HORMONE HELL AND HAPPINESS

As I take a deep breath and reflect how life pulled the rug from under me the moment I set foot in Laurel Canyon, Los Angeles, I smile... The kind of smile that shows wrinkles of exhaustion, and the chuffed maturity of having come through a hormone marathon with a torch held high. How do you make a hormone? Give her kids. I did it twice in three years. WTF?

2009-2012. Met hottie. Connection. Love fest. Stray sperm. Ripe egg. Shotgun wedding. First child. Natural birth. Ate placenta. Weird. Sore bits. Left hospital with an ice pack strapped to my snatch and an adult diaper. Got mastitis. Wrote a sci-fi film called 'Darklight'. Director Tarsem calls it 'Star Wars meets Dune'. Started writing an R-Rated comedy called 'The Nipple Nurse'. Love gets milky. Stalking Emily Blunt for lead. Natalie Portman just had a kid. She'll appreciate the dark humor. And she sings. Stalking her too. Writing writing... Sore boobs. Sleep deprived. Founded a Laurel Canyon community daycare. Life changer. Back to work. Meetings. Angels and demons. Writing and rewriting. Phenomenal sex with hubby. Wrong time of month. Ooops. Knocked up and milky. Second child. Natural birth. Flew out in fifty minutes. Hmm. No ice pack. No diaper. Breast feeding every two hours. F**k that. Sleep deprived. Two kids. Hormone hell. Is this it? How can anyone be a stay at home mom? Is it selfish to think this? Will I ever get back in shape? Why am I thinking of anal sex? Daycare for number two. Back to work. Writing. A new movie... 'Hooker Heist'. Reconnected with a good friend who moonlights as a working girl. And a magician at the Magic Castle. Great material. Sleep deprived. Teething is cruel. Terrible two's is torture. Sex with hubby is too good. Got an IUD inserted. Mood-cramp hell for five months. Copper poisoning from IUD. WTF? IUD removed. That was a fortnight ago. And today ladies and gentlemen, I feel a glimpse of the woman I was the day in Laurel Canyon that I met my man. Thank fuck... It is possible to rise from hormone hell, get shit done, and triumph with happiness. Oh and, not forgetting, love your children so much it hurts.

These three years showed me that the balanced, meditative, calm, spiritual, positive, upbeat, globe trotting, comical person I once identified with, can be shaken like a rag doll in a second from the chemical shift of pregnancy, no sleep, and dependents who, two years in, act like terrorists (god forbid if you negotiate...). Yep, if anyone out there is embarking on a journey to enlightenment - which I commend whole heartedly - spend a week with kids. Someone else's or your own. Makes no difference. Overnight it will be reflected, like a cruel mirror, that you've transcended jack... Impatient, frustrated, selfish, angry, intolerant, control freak YOU is going to scream for that mantra and a beach in Thailand as quick as that kid is going to press the next button. I dare you. Oh the joys of being a mother, wife, and writer... My next project will sufficiently reflect the insanity. And on that note, please pass on this missive to expectant moms. Better to tell them the truth...

Dear Expectant New Mom, 


You are about to embark on a hazardous journey. But don't worry, there is light at the end of the tunnel. It is called bedtime, baby sitters, and as many intoxicants as you allow yourself on a week night. 


Yours with deep respect and pity. 


And an out-take.

My 2.5 yr old: Mommy?
Me: Yes
My 2.5 yr old: Why does daddy have a peanut?
Me: Because he is male.
My 2.5 yr old: Oh. Can I have one?
Me: No.
My 2.5 yr old stomps foot, pulls grumpy face...
Me: But you can have a pretzel or a slice of apple. Here...
My 2.5 yr old: I don't want a pretzel. I want a peanut.
I hand her an actual peanut.
My 2.5 yr old: What is that?
Me: A peanut.
My 2.5 yr old: Don't tell lies, Momma.


Honestly, you CANNOT win.

Peace. xo

NEVER SAY NEVER...

MY APOLOGIES EXTENDED to my blogging family. I failed miserably to produce anything in over a year-- GASP! But I have a fantastic excuse - the kind of excuse that flutters eyelashes, walks with a swagger, causes buildings to quake, nipples to shake and erections to rise - YEP, after all my ranting that I would NEVER get married and have children-- when I announced the pregnancy to my soon-to-be father-in-law, he murmured: "That's what you get when you f*** around." Within two weeks, we threw the SHOTGUN WEDDIN' of the century at the Sunset Towers in Los Angeles. It was awesome - the lack of pre-planning meant I didn't have to spend weeks talking "doilies" to professional smilers. It also meant that my husband and I didn't hate each other on the special day. And with a room packed full with Laurel Canyonites - a special breed of artistic weridos - you are guaranteed a wedding like an acid trip, even when you're pregnant and sipping fizzy water. The highlight for me wasn't that Sean Penn complained from his room about our rowdy party, or that I was requested to sit on Mick Jagger's knee in the dining room, or that my husband's vows were the most delicious, perfect poetry to my ears. Nope, the highlight was that I was ROASTED beyond imagining. I don't know many women in their first trimester who could handle having their new in-laws hear about their sordid past - ON A MICROPHONE - especially when it involves sex, drugs, rock'n roll AND imprisonment. Ooops. Hi, I'm your new daughter-in-law and I'm having your grandchild-- Fortunately, my new family welcomed the fact that someone equally insane as their son had accepted him, (genital) warts and all... Ah! LOVE... And that is what I mean to share with all of you out there desperate to meet that special someone... Because there is a wonderful person out there for everyone, it's just a matter of NOT seeking them out. In the realm of love, "Seek and thou shalt find" is a lie that must be dispelled. Don't seek! Relax! Enjoy YOU! Work on becoming a better YOU! Turn to the Divine Unknowable Mystery that breathes all things, and CELEBRATE THE MYSTERY, trusting love to be always already present -- and WHAM BAM THANKYOU MAM!-- that mysterious someone special will appear in your life when you least expect it... I was Qigung-ing at sunset on a hill in Laurel Canyon, when two beastly canines ran straight for me-- the English bulldog farted in my face, the French mastiff slobbered my crotch-- And there, silhoutted, was my soon-to-be soul mate, husband, the father of my future child. Who knew? I didn't! And that is the happiness of allowing zero expectations to govern your life coz... when you least expect it-- WOW!

