They grow up so fast...

When I did a steamy scene with Howie Gordon for a film called The Dancers back in the dim dark dawn of time, his lovely wife was right there on the set, holding their infant son in her arms. It was the best experience I ever had on a set during my long and checkered career. 

Here's Howie - then known as Richard Pacheco - and me at the Adult Film Awards ceremony that year. 

I think we won something.

Now - that infant is all grown up

 and presenting a unique take on the porn world that I have every intention of seeing when he brings it to Santa Monica in the spring. 



Meanwhile - if you're in the San Francisco area - check it out. 

Tickets and further information.
I just know it's going to be a very moving performance.
As we say in the Biz of Show, Dear Bobby, please know I wish you a warm hand on your opening. 

The review: 
In Debbie Does My Dad performance artist Bobby Gordon uses spoken word theater to tell the bawdy and beautiful story of his experiences growing up as the son of a former adult film star.
Gordon’s father, Howie Gordon (Stage Name Richard Pacheco) won Playgirl Man-of-the-Year Honors in 1979 and had a Hall of Fame X-Rated acting career appearing in over a 100 features.
Having spent his childhood “in the shadow of his dad’s erection” Bobby Gordon dives into his experiences dealing with overly excited friends, meeting (or really failing to meet) unreasonably high expectations from female classmates in school, his own sexual development, confronting and rebelling against his father, and
ultimately working to redefine manhood for himself.
       Nothing is what you’d expect in this show where the words “sensitive” and “male porn star” go together as easily as “masturbation” and “inevitably getting walked in on by your parents.” Gordon offers an intimate window into his journey
to come to grips his father’s former career, and create a world where a man can be an emotional and a sexual being; a world where fucking and feelings can co-exist.

    "Bobby Gordon plunges into the creative rhythms, images and sounds of spoken word poetry with courage, honesty and sensual delight to talk about sex, porn and fathering. This is a must see show." – Warren Nebe, Director of Drama For Life

The HAT

"I LOVE that HAT!" said I to my friend Margie - aka Big Mean Lady of Lopez Land.
"Did you knit it?" 
"I did," she replied. "OMG, you've got to give me the pattern!"
Now, I did used to knit - a lot - mostly leg warmers and mostly during the five minute breaks every hour that are required by Actors' Equity dance chorus contracts. But that was several lifetimes ago. Still, I thought this looked like something I might be able to handle. If I had a good, easy to read pattern. Right?
So - a week or so later, I get an unexpected package in the mail. When I open it, sitting upon an inflated red balloon is THE HAT! Never mind sending me the pattern, the lady made me a hat! Just like hers! She says she will send me the pattern anyway - when she has time to write it out. It was easier to knit the hat? I guess so.

What a Big Mean Lady. 


How lucky am I? 

Halloween

So this is Halloween. Sunday, October 31^st. Not last night, Saturday. Tell that to the parents of the wee ghosties and goblins and the long-legged beasties that go bump in the night (most notably at the many parties along our block). 

Halloween should be on the last Saturday of October – like Thanksgiving is always on a Thursday – last or next to last depending on geography. But Halloween, like Christmas, being based on the Christian calendar, not the public school system, is variable. I say Christmas and All Saint’s Day should both be on Sunday.

So Halloween eve – last night – Elen, my pal going all the way back to pre Woodstock days – made a birthday party for our mutual friend Laura featuring tandoori chickens with all the proper Moroccan trimmings and rituals and to hell with Halloween. 

Here's pal Elen at Woodstock.

She can be seen at 1:34 into this clip, on the right screen.

See, like this.

Well, yeah. We have a pot of pennies by the door to bribe any goblins that make it up out hill tonight, but my days of baking and decorating cupcakes for the little beasties are long over. Let them buy their own cavity creators. Bah humbug. OK. Make that Boo humbug.

Wrong Wrong Wrong

I got it all wrong.

My appointment with the eye clinic last Wednesday wasn’t for the surgery, just for the tests (and tests and tests and tests) that precede it. 

The surgery will not be until December 14^th.  But I’d like to thank artist Steve Lopez for sending me this encouragement.

And thank you to all the folks who emailed to wish me good luck on the surgery. You don’t have to do it again on December 14^th. I’ll just keep them all and read them again with my one good eye.

Shirts 'n Mugs 'n Mousepads, Oh My!!!

Georgie's Store

OK all you faithful who have been nagging me for the past umpteen years - there are finally Georgina Spelvin "keepsakes" available, thanks to enterprising entrepreneur, Steve Lopez. No, not the LA Times columnist. 

