friendly and extremely gracious, even as he was inevitably accosted or ogled by a spent and grateful crowd grasping at the hem of his garments. After hours, backstage when the club closed to the public and the ballyhoo had died down, he was one of the gang, all of us still amped from performing or just watching him weave his stream of consciousness.
Was this a form of recharging and a touch of normal he welcomed from the juggernaut of his meteoric rise into the Show Biz firmament? I like to think we offered him a small remembrance of familiar things long since passed by (recently lost) in his life that had suddenly and deservedly leapfrogged over our earthly struggles. There was no turning back from his inevitable path now, but one often yearns for simpler times with mundane surprises. Who hasn't revisited their grade school or attended a HS reunion to take stock and gain perspective on a life's passage? He was shy, respectful and humble beyond the talents he obviously possessed... or maybe just observed our foibles while some were searching for any small acceptance in his eyes. Still, most welcomed his down to earth attitude, and the grace with which he tolerated our embryonic state, as an example and proof that fame and fortune did not necessarily have to expose the inner asshole we all harbor and hopefully keep at bay.
Linda Hill and I create a Robin sandwich, backstage at Cobb's
He gave, but boy did he get. I had a small taste of the thunder and lightning he absorbed from a crowd.
Traditionally, Comedy Day in Golden Gate Park was headlined with an appearance by Robin. He followed an amazing roster of local comics who were loved in their own right by an appreciative and knowledgeable comedy crowd gathered for an entire day of back-to-back 5 minute sets in broad daylight in a polo field full of funny-loving folks. In some years the numbers swelled to thousands. Not an easy room, especially for performers used to working small darkened clubs with intimate crowds, half in the bag, focused by a singular spotlight on a small stage. Few of us had arena experience, although it felt like rock star proportions when you took the sun-lit stage.
Obviously, the adoring masses had been hopeful they would be rewarded for their patience with a lengthy set by Robin. If he was in town, he did not disappoint. All kibitzing among the comics backstage came to a halt because it was time to watch him unfurl his brand of magic. The response to his introduction, standard by now, made us all realize the laughs we earned earlier were mere titters by contrast. He was their maestro, orchestrating their now-forgotten exhaustion into a frenzy of joy and laughter. It was mesmerizing to watch the puppet-mastery of it all on the faces of an audience reacting in perfect unison, just as Robin intended. You might think this hyperbole, but I assure you, no exaggeration is required.
When he could finally end his extended set, despite further protestations by the crowd, all comics would join him onstage en masse to take a final bow and thank the audience for being there. Honestly, we all wanted a piece of that goood stuff Robin had whipped up. All of us clambered onstage and I found myself near the front behind Robin. The roar of the crowd was crazy good for the soul and the greedy ego that fuels us all, enough for a lifetime. We were all soaking in this field of people on their feet, clapping, screaming and literally barking with approval. I noted my vantage point behind Robin was pretty special, as most of this adoration was rightfully focused toward him. His sight line was spectacular and this POV allowed me to imagine stepping into his performing shoes.
Comics traditionally returned to the stage to thank the audience… and take one last bow after Robin's closing set on Comedy Day in the Park (1984).
Knowing when to leave the stage is just as important, so you 'leave 'em wanting more' or, realistically, don't wear out your welcome and the goodwill of those applauding. Expertly, Robin took the initiative; he turned around and reflexively hugged the first person in the sea of comics. It happened to be me. Robin was a hugger, so this did not seem out of the ordinary from the regular hugs received over the years. What I wasn't prepared for was the combined energy from performing and the subsequent received love from his crowd. The hug transferred all of it to me in that embrace. Yikes, like nothing I have felt since. Electric and visceral in impact. A sonic boom of quantum force. It would have knocked me on my ass if he had let go. When he did, he met my shocked look with a knowing gaze, as if to say, "That's what the real stuff feels like every time." I had my share of loving and thrilled audiences and the occasional standing O, but I was never able to replicate or receive that feeling on my own. It was an unexpected gift and a sudden realization of how unique Robin's experience must have been.