NEVER SAY NEVER. That was my motto after I left Oxford University at age 20 with a Law degree under my belt, only to wind up in prison a year later. Everything I always swore I would NEVER DO erupted in my life like a series of taunting belches. "I'll never end up in a prison or something bad like that..." (got a minute...)-- "I'll never be a waitress" (a year waiting tables); "I'll never eat Brussel Sprouts" (my husband's favorite food); "I'll never shave off my entire pussy" (a move to California...); "I'll never take it up the butt..." (how could I have been so stupid)... Oh and the best one of all, "I'll NEVER have children in this lifetime!"-- And that was a DEFINITE, "NEVER!".

IN SEPTEMBER 2009, I gave birth to a perfect child, which is a harrowing responsibility for someone with tourettes syndrome. The birth felt almost as gory as passing a watermelon through the sphincter, only more painful-- Did I forget to put passing a watermelon through the sphincter on my list of never say nevers?-- And the girl who used to enjoy the occasional recreational intoxicant refused the drugs, but I did splash out $250 to have my placenta encapsulated, which I nibbled like ecstasy to get me through the month of mestitus. Oh yeah, they don't tell you about that when you're pregnant. We're sold "the beautiful journey is just beginning" LIE!-- Hell is about to crack out of your vagina and you think the pregnancy was a creative ordeal?-- It is time someone like me spoke up about this ghastly reality, because at 3am when your tits feel like broken shards of glass are scraping across them, your nipples are chapped and bleeding, and a tiny squirming head is trying to latch onto what was once a pleasure zone, I can't say "the beautiful journey" was anywhere to be experienced. Moreover, why did no one tell me I would leave hospital wearing a diaper? Is that not something you think women would want to know? I had no idea I would experience a menstral monsoon for five whole weeks following birth. They didn't talk about that in pre-natal yoga classes. Oh no! They were all about "the beautiful journey", "breathing a wide open cervix", "the special soul about to come and enlighten humanity"... Well, I'm gonna start a blog called Reality for Expectant Mums-- Watch this space, coz it aint pretty. After four months of sleep deprivation that BTW is a known torture technique for a reason -- because IT F***S YOU UP -- I stepped out of the dark into the light. It was like night to day that first time she slept through the night.

NEVER SAY NEVER-- I did it. OMG! I reproduced. And for a balding, puking, farting, pissing, gargling little female... thing... She really is an incredible example of stamina. She is opening her own blog in the coming weeks, so please watch this space-- Poppy Q has a lot to share. As for her mother, after the initial hell of feeling like my entire universe had imploded into a bubble of sleep deprived blubber, I mange to work, rest and play, and life couldn't be better. Saying that, I am now an avid supporter of all mums everywhere, for raising a child is by far the hardest thing I have ever encountered. Far more challenging than prison. I'm serious. At least in prison you can read a book, take a shower, finish your cup of tea, play ping pong, watch a fight, and sleep 8 hours. I rest my case.

WELSH MINX HITS THE GUMBAL 3000 RALLY 2008!

San Francisco to Bejiing in 8 days!

What I love about life is how it throws wicked opportunities atcha if your post box is open... And when you put your attention on something, however trivial it may seem to anyone else, it will manifest if it is your dream and there is a happy longing associated with it. My letter box is like a whore’s moo moo – wide open, patiently awaiting that golden cheque of adventure in the mail, smiling…

When I was a kid, I fell in love with VW split-screen camper vans. I spent a huge part of my childhood rolling down sand dunes and body surfing on Llangeneth beach, a romantic pocket of Welsh countryside where the surfers would tumble out of these kick ass cool VWs… I was utterly smitten. In the mid 90s I learnt to enjoy the adrenalin of high speed driving and discovered that VWs are compatible with Porsche engines… Oh yes! Outwardly maintain some kind of bohemian-hippie status, but secretly hack it at 140mph… my kinda machine.

Three years or so ago, my mum dragged me to a lavishly converted barn in the English countryside to meet her new friends Nina and Dave. Nina had found my mother in the yellow pages under the ‘Feng Shui’ section. My mother was apparently posing as someone called “The Cosmic Cherry”. She would re-orient home layouts for a fee, according to ancient Chinese principles and a little bit of her own whacko-soothsaying thrown in. It turns out her work on Nina and Dave’s gorgeous property did them wonders – she even exorcised a ghost.

While wandering around the exquisite house I noticed a canvas painting of an orange and white VW split-screen camper van, the same colours as the one my mum used to ferry my brother and sisters around in when we were pseudo-hippies in the late 1970s.

I exclaimed to my now new friend Nina –

“If that had a Porsche engine it would be my dream mobile.”