 This Steve Lopez is the patriarch of a talented family of artists. They were too shy to let me publish pictures of them or more information than this link to their web store and this
great logo - created by daughter, Michele.

 

And here I am. Personally signing all the mugs. Yep. Each and every damn one.

So mouse your way to local fame and be the first in your office to have a personally signed, Georgina Spelvin coffee mug and mouse pad. If you're lucky enough to work in a nice funky office, you could even wear the tee shirt to work one day and really stir up trouble. 

So what have I been doing that's so important it's kept me from keeping up with this blog? 

Recording the oral version of my memoir, The Devil Made Me Do It, that's what. 

Yes, indeedy, I rise at 4am every day and set up this amazing recording device that Sam Caldwell, the producer, sent me, and revisit the scenes of
my debauchery before the traffic noise becomes too obtrusive. Oh yes. I'm having a good time. I'm far too old to do anything I don't enjoy.

The imprint publishing my audiobook is iNetSynch at iNetSynch.com. iNetSynch is a division of ETI and produces professional audio and video podcasts as well as audio and e-books. The Full-Spectrum Publishing imprint and division of ETI  works in tandem with iNetSynch to publish traditional printed books. Sam Caldwell is the president of ETI, iNetSynch and Full-Spectrum publishing. He is also one of the most patient and supportive gentlemen it has ever been my pleasure to encounter. Well, Steve Lopez is not slouch, either. The Force is obviously with me.  

Other news: I learned that the reason I can't read the street signs until I'm damn near IN the intersection, is not because I need new glasses. I'm going in for an "eyeball lift" next week. Yep. Cataracts. Not surprising at my age, but damned inconvenient. I can handle the wrinkles in my face - but on my eyeballs? How rude. 

If you, dear reader, have had experience with this little visisitude of life, I'd love to learn more about it. Drop me a note: Georginasword@gmail.com.

Hope everyone is enjoying autumn as much as we are. I shall now go gather up the three feet of pine needles that have made their annual appearance over the garden. Anyone need any mulch?

 The Algonquin  it ain't, and I'm hardly Dorothy Parker, but the luncheons that have become a sort-of monthly event with our friends, published authors Jim Morris and Kenn Miller do put me in mind of that pinnacle of American literary levity. 

That's Jim at the head of the table. Kenn is to his left.

These veterans of various military conflicts have little reason to be amusing and entertaining about the world, but they are. I love their books. They recently introduced us to Steven Rothblatt, across the table from me. His film, Oh Baby, is currently in the festival circuit. The best single link for it may be this one, for when it screened at USC . Here's the trailer and here’s a cool link to photos from the premiere of the film (in Hollywood at the Renberg Theatre) and other pics related to the film:

I asked Steven how he came to make such a film. Here's what he said.

My spouse, John (author of Where The Sun Sets) says we've started a buzz in the neighborhood. Well, if they weren't already buzzing, it's hardly my fault.

Our coterie hasn't come up with solutions for ALL the world's problems, but it ain't for not trying. I'll not mention the wonderful neighborhood cafe where we meet by name because the last time I did that, you couldn't get in the place at lunchtime for two months.

Another recent meeting of note: 

There was a reunion of the publications department of the L.A. Country Medical Association Sunday, September 5th, at the home of Howard Bender: former editor of the in-house organ, LACMA Physician magazine.

Back row from left, Randy Lander, Andrea David, our host, Howard Bender and Mike Villaire; in front on my left is Summer West.

Howard went on to greater executive duties elsewhere. His successors were Summer West and Mike Villaire. Andrea David was the advertising manager. She and I have, at least, lunched occasionally through the years. I hadn’t seen any of the others since I left the place twenty years ago. Andrea’s job fell into my lab when she left for greener pastures. (I had been secretary for the department up to that point.)

Andrea and Randy. Randy was our department secretary for a while - in between numerous other positions at the association.

The magazine’s printing company asked us if we would please, please, please send them our copy digitally! They even furnished the computer for us to do so. As department secretary, I got the job of jockeying the infernal machine. That was in '82. You'd think by now I'd have figured out how to use the damn things

 

Our host put in his years putting out the magazine, but his heart was always in producing game shows, so at this party, he directed us to form two teams and try to answer questions he had prepared about our years together. He even furnished little punch bells to ring in on.

Well, it's official. My memory is shot to hell. I don't think I answered a single damn question.  Oh yeah, I did get one about me, but I can’t remember what it was.

