I took a fall.    
 
As the photo above shows, it was a gnarly plunge. 
 
Covered by the impressive bandage on my forehead are six stitches, sewn with thread that’s royal blue. The black eyes match nicely, and are hematomas, a collection of blood that pools outside broken blood vessels, and which often appear after this kind of injury.  
 
I’d like to say the accident happened while diving off the spectacular cliffs of Acapulco.  Or, I’d like to say it
took place while perfecting my curtsy for an upcoming visit with Queen Elizabeth II.  I’d be happy to recite either
of these scenarios.
 
But the fact is, where and how the fall happened was ho-hum.
 
I was walking on an uneven, black gravel road near the house where my daughter lives.  Then I lost my balance. 
That’s all. 
 
But like every accident I’ve had, time slowed down during the descent. 
 
My right foot caught first.  Unable to catch myself, the other foot followed.  Next my knees buckled, and finally, my forehead hit the ground with a loud thwack, taking the brunt of the fall.  Thanks to that impact, I started to bleed, a lot.  (Since there are a number of superficial blood vessels on our heads, even a minor cut can bleed profusely here.)  
 
The wind was knocked out of me.  But after a few minutes, or maybe more, I stood up and ever so slowly, returned to the house where I’d started the walk.  
 
Then I looked into a mirror, which was a mistake.  
 
This is because I saw that a chunk of my forehead had literally detached from my face.  Thankfully, a washcloth placed over the mess calmed me down a bit because then I didn’t have to look at it.
 
Luckily, my daughter was less than five minutes away, and talking incessantly, she drove over and rushed me to the nearest urgent care clinic.  On the way there, I called the Hubster and told him where to meet us.
 
As soon as the front office receptionist saw me, she immediately ushered us into an examination room. 
 
Here, I was told I was going to need stitches.  This did not sit well, because all I could picture was what I had seen in old movies: screaming children being held down by their parents while scowling doctors sewed them up.  But I didn’t tell anyone because I was trying to hold it together for my child’s sake (and my own).  
 
Forty-five minutes later, the physician came in. The Hubster had arrived by then, too, and held my hand while the doctor did what needed to be done.
 
This man was funny and kind, a retired surgical oncologist who was 73 years old and had spent most of his career putting soldiers back together at VA hospitals around the country.  But, he said, he liked to stay in practice, so he drove about five hours a couple of times a week from his home in Northern California to work at this clinic. 
 
What I appreciated most of all from him is that after I asked, he told me exactly what he was doing, step by step, no matter how mundane.   
 
So, I remained quiet while he explained how he was cleaning the wound, and what was in the cluster of numbing shots he was administering below my scalp line.  When the time came, the act of stitching me up felt only like prongs from a tiny fork, barely touching my head.  
 
After a tetanus shot and some basic instructions—change the band aid at least once a day; use Neosporin, and keep the wound clean—I got home.  I was also more than a little shook up when I realized how an ordinary walk could instantly become something way scarier.   
 
And yet, I’m blessed.
 
I didn’t black out.  I didn’t have a concussion.  I didn’t break any bones.  (After the accident, a friend told me about a friend of hers, who broke an arm and hand in 43 places after he fell.) 
 
Also, we knew that we’d need to pay whatever the cost was. 
 
But when the doctor saw I had no health insurance, he charged me the lowest tier the clinic offered—an
astounding $149. 
 
Then, upon hearing that the Hubster had once had to give his oldest daughter emergency stitches, this man gifted my spouse with a little kit—complete with metal clamp and scissors—to remove the stitches.  (“If you put them in, you can take them out,” he said cheerily.  Eight days later, while I sat perfectly still on a tall stool in our green and white kitchen, my husband did so.) 
 
I also decided that I wasn’t going to let a jumbo bandage and black eyes stop me from going on a vacation that had been in the works for months. 
​
So three days later, I hoped two planes to Chicago to meet a colleague.  We had a great time—even though I got more than a few stares.    
 
Since then, I’ve been applying Emu oil on my forehead to lessen the scarring.  It looks pretty good.  Arnica took care of the black eyes; those bruises are now nearly gone.   
 
As John Lennon once said, “Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans.”  
 
In this case, I accidentally took a small detour.   

I don’t wear jeans anymore.    
 
This realization hit the other day while sorting laundry.    
 
There were sweatshirts and tees that I wear for tops, as well as half a dozen pairs of solid color leggings.  Plus, there was a pile of my new favorite pants—patterned drawstring pajamas just right for yoga. Khakis, one black and the other olive green, already hung in the closet.    
 
But there wasn’t any denim. 
 