Though I flatter myself as part of the 80’s comedy inner circle, San Francisco’s up and comers witnessing and cheering on a comrade’s launch from our ranks to the highest of heights, I have no legitimate claim to really knowing Robin. His recent passing and our cumulative clumsy attempts to make sense of how someone who meant so much to so many could exit a world of such adoration is obviously beyond our ken. Abandoning all that… and us, calls into question our own capacity for handling all the varieties of love he received. We flounder in our own shallow and vapid imaginations about the perceived perks of his life…or the incomprehensible and attendant pitfalls.
Perhaps he had sated the adoration-seeking aspect of a performer’s life long ago; maybe that was never his concern. I cannot fathom the depths of his clinical lows or the heights of the joys he experienced, consistently touching countless souls of several generations along the way, each and every one believing, for that moment, he was our closest compatriot in this folly of existence.
By happenstance, I had a sliver of insight into his world one sunny afternoon 30 years ago. Despite this minimal proximity to a kind and generous man, I am comforted by the certainty that he wasted little time in fully living an extraordinary life. Good speed, Robin.
Dream
I am somehow privy to 3 theatre productions running concurrently in a large warehouse space. At first as an audience member, then morphing into a backstage assistant to one of the actresses. Vince and Richard are also knowledgeable about those working on the productions. There is much busyness in the space as, workman dismantle and rebuild the stages daily between each play. Time ticks away but there is no urgency just relentless hard work on a grand scale. The gay 'bouncer' at the door allows me in after quipping (not remembered upon waking) something I repeat to others as I make way in with a bag with auxiliary items for one of the actresses. She is blonde and has been asked to fill in for the third play. The other plays have something to do with variations on/with or without a certain costume of each actress. Each play had a distinct different actress. Detail is spent on my part packing bag with a variety of specific found items needed for blonde's part in the play.
This actress is visiting with small dogs and later meets a family with children and is cordial to their normality. They live in a single level house. We all witness a rainstorm and folks caught in this deluge outside. The increasing severity is reflected in BART plaza flooding with increasing number of blue tarps to cover the water as seen from window above. (having morphed from the family's first floor) Some concern and commentary about the flooding.
Margaret and Alex Lindsey are visiting my house and I am ensconced in my attic bedroom. Both are pleasantly conversing about this part of the house they haven't been privy to. Margaret is antic and moves the stuffed chair out onto the roof, relieving it of the white covers in the process, to sit and be outdoors. She curiously opens the Dutch roof door into the eaves, which now are sunny and habitable and include a south window and an upright piano. It has become a small playhouse-sized room. Although dusty it is cleaned out, pleased, I note this without venturing inside. It has upped my living situation in Margaret's eyes and she also seems pleased and her continuing conversation is positive about the experience. She leaves for another appointment and Alex stays. We talk and as I note an odd, large flocking of birds (gulls, maybe pigeons) outside the window, above the alley, Alex gets up to look and becomes dizzy and faints back onto the bed, white as a sheet. He sez he is about to be sick, so I rush downstairs to get a bucket. My first thought is to make a cold compress for him in a very Florence Nightingale way. He pinks up after not being able to hurl into the plastic container supplied. He recovers and goes along his way.