Nina giggled –

“Dave’s got one of them.”
“You’re kidding?”
“In the garage, snakeskin interior and it breathes out fire… and it won the bling award on the Gumball Rally…”
“The Gumball?”
“Rich boys with toys rally, ya know, Maximillion’s gig? Dave loves it.”

At the time, I was in a rock-punk-rap band called ‘Weapons’ and we were preparing our next music video shoot for single ‘Love Is Thunder’. A hippie camper van that can trot a wild 140mph and breathe out flames sounded perfect for my vehicle in the vid!

“If I drive the camper in the band vid, what about the others? What will Justin, Mo, Pete, Blair and Tasha drive in the vid?”

Nina nonchalantly started to walk me across the manicured lawn towards a fat set of garage doors.

“Well, Tasha can have the Ferrari, Justin the Lambo, Mo the Harley, Blair the Aston Martin and I guess Pete can drive the Mclaren…”

The garage doors unfurled like an origami puzzle into another world… and my entrance into the sphere of fast cars and collectibles had begun.

Fast forward 2.5 years and I’m now settled in Los Angeles. I get a call one day from Dave –

“You wanna do the American leg of the Gumball rally, San Francisco to Bejiing with me and Phil?”
“You kiddin’ me right?”
“Nope, it’s all set. We’ll pick you up at the party in LA and drive to Vegas via San Diego and various check points along route.”
“When?”
“Three weeks time.”
“OMG!”
“You in?”
“Is Sarah Palin the anti-christ with titties?”
“See ya then, g-force…”

My dream. Not only was I gonna rock’n roll in my fantasy mobile, but I was going on the most notorious car rally in the world, alongside some of the world’s pimping-est cars.

A word of caution:

Now don’t get me wrong… at heart, I’m not someone to gush when a racing car zooms by. Quite the contrary, I’m the kinda chick staring at those balding imbeciles cruising in their convertible Bentleys who internally muses: “What a tosser!” When I hit traffic lights in Beverly Hills and an Italian stallion pulls up in a Lambo, revving to impress, gesticulating crudities at me through the slick glass, I’m that gal that turns up my stereo, picks my nose and flicks it in the direction of the dick in the fast car. In a nutshell, I don’t get wet at expensive, flashy cars, even less the drivers of such extravagances. But it’s paradoxical right? Coz I adore the rush and adrenalin and speed and excitement of stepping on the gas, pushing up the numbers on the dial and whooshing into the distance, full throttle, riding by the seat of my pants… Who wouldn’t?

So GUMBALL hit Los Angeles and I was ready. The party kicked off at ‘The Roosevelt’ in Hollywood with a champagne-toxic bang. 8am the following morning and I was standing outside the Kodak Theatre surrounded by a throng of the world’s fastest cars, as well as a celebrity addition – THE ORIGINAL KIT CAR! Yep, Knight Rider was on the rally, driven by Hasslehoff’s adopted kid friend “Hasslehog” – an Austrian BMX pro who despite his petite teenage frame was reknown to have a cock the size of the Andes mountain range. Every time we sped past him on the freeway, he would wave a huge brown dildo out of the window at me. It was quite disconcerting… Just where had it been to be that color?

The film crew joined Dave, Phil and I in the VW for the first leg. We hit the 405 and well… I’ve never seen the 405 display as many skid marks as a horny trucker’s pants. It was a Lamborghini convention snaking the freeway. All those driving their cars to work that morning were hit by a futuristic looking chase scene straight outta a movie… it was electrifying. And there was I, full body out of the convertible VW, hacking it at 130mph, weaving in and out of the daily grind with music blaring, the wind rushing through my veins. Dave triggered his various horn sounds as he proceeded to overtake everybody on the inside lane - no one expects a hippie van to whoosh past at that kinda speed – and well, suffice to say, I was pumped. The 405 had a lot of smiling faces ;-)

Fast-forward to the first check-point at Huntington Beach where we ate a luxurious breakfast, had a photo shoot with the Jackass boys, and witnessed a bikini fashion show modelled by cyborgs with down syndrome. Gumball is full of surprises. And that was blatantly evident when, at lunchtime, we cruised into the private estate of the wealthiest guy in California who had a private Ferrari collection he wanted to share. It felt like I had entered the homestead of a bad guy from a BOND movie. A sick house… I mean we’re talking SICK! I was waiting for Oddjob to come out and smash me in the face with his bowler hat. Worse still, I got cornered during dessert by a gangster rapper from Vegas known as “The Panty Sniffer”. He proceeded to place large headphones over my ears so that I was looking across the bling baddy estate listening to, “I get an erection when I whiff your yeast infection…” Certainly not the kinda thing to write home about… less still publish in a blog?

Check-point three was an industrial estate where the boys with toys were able to show off their speed skills and spin 360s without worrying that the explosive sounds and petrol fumes would offend eco-friendly locals. The VW wasn’t equipped for such debauchery, so we showed off our impressive 4 sec or so 0-70 as we sped away with flames shooting outta our ass… it was kinda appropriate that we had a flaming ass hole as Dave and Phil – pilot and co-pilot respectively – had ever so gradually begun cloning one another… I was slightly concerned when their t-shirts were not only similar, but matching. Same hair do and everything… hmmm…

The sun was shining and I was getting hot. A new film crew had joined us and needed some action. So I launched myself out of the roof, gumball stickers on each nipple, arms aloft like the home coming gladiator entering the ring… only I was showing off in front of a bunch of fat families lining the San Diego check-point, waving their Gumball flags. I’m a cheap date.