Summer's husband and son were the only guests other than yours truly to take advantage of the gorgeous pool, but everyone had a glorious time anyway.Of course, nobody got a picture of me doing my famous swan. Oh well.

Thank you, Elissa (Mrs. Bender), for the great spread. And thank you, number one son, Fletcher, for the great grilling. 

Daughter, Amanda, was away – I think at school – so I’ve yet to meet her.

Thank goodness Summer West (mother of the swimmer) had a good camera and the skills to provide these pictures. Many thanks.

PS.  Would the person who brought this lovely plant to our Fourth of July party please e-mail georginasworld@gmail.com and confess.

ALSO – we found a stack of pristine posters for The Devil in Miss Jones on a shelf in the bedroom recently. I vaguely remember someone handing them to me at the party and my stashing them on the shelf – but I have no idea who it was, nor can I remember if I was supposed to sign and return them, or what. If anyone has any information about this matter, please HELP.

Georgie and John

GOIN' DOWN IN FLAMES

Wednesday, September 1st, 2010 - The DEADLINE for completion of Goin' Down in Flames - the ongoing adventures of Georgina Spelvin.

I haven't even started.

Oh there are bits and pieces floating around all over my laptop like the wispy hairs too short to be captured in my top-knot that blow in my face and drive me nuts. Will it ever get scrapped together into some sort of comprehensive whole? Will Manny Ramerez... oh never mind.

Well, damnit, I'm RETIRED.

 
I don't know what I do all day, but it takes me all day to do it. Yes, we spend the morning lazing about with the papers and our rspective caffine hits: coffee for John - for me, tea. Then it's hi-ho, off to the gym, a fortuitous five minutes away. Welll, John goes to the gym. I go to the spa. He cycles energetically to nowhere while I perform my exotic regenerative routine.

To wit: I baste my body in Jergin's lotion and place it in a 110 degree sauna for 10 to 15 minutes, during which time I stretch it, wiggle it, and rub it where it hurts - which is almost everywhere, of course. Not bad hurt. Just the 74 years of service general complaints. Nicely sweated, I proceed to the ballet barre, looking as if I've already done some hard stuff. Whilst my hubbylover John stretches vigerously (an oxymoron - but more of that later) and then does a hundred - count them - hundred scruntchies, I hang out at the barre.

Literally. I let it hangas loose as I can and jiggle it in various positions. This I alternate with posturings that pull it all as far apart as possible in lines as long and graceful as I can produce. Yes, Ballet. Though I'd never a prayer of getting anywhere near the positions demanded for proficiency, just trying for them has kept it all where it should be and in pretty much the proportions I still dream of. Not bad for home brew.

So, after the gym, it's time for lunch. I try not to make lunch plans for more than once or twice a week, but I also like schmoozing with my buds. Monday's I take my pal, Joyce, to lunch. She will be 86 Tuesday, September 7th, so we'll do lunch that day instead of Monday next week. What an amazing woman. She was the "orchestra" for the improve company, War Babies. John was a founding member. Here's a link to a U-toob of them. You can see Joyce - making it up as they go just like the actors. Instant opera!

 
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H5Ayxo4cITk

She can still play just about any song you might like to sing, but she can't tell you what day it is. What the hell. She doesn't need to know what day it is. I tell her, "Honey, these are the fuckit years!"

Days I don't have to meet someone for lunch, I have a crisp, cold pear sliced into thin pieces with little matching slices of Madrigal (Unborn Swiss) cheese that I can nibble with my left hand while my right hand works corssword and soduku puzzles. Ah, heaven.

Now, here I have the afternoon and early evening to write - one would think. So I open up Dilbert the Dell - and well, first I have to check the email - right? Right.Ne xt thing I know, it's time for dinner. John cooks Monday through Friday - as he did when I had my day job. I do weekends, using up the leftovers from all the deliciaous meanls he's made all week. His Italian half loves to cook. The Irish half is happy I like washing dishes.

Cash Cab is in the backgroud as I write. Jeopardy will accompany John's kitchen expoits, Wheel of Fortune will entertain us through dinner. Antique Road Show, or Funniest Home Videos will waft into the kitchen as I do the clean up. Then it's Animal Kingdom or - Sundays - From the Top at Carnegie Hall - my favorite show. That's pretty much our TV schedule except during baseball season.

I reserve an hour or two for reading a real book in the comfort of my bed beforeI dive into the Disneyland of my subconscious.

Now, is that not the most exciting life you've ever heard of or WHAT? But that's why Goin' Down in Flames seems to be going down in flames.