Pretty woman. OK handwriting.

Here's how it happened.

There was a point in time, when I was younger and she was younger, that I had a little crush on Julia Roberts. This of course was during the Mystic Pizza, Pretty Woman, Steel Magnolias and Sleeping With The Enemy era. It was kind of rekindled during the Notting Hill days, but one too many close-ups and articles about her bitching out her Malibu neighbors and I was done.

Anyway, during the early days, my friend, best man and a fine actor in his own right Scott Thomson was working on The Player with her. He found himself at the craft services table, and, knowing how much I liked her at the time, said "I know this is very uncool. But a friend of mine's a big fan of yours and he's home with the flu. I was wondering if there's any way you could give him an autograph?"

I felt fine.

To almost everyone's surprise, she did - the one you see here. The Player was twenty-one years ago, and I didn't even know I still had this. I just found it cleaning out a drawer.

But it does make me smile, and reminds me of a time when a movie star caught my attention and kept it onscreen and off. Color me old-fashioned, but I'm just a little starstruck and romantic that way.

I wonder what I can get for it on eBay.

Maids' day off

The living room is a little out of control. So is the bedroom, the hallway and the garage.

It's not for lack of good intentions, and it's no one's fault. It's just that there's life in progress. In fact, there are four of them in progress. And sometimes, in the ebb and flow of volleyball games, client meetings, board meetings, jazz concerts, getting some writing done and walking the dog, cleaning up a bit as you go gets bounced to the bottom of the To Do list.

Of course, like everyone, we do have a threshold. We measure it with those sticks they use in the south every time a river overflows its banks. When it gets to three feet, we stop every thing and clear the battlefield.

Like some people, we have a housekeeper that helps us stay on top of it. Well, she tries. Honestly, she's not very good. On days she's here, we come home to dirty dishes in the sink, unfolded laundry on the couch and cleaning rags on the washer as opposed to in it. Instead of cleaning for the maid, we have to clean after the maid.

Suffice it to say she's not here for the long haul.

I recognize it's a first-world problem, and that families all over the world are struggling with far more serious and pressing issues than a clean house. I see stories about it all the time on the TV.

That is, I would. If I could see the TV.

R.I.P. Lou Reed 1942 - 2013

Breaking news

The radio said breaking news.
The announcer called it another tragedy.
Parents were told to stay clear of the area.
As if that was possible.

Ambulances on both sides of the freeway.
No traffic mid-day, yet not moving at all.
Chaos and yelling.
All those red lights.

The playground is closed.
Yellow tape makes that clear.
I see other kids running.
I see bodies under blankets.

Did he wear those shoes this morning?
Shit, they all wear those shoes.

Some teachers have taught another lesson.
About the unpredictably of life.
The meaning of sacrifice.

Gurney wheels rattling. Children screaming and crying.
They can't get to sleep. They can't stay awake.
Just like when they were babies.
Remember life before them? Of course not.

Others have been through it.
Forced smiles, empty eyes and broken hearts
Say you learn to live with it.

The truth is life will go on.
The real truth is it won't.

Guilty pleasures Part 4: Carrie

I know we're all thinking it, so I'm just going to man up and come right out and say it.

Few things are more fun than watching a girl covered in pigs blood take out after the mean girl and give her what she deserves. See, it's better when you talk about it.

Number four in my Guilty Pleasures series is the remake of the 1976 film Carrie. The original starred, and made a star of, Sissy Spacek. This new one stars Chloe Grace Moretz as the prom queen not to be messed with.

A quick recap: Carrie is the daughter of a religious fanatic who sees sin everywhere and in everything. As a result, she shelters Carrie from the world around her, which apparently includes telling her that her Aunt Flo will be arriving when she hits a certain age.

When that time of the month finally arrives for Carrie, it comes in the girls shower room at the school gym. And it terrifies her.

Apparently the only kind of girls that attend her high school are mean girls, because they throw tampons and pads at her then videotape her on the shower floor in her bloody towel and post it online.

Thus begins the theme of blood that courses throughout the film.