After posing for hundreds of eager car lovers, we received a police escort to our luxurious hotel – THE SAN DIEGO IVY - the owner of which, it transpired, was driving in the rally with his sexy playboy fiancé. As we pulled up, the streets were all cornered off for our welcome. The crowds cheered, cameras clicked and the resident Gumball Tanoy Monster yelled crudities down his speaker for all to hear. I leapt out of the VW and launched myself onto a waiting police motorcycle. As I straddled this beastly machine, Gumballers planted stickers on the back of the cop’s bike. He was so heavily engaged in feeling my pert behind grind his armoured cod-piece, he didn’t notice the camera crew surrounding us and the blatant disregard to his authority. Before he knew it, we were being filmed as I ran my hand up and down his menacing baton, yelling, “Yanky cops sure know how to ride it rough.” Then, to my horror he started getting “fresh” when our photos were being taken -

“Which room are you in?” he asked, eagerly salivating…
“Huh?” I replied, assuming I had misheard him.
“Your room number? Tonight?”

Did I really feel his outstretched arm move towards groping my left tit? Nah! Really? …

I made my escape, but no sooner had I entered my gorgeous suite in The Ivy – there he was standing in the street below… right in front of my window! I could hear Alfred Hitchcock’s PSYCHO blade-curdling SCRATCH noises tear into my brain as I ducked on all fours and proceeded to pull the blinds down without being seen. PHEWee! Close call. I’m never returning to San Diego.

That night, The Ivy threw a rather outlandish affair by the pool. I suspect that every working girl from Hong Kong to Miami had been flown in for the occasion. The elevator would PING open every five minutes and outpour a school of lipstick in dresses so short I caught a few spider’s legs creeping out for breath. Scantily-clad girlies danced on the bar, twisting their teenage hips to filthy Prince tunes and we hit the sack from exhaustion… I slept like a princess.

The day we had all been waiting for arrived… the trip to VEGAS!!!

8am and we were on the road. This time our destination was on a serious time constraint. We had to reach a private air force base and have the VW checked in for its trip to Korea… The journey was awesome as we bombed through the desert roads, taking-in the fire-orange mountains shaking on the horizon like old men with Parkison’s disease. Dave was in his element carving the narrow roads, hurdling bumps and probing pot holes, while Phil and I sung along to “God Is A DJ” blasting out of the stereo.

2pm and we hit the private airport. The VW was stripped and carted away for its long flight to Korea, and we were elegantly transported to the ‘Million Air’ waiting room to get our own private jet to Vegas. Turns out, the jet was the Rolling Stones private jet they use for touring the US. And there it was on the runway, all-tempting like Mick’s glossed rubber lips approaching the mic…

I spotted the enormous silver turbine straight ahead of me and, turning around intuitively, my jaw gaped open in awe as the dreamy vision of the Sheikh of Saudi gracefully walking towards me in his perfect, crisp, white dress appeared on the horizon. I gushed and knew I had to get in that turbine with the Arab. Moments later I was standing in the massive turbine singing Sean Paul’s “Shake that thing!” while booty grinding with the Sheikh. “Sheikh that thing, c’mon let’s sheikh that thing…” He certainly did shake it… loose.

When I was supped, I entered the plane and had the fortune to share seats with Maximillion, who gave me the low down on the thriving Gumball enterprise he runs with his beloved, hot wife Julie. Turns out, the guy has quite a history with extreme sports – skateboard champ, BMX-ing, entrepreneur since ever since, and a Spike Jonze buddy from way back. And his co-pilot for the Gumball transpired to be a photographer I hung with in South America back in 1995. I’m not certain either of us can pin-point the exact location or nature of our meeting, although it’s certain that it involved some kind of Colombian-Peruvian-Bolivian intoxicant and a wealth of amnesia.

TOUCH-down in Vegas and the Gumballers were chauffered to the Hard Rock Hotel where Dave had secured us the celebrity suite – equipped with pool table, bar, and… a BUTLER who could get one anything one desireth. Dave and Phil ordered pizza and I booked three midgets, a ball gag and a hostess trolley. We hit the casino and after Dave had lost about as much as a deposit on a small country, we decided to quit our losses and head into the Gumball Party. And what a party it was! - THE CUBAN BROTHERS (aka filthy Glaswegian comedians) were on stage as we entered, stripping off while performing break dance antics that happily reinvented mentally retarded looking dancers with dislocated limbs into sexual icons. I was impressed. While I was secretly fondling myself to the sight of the filthy Glaswegians waving their trouser snakes at a drooling throng of Gumballers and Vegas hookers, Dave purchased a champagne bottle the size of a wig-wam. He nourished the entire club with champagne out of that single bottle – no shit! It kept pouring on and on… by the time we ‘d exhausted its liquid nectar, the whole club was screaming and dancing and it kicked off into the early hours… This was a party to remember!

At some point we were in a cab racing to the nightclub JET where I lost my sandals and found myself dancing next to a ladyboy with awkward boobs. Then we were somehow back at the Hard Rock and I was forced to watch an inebriated Dave and Phil, in full blown clone attire, speak to their loved ones on skype, expressing in northern drivel how much they love them. It was at that point that I puked. Then I called ‘the Butler” to remove it and feed it to the midgets I had stowed away in my closet.