Those who didn’t come of age in the 1960s probably can’t know how odd it is to not own a single pair of jeans.
 
I was a teenager in the middle and latter part of that decade, and almost until its end, girls could wear only dresses and skirts at school.  But in ninth grade, the dress code loosened: we were allowed pants on Fridays.  Still, jeans weren’t in the mix—they were considered low brow and not appropriate student apparel.     
 
That changed in just a couple of years.
 
A photo in my high school yearbook for my junior year has a class president striding toward the camera in bell bottom jeans and a denim work shirt.  I got my first grown-up jeans around the same time, basic Levi's that were the darkest of indigo, retrieved from a neat stack at a discount department store.  Wearing them in class, they made me seem way cooler than I was, and somehow, officially part of a new generation determined to bend tradition.     
 
I’m sure I had more than a few pairs of jeans while clowning on the road and in college, first at UCLA and then San Jose State, but mostly I remember the long jeans skirt bought at a flea market in Alameda, across the bay from San Francisco.  It boasted a triangle cutaway in front with a Technicolor cartoon drawing of Dopey, one of the seven dwarfs from the classic Disney movie.  I loved that skirt.       
 
My other friends mostly wore plain jeans; they were cheap and lasted for years.  I’m sure that none of us knew this college uniform was invented neither for fashion nor protest.  Instead, jeans were designed for purely utilitarian purposes:  California gold rush miners in 1850 needed the sturdiest of pants that could withstand hard work, ground-in dirt and very little chance of tearing.  Thus, denim trousers were born.      
 
But by the time I graduated from college, in 1979, jeans were high fashion.   
 
I’d moved to New York City that year to be a magazine writer, and women there wore the wildly popular Jordache brand, made of thinner fabric than my first jeans, and costing an outrageous $50 per pair. 
 
Started by the four Naccache brothers in Manhattan a year earlier, these siblings had taken notice of the European denim market, where jeans were worn not for work, but for fashion. The brothers’ timing was on target: at the height of Jordache’s success, during the 1980s, the company was raking in an annual $300 million in wholesale income.    
 
But what I recall most about my jeans then was the absolute necessity of having perfect straight creases down the middle—two in front and two in back. 
 
My best friend Jeanette taught me how, using large sheets of damp newspaper and a hot iron.  I did this so often that my ironing board was on permanent display in my Brooklyn apartment.
 
The decades passed, which included returning to California and finding a career in Hollywood—writer for a public relations outfit whose biggest client was the Cannes Film Festival; reporting for the West Coast bureau of a British movie trade publication, and becoming a producer for a variety of reality television shows about ghosts, unsolved murders and UFOs.  I worked long hours at all of these jobs, and found myself wearing jeans less and less.
 
Perhaps this was because I was growing more contented in my skin, and to that end, found that comfort was now the main dictate for my clothing choices.  I was especially weary of those jeans that saw me sucking in my stomach and holding my breath to get them on.  Wearing airy drawstring pants and loose skirts was just easier. 
 
Last year, the end finally arrived.
 
I donated the one pair of jeans in my closet—which I hadn’t put on in more than five years—to a thrift store. 
 
These days, the closest I come to wearing denim are jeggings, which hug my body in all the right places, but are also comfy and stretchy.    
 
One should never say never.  But I’m happy to report that the denim train has departed from this Girl Clown station—and most likely, isn’t going to return.   
 
Do you remember your first pair of jeans?  

The secret to living longer is something I’ve done my whole life.

Friends already know that it can’t be a regular exercise routine.  The key also has little to do with refraining from smoking or drinking (although I’ve never done the former and rarely do the latter). It’s also not about eating more vegetables; staying out of debt, or finding a dream job.
 
It’s much simpler.
 
The answer is having a social life. 
 
This road to super longevity was summarized last year in a TED talk by Canadian psychologist Susan Pinker, a lecture that currently boasts more than two million hits. 
 
In her speech, Pinker describes the tiny Italian island of Sardinia.  Here, in a mountainous region that researchers have dubbed “the blue zone,” Pinker learned there are 10 times as many centenarians as those in North America.  It’s also the only place scientists know about where men live as long as women.
 
Why is this? 
 
Her curiosity piqued, Pinker and her daughter traveled to Sardinia for answers. 
 
They spent a lot of time interviewing families in cozy kitchens in Villagrande, a city in the middle of the zone. Dotted with multi-storied apartments built nearly on top of one another, the town’s hilly living quarters are also interconnected by narrow roads and alleyways.  It’s definitely a crowded layout, but because of that blueprint, everyone here knows everyone else.  
 