The second dream starts with leaving a theatre production on Geary and catching up to Debi Durst and Diane Amos who were also there. While Diane is friendly, Debi is taken away by other preferred associates. Michael O'Brien is also there and asks if I can help him with some computer glitch. We leave Diane, as he sez he would like to take care of it ASAP. We walk toward Sutter where his new digs are. There are open walkways between buildings and we ascend to an apartment he shares with Ric Schneider/Ed Helms and maybe Chris Frieber is visiting. The glitch seems to be task work that he wants done and doesn't have time, or fixing some game system he wants to play. We take a break into his living room where the other guys are hanging out. It has a grand panoramic picture window that overlooks the City that looks as dense as NYC from these heights. The buildings are skewed and we are higher than imagined from this viewpoint. I marvel at the beauty. Margaret is now also there. There is another flocking of birds, assembled in a funnel that they are systematically peeling off and feeding back into, in the distance. There is a cry from the bedroom for help and we all rush to see a hapless Ric on his back on the bed with an erection caught in his zipper. Even though his colorful briefs (underoos) are shielding his pinnacle, he is whining in pain at his dilemma. We all laugh. I am doubled over on my knees with the giggles at the cliche dilemma he is in and barely able to comment on the ridiculousness. He is begging for help to free him. We all set about trying to come up with solutions, in lieu of actually touching it.
Verla has an apartment that I am visiting. She has returned with a new younger male friend, that has helped her to clean and open up a large closet into a small room behind louvered sliding doors. I admire all the new room she has and am amazed at this newly discovered space. She is busy, busy, busy getting ready to go out again.
Later she is on Market street at her regular table selling tschotkes of her making. This is an entrepreneurial venture and she has done quite well with it. Today she is having a fight with someone and denies them a purchase and angrily pushes them away. I step in and realize she has slipped a cog and must be attended to for her mental failing.
There are many forgotten pieces to this long dream that include a vacation presentation with grass skirts and other costumed destinations. I am at my home, with television and Kelly's boys. It is a mishmash of myriad happenings upon waking, despite my efforts to reconstruct.
The last part remembered vividly is, I am tasked with sitting Cory and Alex. They are manageable, content to play video games, and be fun kids at my house. However I have double-booked myself and must meet with new dog sitting clients in the Dogpatch area of Soma. It is dusk and we walk there and down a cosmetically clean alley. I can feel the sensation of peeing my pants, so that is another concern to be addressed. We arrive at their unassuming door, as I soldier the boys into good behavior mode and ring the doorbell. I am greeted by an unfamiliar older and sour face. I don't realize it is more than just a meet up, it is huge sit-down dinner with their friends. I have not alerted them of the kids attendance and there is some huffing and puffing among other guests or roommates I don't recognize. I wend my way through the crowd to find my host who is busy in the kitchen and unfazed by the extra plates needing to be set at one of the many tables. Others are giving me stares and ultimately I know no one at this party. They are older and seem to have had bad plastic surgery or are just bored and discontent with their elevated lot in life. Cory and Alex are behaving, but the impending juggling act is foreboding. Oddly I see an old friend Tina Fey, and she points out another dinner guest (evil Tina Fey) in attendance that I will give her support in dealing with. This could have been a cuckolding nemesis or just a notorious bitch. I need to change my wet panty liner and I notice dog poop on the carpet and alert the boys to avoid it. They want to help clean it up and are down on their knees. It changes from a bland grey to a mustard brown yellow as they try to maneuver it into a bag. It seems it will not end well.
I am showing the ropes to a new teacher at FAIS. He may be taking over my position which I am thrilled to leave. Part of my duties in the transition is settling him into teacher housing. It is a ramshackle studio at the end of a long hallway or pier that has odd stacked box access. Doors are modular and there all seems to be a piecemeal arrangement of window parts making up walls. It seems cozy and has a view of the water, although the street orientation is at Geary and Mason. He looks like Joseph Feinnes and has 2 little dogs. He has to leave for school duties and I am visited by parents that I am to show around the City (David Baal's parents) before we leave I am concerned about the dogs that may need to go outside or are unsecured in the new teacher's box and window studio. I leave the parents on the street to check on the dogs and spend quite a bit of time tending to their cute needs. One is a Papillion, and the other is equally small. There seems to be no way to insure they will not escape the studio and I work a puzzling set of options that will surely undo or crawl through. They do get loose and run down the long hallway, I give pursuit and meet up with the parents who have been waiting an inordinate amount of time on the sidewalk down below and have come upstairs to see what's up. They are not upset despite a need to get somewhere at a certain time. They also converse with another teacher in the studio warren and are invited into bide their time and be friendly. They find some of my erotic drawings in the other teacher's studio and are amused, quizzing me on my transplanted head technique. The dogs suddenly return with the new teacher, frantically happy that their master has returned from school.