Deliriously, I whispered farewell to Dave and Phil at 6am as they departed for their connecting flight to Korea to continue the rally all the way to Bejiing. Then I passed out until I was myself heading homewards to Los Angeles…

I got back and received a phone call from my very gorgeous new boyfriend. He said, “Come over to the house, I got something funny to show you.” For a moment I thought to remind him that after the 405, the cop, the school of hookers, the Cuban brothers, the butler and the dwarfs, there wasn’t much left to shock me into giggles… but there, in his driveway, was a white, very nice, Lamborghini. His mate Ken had just dropped it off and given him the keys… weird right? So a week later, I watched him rev the lambo to my birthday party and I thought to myself - that dream wasn’t on my list? - but it’s sure funny how life surprises you if your letter box is open!...

TRUE STORIES from a Welsh Hermit Minx in Tinsel Town…

HUMPING

My month began with humping on a Malibu beach. Not me, alas. A guy, mid 30s, and… a hooker. I assume she was paid? Then again, maybe… hmmm… maybe he was just an eyesore of a guy in a suit that just happened to be dating a twenty year old beauty pageant with a penchant for blowing in broad daylight on a week day? An ugly rich guy that got lucky? It’s strange that neither of them noticed the family 10 metres away, building a sand castle while the pageant bobbed her head up and down under a blanket as discreet as a tea towel. And even more surprising that they failed to notice Bozza, Shane and I standing up watching in the front row, right there on the shoreline, a stone’s throw away from the live sex act? One thing’s for sure … there was a lot of flotsam that day… We climbed the cliff and watched the rest of the show from the royal box. Bozza filmed, Shane giggled and I played with myself. When we got to the rubbled parking lot there were only three cars and one had a baby carriage. It didn’t take Einstein to eliminate and deduce which was the Johns car. I left a note:

“Wicked show! It’ll be on youtube at midnight…”

Why did I recount this? Well … Since moving to Laurel Canyon, once famed for its rock star inhabitants and debauched parties, I have made a hermit’s perch in the hills and spend ample time alone writing. When I do rear my head even for five minutes, let alone a rebellious day trip to the beach, shit like that happens – ALL THE TIME. I’m wondering whether I’m attracting it because it is fuel for my scripts, OR whether the world has got more mad, small and silly?

SEX AND THE CITY…

Awful film, great soundtrack. I’m biased coz my sister’s music is in the movie, but hopefully she won’t mind me airing my opinion of the movie itself… As the late genius comedian Bill Hicks once said about ‘Basic Instinct’ – “Piece of shit! Walk away! WALK AWAY! – PIECE OF SHIT”… Angry ranting aside – PIECE OF SHIT MOVIE! – it got me thinking about sex and the city, not New York, but the City of Angels. In the past months I’ve been dry as a bone. Not a smidgen of action to write home about, not even clam typing. Is it because nearly two years ago, I hopped from the Rock God with big balls and an acorn of a penis to a guy in a wheelchair who had a penis the size of the Andes mountain range, to a one night stand with a 6-foot five Bear Man in possession of a not even bite size sausage, to a guy who dislocated his nut on our first night of carnal activity? Do not question the authenticity of what heart secrets I have just laid bare. It is all 100% true… If truth be told, I left out the one night lesbian action that saw me fly off a bed and spend half the night next to a vibrator called "The Rocket" because, compared to the men, it was a "what you see is what you get" kinda affair. The others... they were all such strange encounters…

As I pretend to be Sarah Jessica Parker in front of my mirror wearing an outfit that would look better on a goose, one of the questions I pose is – am I attracting these mysterious sexual encounters because I have a darn good sense of humour and it is fuel for my scripts? Or, in another outfit that resembles a puffed up bag lady wearing sparkly Wellington boots, I ask whether the world has got more mad, small and silly?


BREAD

Whether we create reality or whether reality creates us, there is no doubt that coincidences happen ALL THE TIME… I was hiking up my hill in Laurel Canyon with my sister, telling her how I’ve noticed that if I give my attention to particular people in the hood, notice them behaving strangely or sense something about them, however small, they will somehow enter my reality in trippy ways. For example, when I first drove up my street 6 months ago to check out the rentals, a seemingly ‘high’ English woman helped direct me up the narrow trail. A day later I passed her again in the same spot and this time she said, “Did you find what you were looking for?”, in that fortune teller, psychic type, crystal ball tone. Or was it crystal meth tone? Anyways, she hit me with a weird look and then… I saw her one more time after that outside her wooden shack… then I never saw her again UNTIL, 5 months later I’m walking with my writing partner Thomas up the trail, telling him about the time I met the crystal meth lady…

From the plateau viewpoint at the top of my street you can gaze over Los Angeles to the ocean. It affords a spectacular view of mountains, Hollywood sign, observatory, downtown and… the wooden shack… Thomas gazed down and noticed the spooky wooden house. As we meandered down the hill, he happened to put his trash in a garbage can without realizing it was the same house he had pointed out from the peak. Then, in the same moment that I relay to him that this is the house owned by the woman I had been telling him about, he exclaims while holding open the garbage can - “Aaaah! Georgia! Take a look at this…” – And, inside the garbage is a ouija board.