Pinker also observed that none of elderly residents followed a low fat diet (one centenarian prepared dozens of pasta packets, plump with rich cheese and mint, every weekend).  She also found that a happy-go-lucky personality wasn’t necessary for an extended life either (the grumpiest man in Villagrande was 101 years old). 
 
But what Pinker came away with was this: no one in Villagrande was left to lead a solitary life.
 
That lone fact, she concluded, was the strongest indicator for super longevity.    
 
Pinker goes on to say that one doesn’t have to relocate to Sardinia to get the same result.  Other studies, she adds, show that humans need only two close relationships to thrive.  These are the folks who will loan you money in a pinch; sit with you when you’re in the middle of a crisis, and bring you food when you’re sick. 
 
But there’s another predicator—more significant and perhaps more surprising—than having a few close chums.
 
And that’s daily, face-to-face contact with people who aren’t friends. 
 
This might mean handing letters to your mailman; thanking the teenager who’s bagging groceries, or waving to the woman with the beautiful garden down the street.  Talking is great, but eye contact is good, too. 
 
The reason these casual interactions is so important is this: they release all kinds of terrific brain chemicals which encourage longevity. On this list is oxytocin, the naturally produced morphine known to decrease stress levels, and dopamine, which gives off a buzz of happiness.  (Also, this can only happen when contact is in person, and never online.)     
Since I’m an inquisitive extrovert, connecting on this level is easy.   
 
But I also know that this way of navigating the world can be extraordinarily difficult for those who suffer from paralyzing shyness, or others burned one too many times by folks they thought were friends.  Being female is also a plus, since women tend to communicate with each other more, and also reach out for emotional support more than men do.  (Pinker thinks this is also the primary reason females live six to eight years longer than males.)
 
As for me, I’m happy to learn that just being who I am may help me live longer. 
 
It’s also gratifying to know this: every connection, no matter how small, counts. 

​I had a conversation with a stranger the other day, and I’m glad I did.
 
Doing so was safe.  It was a sunny afternoon and I was pumping gas into my compact silver SUV.  A vehicle pulled up behind mine, and the driver got out of his car to fill up, too. 
 
He was wearing camouflage green Army fatigues.  I waited until I caught his eye.  “Thank you for your service,” I said.
 
There was a beat.  “Oh,” he replied.  “Thank you.  I really appreciate you saying that.”
 
As I drove away, I wondered how often soldiers are approached by unknown civilians like me, saying those five words.  I hope it’s a lot—especially when I also recalled how rare it was for Vietnam vets to hear this greeting.  Instead, many came home to angry protestors spitting on them and calling them baby killers. 
 
I hope we never again engage in a war so divisive and unpopular.   Although I’m not a fan of armed conflict (I like the bumper sticker that reads I’m Already Against the Next War), our soldiers deserve to hear that we support them. 
 
That’s because while I may not agree with the cause, these fearless folks are still serving our country in situations that, at best, are intensely boring and monotonous.  At worst, they’re stationed in the sketchiest parts of the world, where they could be killed in an instant.      
 
But mostly, soldiers deserve my respect because they’re brave in other ways that most of us never have to be. 
 
Perhaps, early on, they saw no viable future in the hardscrabble communities—places including the South Side of Chicago; Native American reservations in the Dakotas, and hollers in West Virginia—where they were born and raised. The military offers these populations a way to get out.    
 
And there are other reasons, probably more common than we think.  
 
Rob Scheer is the founder of Comfort Cases, a Maryland-based non-profit that gifts new backpacks, blankets and books to foster kids.  But when he was 18 years old, a high school senior and newly kicked out of the foster system himself, Scheer found himself homeless.
 
He signed up for the Navy.  “I didn’t join the military because I loved my country,” he says.  “I was going in it because I was hungry, I was cold, I was scared, and I had nowhere to go.” 
 
Women might have other motives. 
 
Maybe they’re escaping an abusive boyfriend, father or husband.  Or perhaps not college bound, they see dead end futures as fast food workers and receptionists.  In fact, a 2017 Pew Research Center report states that 15 percent of our active personnel are women, up four points from 1990.   
 
Then, there’s this.
 
Years before same sex marriage was legal, I knew two Air Force veterans, both lesbians (although not a couple).  By the time I’d had met them, they’d already figured out that being supported by a man wasn’t ever going to be in their picture.  So they joined the service and were taught skills that turned into well-paying jobs after leaving the military.  
 
Another demographic, and it’s a growing one, is middle class young men and women who want to attend a university, but don’t want crippling student loan debt. 
 