Now mostly forgotten, but these are the notes I scratched upon waking. See if you can make sense at least 2 weeks later…
Mort Sahl dating papers, wife, demands of me contract
Own full version would. Buy it again billy Jaye
Pointy face haircuts vs other shaggy do in a diner
Hum
I can vividly remember the side long serious glances from Mort as I looked over the pre-nuptial(?) agreement. He has been burned and wants to make provisions from his heart and dignity being damaged in another pending relationship. There are things to sign and initial with a lawyer present. He is very stern and suspicious if we are to move forward.
Do I bring another version of my own making to the table? Was Billy Jaye there to vouch for me? Or help me make purchases? Why are hairstyles being discussed or reviewed in a diner setting. I can imagine me humming through this procedure as a way of self-soothing…
Andy Ihnatko has moved in to my place and in my absence has shuffled some things around to make room. In the process he has broken my wooden TicTacToe board into 3 pieces. I am not concerned, but set about gluing it back together. There is much slathering of Elmer's and pressing the jagged pieces tight with slip mount tissue. I am having some difficulty and make several attempts. Andy is not overly apologetic and we both agree that is part and parcel for the moving in. He has many other things to attend to, business-wise and we only briefly make extended contact.
Now I am on Haight street, rather abandoned and empty and make my way toward the park on the west side of the street. I encounter a large warehouse building entrance that is unfamiliar. There are some makeshift signs saying. It is a gay run business or that they cater to gay clientele. I go in to explore and it is quite an enterprise, mainly a huge automated TShirt factory. The upper deck overlooking is office space with officious folk discussing business plans and next-moves of a philanthropic nature. I watch the machines and talk to a few people to clarify the proceedings. Stepping out and crossing over to the East side. I am joined by a young girl who is interested and quickly takes my hand as we walk. I immediately tell her although I look otherwise, I am straight. She does not seem to mind, or remains unconvinced. I am glad to have that in the open and feel comfortable laying down on Haight Street (in sleeping bags?) to watch passers-by. The street is now busy and one particular friend of hers stops to talk about her military experience and a new hand gun she has acquired. Quite excited to go home and assemble it and carry out some sharp-shooting or otherwise aggressive gun behavior seated in her military training.
I am away from my web duties for a week and in my absence Will has changed up the Front Page of his website to include obituaries/shout outs of RIP to recently departed celebrities. The design is minimally compromised and will be dismissed when fresh stuff happens this week. I have a meeting with him to reconnect after my absence and discuss in a small bistro. There are plenty of people around and I cover my design exasperation to convince him back into the original well-thought out design. He is somewhat oblivious to the ramifications of the changes that rock my little design fiefdom. Later I visit their house and speak to Debi, where it is apparent she is the one that made the changes… and discusses the HTML strategy in unravelling my code. She knows her DIV tags and lobbies for the changes as viable alternatives. (Which they are, I am just stubborn) can't argue with Debi's laizzai-faire approach. Again there are many people around and visiting that I don't know from my longer absence from the comedy scene. There is a sense of shyness and not wanting to intrude in this group of people I 'know' (how to navigate, handle) and relief that I don't have to use my energies and powers to navigate and handle these folk. There are many familiar feelings I recognize within myself that are triggered reflexively to 'come to the rescue' in this social situation and make right. There is also a confusion in not knowing the back stories Debi helpfully offers to include me in their back stories. Other locations are dream forgotten, but they are busy, colorful and filled with people.