So fast forward a month, and I’m now telling this to my sister as we hike past the same house. I’m explaining how, as a writer, it doesn’t matter that most of the time I’m a hermit in Disney land because as soon as I step out shit happens. Just in the moment that I tell her about the ouija board, we both stop dead in our tracks… to the side of the trail, on a spike, is a fresh loaf of bread. The perfectly shaped loaf on the spike sat under two photographs tacked on a wall: a sunset scene and a dog bearing its lethal teeth. Both the bread and the photographs were under a deadly nightshade plant containing enough Datura blossom to destroy 250,000 neural pathways. What the ****? My sister gets a little spooked. I’m thinking, “Welcome to Laurel Canyon, Jim Morrison is fucking with us from the grave.” We stroll around the corner and there is the local lady I fondly call – the Welsh Witch - and an actor who was big in the 80s, sitting on a bench having a cup of tea.

“What’s with the bread on the spike up the hill and the trippy pictures?” I said.
“Oh that’ll be Shakey…” she said matter of factly.
“But what’s with the bread?” I said
“He’s got a source.” said the 80s actor.
“A source?”
The Welsh Witch held up a bag of bagels.
“Do you want them? We’ve got too many.”
My sister and I are now beyond confused.
“Right, Cool, Yeah I’ll take a bag of fresh bagels, “I said.

My sister and I went on our way, munching bread, when we noticed more bread, just lying there on a driveway. Then another loaf. And another. Weird. Funny though right? Like weird funny. Like when you feel turned on by something sick.

I’m wondering whether I attracted the bread on the spike because it is fuel for my scripts, OR whether the world has got more mad, small and silly?


MENTALLY RETARDED NEXT DOOR NEIGHBORS

Have you had one? Not a learning difficulty case… I mean fully-fledged psycho neighbour – the whole works, the entire anti-rational package?

I met mine last Tuesday. I was watering the herbs on my deck when she leant over and commented on my basil.

“You growing basil?” She loudly vocalised while leaning over her deck, gazing down at mine.

I turned off the hose already feeling the darkness of the encounter… I’d heard that Shannon was “work”, but had safely avoided contact for my entire 6 months tenancy.

“Yeah, I’m growing three different types of basil.” I replied.

“My deck is better than your deck. Even though yours seems bigger, mine is better.”

“Did she really just say that?” I internally registered.

“You wanna see it, wanna see it, wanna see it?” She pressed…

“Erm… I’m kinda busy right now, but if you need to find a tenant I have lots of friends…”

“Honey, there are TONS of people who want to live here with me. TONS. I just meant do YOU wanna see it?”

And, this is where it gets super-trippy, like when you’ve just realized that the mushrooms you took three hours earlier are suddenly working… EVERYTHING warps into another dimension…

As if on Broadway, Shannon launched into song at top volume, AT ME –

“Anything you can do I can do better! Anything I can do better than you…”

Dumbstruck, holding my floppy hose, I gawked with an awkward smile. When she finally came to a close, I replied with Jedi deflection –

“Are you a singer? You should be. What a great voice. I gotta scoot now, to a meeting. Nice meeting you… You will not talk to me ever again and I can go on my way... you will not talk to me ever again and I can go on my way...”

BAM! That is what I call mentally retarded. Transpires that she’s the neighbourhood’s “aggressive drunk”. Great for a script though, right? Which brings me back to my questions, my quandaries and uncertainties about this odd life I seem to be suddenly living here in the US of A… Am I attracting this stuff because God has a really warped sense of humour and wants me writing this shit down?

DEATH

Then it hits you… in the midst of everything, every day people are dying. Every day. Every god damn moment, someone is dying, someone is losing their loved one, someone is weeping from the heart of their being and praying…

Someone I love died this week. It wasn’t sudden or unexpected, but it still kicks you, right? I witnessed myself weep to the core, feeling the wound of love as it hit me another level that everyone I love is going to die. Me too. Everyone without exception. It puts the petty shit into perspective. It is a necessary consideration. It allows a space in the heart to smash open…

I suddenly felt –

“Whoa, if we all lived every day on the basis that we’re all vulnerable to death, all fragile to the wound of mortality, maybe there would be a little less honking on the freeway?”

“Maybe, just maybe, if we considered that those sour faces and grimaced expressions we encounter every day come from sad, melancholy people enduring the sickness or loss of a loved one, we might not retaliate with anything less than an understanding smile, a courtesy lane change, a generous and feeling response… I have a dream… ”

In the Great Spiritual Traditions they say that it takes approximately three days for the body to transition after a passing. During that time, it is profound to meditate and pray for a safe and easeful transition for your loved one. Taking this on board is a remarkable gift to the spirit… Out of feeling this death, a layer around my heart has been peeled away. And despite all the jokes and the sillyness and the ambition and the passion and the commotion and the craziness of every day LIFE, I can say with my hand on my heart, in moments of Communion with The Great Mysterious One, there is no problem about any of it whatsoever. As the Great Sage Adi Da says, Love is indeed Always Already The Case…

p.s. Turns out, there is a dealer in the neighborhood and he hides his merchandise inside loaves of bread! Ssssshhh! If you spot a loaf on a spike might be worth slipping into your bag ;-)

THE FREELAND FIGHTERS - Coachella '08

In 1992 on a remote beach in Thailand, I met Adam Freeland - a young pleasure seeker from England. A few mushroom trips later and he was listening to my early cassette tape recordings of Spiral Tribe and getting noticeably excited -

"This is what I want to be," he said with a cheeky face oozing teenage enthusiasm. "I want to be a DJ..."

Having full faith in the motto, "you become what you meditate on" (Adi Da), I replied, "you can be ANYTHING you want Adam Freeland..."