The leader of the mean girl pack is a girl named Chris, and if you know anything about Carrie's powers of telekinesis, you know it's not going to end well for Chris.

Julianne Moore as her mom doesn't pack the authentic craziness of Piper Laurie in the original, but she's fine and manages to color all the fanatic numbers.

But because we know what's coming at the end, basically the film is ninety minutes of waiting for the pigs blood to be poured on Carrie and her date at the prom, and Carrie to exact her revenge on everyone who did it. And laughed at her. And tried to be nice to her (say goodbye to the sympathetic swim coach).

Special effects are considerably better as you'd expect, and Moretz gives a good creepy-eyed performance as she's crushing bad boys in the accordion bleachers and causing cars to stop, throwing bad girl Chris' face through the windshield in slow motion.

I know I'm not supposed to like it, but that's why it's a guilty pleasure. Like I said in part 1 of the series, which was about the Final Destination films, there's nothing more entertaining than watching snotty, teenage stereotypes behave badly and then get what's coming to them.

In fact, in this movie, it was bloody good fun.

Springsteen & I. Almost.

I swear to God, sometimes I don't need to have anyone else working against me. I can do a fine job of it myself.

Ridley Scott made a documentary about this up and coming singer named Bruce Springsteen. You may have noticed I've mentioned him a time or two on here. Anyway, it's called Springsteen & I, and it's a series of concert footage (already worth the price of admission) and video from fans talking about what Bruce means to them.

It should come as no surprise I knew about the filming and call for videos long before the general public. I have my ways. When the website went up and the call went out, I was one of the first people there.

Bruce stories? I'm lousy with 'em.

Unfortunately, one of the first things I read on the site, word for word, was the release I'd have to sign in order to submit my video to Ridley Scott's production company. And things like using my likeness in any media, existing now or in the future, in perpetuity just didn't sit well with me.

Fast forward. The documentary had a brief theatrical run, and is now about to premiere on Showtime. I just saw this trailer for it on Showtime, and the only thought I had is one that, sadly, is not unfamiliar to me.

What the hell was I thinking?

It reminds me of the time my wife-to-be and I were fighting in the middle of Bullock's in Westwood about the pattern on our wedding china. I was dug in, and I was not going to budge. Right up until I had a revelation: I didn't care what the pattern was. It was important to my bride, but I wasn't quite sure just why or what I ground I was trying to take. So I just let it go.

That's what I thought when I saw the trailer - I should have just let all my concerns about the release go. I deeply regret not having just signed it and submitting a video of myself (the camera loves me) telling one of my many, many Bruce stories.

This is a lesson I seem to have to keep learning over and over again. The one about getting over myself, and being a little less stressed out about the things that really don't matter in the long run. Maybe one of these times it'll sink in.

So when it airs, and all my friends who know how I feel about Bruce ask if I submitted a video, or why I wasn't in it, I'll have the self-inflicted pleasure of looking them right in the eye and telling them the truth.

Because I'm an idiot, that's why.

Parents, prepare for takeoff

Like her brother before her, tomorrow morning my daughter will be going with her eighth-grade class to New York, D.C. and a few other stops on the eastern seaboard.

The wife and I will be getting up at 3a.m. to take her to the school, where she'll board the bus to the airport with her friends as she gives us a cursory wave goodbye and heads off on her Big Apple adventure.

Of course we're happy for the time she's going to have, the things she's going to learn and close friends she'll be even closer to by trip's end. What we're not happy about is the fact she'll be away from us for a week. Three-thousand miles away from us.

It's every parent's dilemma: how to let them go without worrying about them the second they're out of your sight. The answer of course, as any parent can tell you, is you can't.

In a book about her daughter, author Joan Didion said, "Once you have children, you're never unafraid again." As a parent there is the continuous loop of white noise, playing at a very low level in the back of your brain always wondering if your kids are alright.

I know my daughter will be fine back east and have the time of her life.

I also know I won't be fine until she's back home.

UPDATE: This was originally written in June. My daughter went on the trip, had a great time and returned safely to me. When she came down the escalator at the airport, she ran into my arms and held me so tight I thought she'd never let go. For my money, best way for both of us to end her trip.