Back in the UK, my beau at the time - the legend Phil Dawson (an original Freeland Fighter) - picked up a pair of decks for Ad and he was away...no stopping him. Ad worked his ass off - not just to become a DJ, but to become THE BEST in his field. Ad is living proof that if you set yourself a goal and work hard at accomplishing it, you will manifest your personal life vision. The Freeland sound was born and break beat was about to kick-in a new religion.

Fast forward several years - fans, friends, wild adventures and booty calls in every city on the planet - and Adam Freeland has built up a posse of very committed and talented faith-full followers. The "Freeland Fighters" as we're often called - all members of *THE CULT OF FREELAND* - are an eclectic soup of rebel ecstatics. Amongst the crew are music journalist whiz kids Anthony Bozza and Matt Diel; designer/model Shane Rucker; female sci-fi book club founders Kirstin Lee, Lizzy Jordan, Megatron and co; directors Richard and Guy of Happy Worldwide; photographer Adam Lathem; producers Rebecca Lloyd-Evans and Steven Oliver; Crackle TV brainchild Josh Felser; a whole heap of artists from Seattle via Oklahoma; and a one eyed dwarf, that hardly anyone spotted, called "Tiny Cyclop". It was this melting pot of tricksters that head for Coachella's dance tent at 4.30pm on Fri 25th April, clad in gold and silver robes, lifting metallic helium balloons, shaped a mystical "F", into the azure desert sky...

WHAT THE "F" IS "F"? - was on everyone's lips ... FREELAND balloons dressed the sky for the rest of the festie and attracted a wave of new members to the cult. Initiates were embraced and asked "Can you feel it? - As soon as the fresh initiate was able to "feel it" they were given a gown and set to work the Freeland vibes ... obviously it isn't possible to discuss the esoteric depths of what you actually "feel" upon initiation, but if words could do it justice Aldous Huxley, William Blake and Shakespeare would all have written of it... and Einstein would have summarized it thus:

"The doors of perception x an infinite grain of sand + music be the food of love = FREELAND

Ya dig it? And so the Freeland Fighters kicked off Coachella with a BOOM! KCRW veteran Gemma Dempsey writes of it; punters youtubed it; pics were taken; hearts were shaken; and it all ended with DJ Freeland stage diving into a sweat pit of ecstatics chanting WE WANT YOUR SOUL! This was an electronica love fest...

The Freeland Fighters are spreading like an attractive herpes virus... before long, everyone will have "the feeling" rushing through their veins, licking along their arteries, caressing their neurons with a delightful whoosh of "F" ... just be open and it will come... like a receptive conduit, be available to the "F", let your heart get smashed wide open and... well... next year when Coachella comes round, be sure to locate the cult... you will never feel the same again.

For pics of Freeland Fighters Susie, Bozza, Shane and myself...

For an initiation... remember, "you become what you meditate on..."

*THE CULT OF FREELAND* - mission statement mysterious.

p.s. how amazing was Roger Waters!!! Did you feel it?

And now for the shallow star spottin' musings of a Welsh Minx @ Coachella ...

My slightly intoxicated and accidental celebrity star-spottin' kicked off with David Hasslehoff wandering through the VIP area with two young ladies, looking like a tanned Adonis who'd had one too many shots of Knightrider. He was followed swiftly by a very short Steven Tyler and his two babes who looked like they needed to get back to kindergarten. Owch! I was delighted to see the guitarist of my fav band My Morning Jacket wandering around back stage (best band on the planet right now), superseded only by two brief encounters with politco maestro heroico Sean Penn... then, there was the guy from that wicked comedy duo Flight Of The Conchords and I accidentally blagged a light from that bloke out of Good Charlotte, only to have Paris Hilton retrieve the matches when I was done... there were many more famous rock bands that I passed, but they all blended one into the other... Once upon a time you could tell the difference between Dylan and the Dead, nowadays they all look like a uniform trail of designer messy hair cuts and drainpipe jeans... and that's why it was so refreshing to see the FREELAND FIGHTERS breeze through the crowd like an orgasmic sneeze...

HIGHLIGHT OF COACHELLA: Jim James of My Morning Jacket giving his sense of the profundity of Portishead - a dream speech if ever there was one! Jim - u rock!

MUSINGS - COLOMBIAN SHOCK!

EXPERIENCES FROM THE EDGE...

COLOMBIAN SHOCK

Backstory...

Imagine getting thrown in jail at age 21 after receiving libelous national press coverage connecting you to the death of a "talented Oxford University student" who you neither knew nor dealt any drugs? Apart from your mother's womb, this is the first time in your life you experience what it's like to be incarcerated: physically - by bars and fences; mentally - by aggressive strangers who are all at once victims of a cold world and violent perpetrators of keeping it that way; and, emotionally - you're burdened by gut-gnawing guilt for having potentially screwed your father’s legal career, your own legal career, the reputation of your family and, remorse, because secretly you really had a good time taking recreational drugs "recreationally" for a brief hedonistic, post-uni, let-your-hair-down, period of your life...

After many days and months in the slammer, fighting the writhing snakes surfacing from your deep unconscious, you paradoxically discover a freedom while in prison. In the midst of the shame-full ordeal, you feel re-born, but without having to convert to a religion for the privilege. A profound happening so exhilarating occurs, you could wank for the Olympics. A nine month sentence passes and you're released... Now obviously, the things you took for granted before – the scent of a rose, the sound of birds, the feeling of sand between your toes and men's bits massaging your palms - are appreciated a hundred fold. The sky is limitless with possibility and everything that crosses your path is for a reason. Fear has been faced, fondled, f***ed and forgotten - or so you think...

Not even a year later...

The Colombian boarder was a nightmare from hell. My post-prison journey in South America kicked off with a familiar feeling - traveling is, in my view, surprisingly much like jail. It's all about contrasts - peaks and troughs – stepping into The Unknown with no seat belt on, suffering endless trials, experiencing random moments of unexpected beauty waiting in the wings. Despite being an Oxford university Law graduate with a few clever quips up my skirt, I'm a geographically challenged Welshie with no common sense and a moustache issue. I seemed to blend in well with the hirsute Venezuelans packing the crickety yellow old school bus like a crowd of over-sized battery hens, just as I'd been able to entertain the lesbian fraternity in Her Majesty's Prison with comical rap performances. But I soon discovered that just as I had to adapt to the "prison language", my two rehearsed words in Spanish - "adios" and "cervesa" - didn't spark a cock-a-doodle-doo of conversation. I was in the trough part of an adventure.

Without warning the bus pulled up to the ominous frontier and Pablo, an Italian stallion artisan with greasy locks and eyes like a bull frog, hopped off leaving his luggage behind? Before I could fight my way through the throng of pot-stomached locals, the bus was bombing at high speed into no man's land..."Argh!" I screamed in an accent that would have made Tom Jones beam,

"Que Pasa? Donde? Adios? Cervesa?", but to no avail.

I reached for my "Learn Spanish in a wink" book and yelled,

"Donde esta la casa de Pepe?"

The driver's response to my obvious torment was to make a series of gesticulations which are impossible to repeat without diagrams and a blow up doll. With an evil snarl, he put his foot on the gas and we continued to bolt along the desert strip from the boarder. He was like Michael Schumacker on amphetamines. After fifteen minutes of gripping the moustache of the woman sat practically on top of me, we entered Maicao.

Without so much as a "ciao", I was pushed off the bus by several podgy hens and both my backpack and the Stallion's luggage was thrown at me from the roof rack onto the dusty road. Showering me with dirt, the bus skidded off into the distance and I found myself surrounded by scarred youths carrying flick knives and an over eager dwarf cab driver carrying a big gun. Shaking, I lit a cigarette - a prison tactic when facing sudden fear. Pretending not to notice my audience, I sat on my backpack and fumbled for the Lonely Planet guide. I read in horror the following warning:

'Don't stay even minutes in the boarder town Maicao. It is a lawless town. Killings are frequent. Get the first bus to Santa Marta...'

It actually felt worse than standing in the dock being sentenced to nine months imprisonment. Dumped at some sort of cross-roads, the streets were in rack and ruin in every direction. Grime littered every wall, pavement and shack. Several joints selling beers were filled with intoxicated villains. Carts and cars drove by churning up more dust. I felt sick. A tank appeared with a few men riding up top in military uniform, pointing serious machine tools at the locals. I put on my shades and lugged on the filter - if the police or army asked to see my passport, a regular request in such countries, I had no 'entrance stamp' - illegally in the country! Worse still I was a vocabulary-disabled "gringa". I didn't know how to order a cab, let alone explain my way out of arrest and imprisonment. It's in such moments the echo of parental sensibleness plagues the brain,

"You are so naive darling. You are so stupid. I told you so. What were you thinking?"

For twenty minutes, that's one thousand two hundred seconds of sitting in a lawless town illegally, I remained in position lugging cigarettes and nervously plaiting my facial hair. Suddenly - praise the Virgin Mary! - Pablo appeared through a mushroom cloud of tank smoke, his eyeballs goggling out of their socket like loose pasta shells. And he had the cheek to shout abuse at me with annoying Italian inflexion.

"You stupid f***ing gringa! You didn't get-a your passport stamped? You're in grandissimo problemo."

I was not about to take any pesto from this spaghetti-slurping, arty farty, twit.

"I'm aware that I have no entrance stamp you silly Wap. Now get in a taxi with me back to the boarder where you can explain in your self-professed fluent Spanish what happened. At least "I" salvaged your luggage..."

It worked. We hailed the dwarf back to to the boarder. Pablo argued with the officials and I got my tits felt for free by the dodgy guard in the cowboy hat. Then midget man drove us back down the same desert road towards Maicao, past shantytowns and enormous billboards advertising Coca-Cola and Nike to the world's impoverished. The army pulled us over and a bunch of matchstick chewing sixteen year olds equipped with M16s, demanded "regalos". Pablo was forced at gun point to hand over some of his silver jewelery and I performed a pee show on the desert highway.

When we finally drove back into Maicao, the dwarf professed that I'd agreed for him to take us all the way to Santa Marta - seven hours away - by car. Pablo translated. I denied. Pablo ranted. The dwarf shouted "$500!". Pablo's eyes started frothing,

"Did you a-negotiate with this dwarf, you silly woman?"

"Does the Pope use condoms you silly wap?"

Immaculate conception emerged in the shape of the bus to Santa Marta. We leaped from our cab into the moving getaway vehicle and the dwarf organized half the town to chase after us. For over a hundred meters on desert highway, a band of thugs relentlessly chased after our bus carrying sticks, knives and bottles. Dust splattered their faces and we breathed a sigh of relief as they disappeared into pea-size shapes on the horizon. The dwarf disappeared from sight before his gun...

A sign on the road read - 'Welcome to Colombia!'

Welcome to Colombia", I internally mused.

The next three months in this misunderstood country transpired to...transport me to some unpredicted peaks...

© G3 1996