That’s where the GI Bill comes in: created in 1944, it provides up to three years of education while a soldier is on active duty.  Veterans can also take advantage of the bill, because funding is good for 15 years following military release.  This means that with careful planning, a serviceman can obtain an undergraduate degree with zero debt.  Those who take advantage of the program are obligated to serve for four years in exchange for tuition, but it’s still a good deal. 
 
The back stories of how and why our military personnel came to wear their uniforms are as unique as each soldier. 
 
None of us can ever know every story.   As for me, I’ll just thank a soldier whenever I can. 
 
It’s the least I can do.   

I’m living in a state of organized chaos.
 
The disarray is due to the home improvement projects that have been going on around here for a while.  Still, after looking at a timeline of the upgrades, I was stunned to see that we’ve been living this way for more than year. 
 
I’d be happier with the mess if that’s all there was to it.  
 
But every cause has an effect, and when it comes to remodeling our house, I’ve noticed that The Hubster and I are grouchier, and more annoyed with each other, than we were before this odyssey started.
 
This makes sense: who doesn’t get crabby when one’s stuff has to be packed away in boxes for an indeterminate amount of time?  Who isn’t annoyed when strangers stride into one’s home with rolls of masking tape, loud drills and stained
drop cloths?      
 
As it turns out, we’re like a lot of couples whose living quarters are in transition.
 
According to Iowa marriage counselor Don Gilbert, remodeling a home can be “the most stressful activity a married couple can engage in.”  Gilbert added that the undertaking brings out “all of the components that couples stress over—money, multiple decisions, and different preferences.”   Indeed, a survey by the home improvement website Houzz noted that more than half of the respondents reported that renovating was one of the most frustrating and taxing periods in their marriages.  
 
Needless to say, I didn’t read this before all of the work began.
 
Instead, I made the first project a big one.
 
I’d decided that my vintage linoleum and yellow cement floors needed to go. The cement was the most troublesome: it
​had been painted by someone who promised that she knew how to apply the right polish to give the gray surface an iridescent shine.  The work was done while I was away; when I returned home, the floor was flat yellow and the paint already peeling. 
 
This meant I was ready for a big change—even though furniture was shoved into the kitchen and yard; there was loud pounding for hours, and big trucks in our driveway.  But the end result was worth it: chocolate colored acrylic planks that I don’t have to clean on my hands and knees.

​Next was the outside of the house.  The once bright blue coat of paint had faded to half the original color (brushes hadn’t touched this exterior in more than 15 years), and the garage door wasn’t looking so hot either.  The latter was egged months ago, and no matter how often The Hubster cleaned it, the stains never completely came off.  Now there’s another door, and my house is a cheery yellow and white.   
 
There’s also a new driveway of snow white pebbles; screens on previously naked windows, and a stove that doesn’t need a match to light it.  The tilted wood fence is upright now, with a matching gate next to it. Faucets and a shower door
have been replaced, and new lighting, vents and grout are in the bathrooms.  At the moment, the entire interior is
​being painted.   
 
Life will be better by spring, when the last major upgrades should be done. The grimy kitchen cupboards will be sanded and repainted, and the wood floors in the office, hallway and living room will be polished back to their original shine.  
 
I’m finally seeing a light at the end of the tunnel.
 
Meanwhile, The Hubster and I hope that we’ll make it out alive.
   

​I don’t have gray hair.
 
Put another way, I color my hair.  I feel younger and more confident doing so, and really, does anyone need to know that my once dark locks are now nearly all white?  
 
This color game isn’t new.  It first took root—pun intended—in my 30s, when I saw that my hair was turning the same yellowish, dirty white as my mother’s.  Just like me, she dyed her hair.  But unlike me, mom bought her color at the grocery store, and made her hair brunette at the kitchen table.  
 
I can still see one of her friends doing the deed—unwrapping flimsy plastic gloves that came with the dye package; assembling the concoction in a big yellow Pyrex bowl, and slathering the dark paste on my mom’s scalp.  Half an hour later, the stuff was rinsed out to reveal neither shine nor highlights, but a dull and even brown.  That was good enough.
 
I’m in a different circus tent.  
 
When I was on the road clowning, before there were any gray strands, my hair was curly and frosted, leaving tiny swirls of platinum blonde.  It gave me the funny appearance I wanted; it also meant that I didn’t need a wig.  Then, after
the discovery of my mom’s color peeking through my own head, I attempted a DIY henna look. That didn’t go well:
a boyfriend said it looked as if I poured red paint on my scalp.
 
Since then, I’ve gone to professionals.  My current colorist—who has trimmed and straightened my hair, too—is also a friend, which means I trust her. 
 
At an appointment a couple of years ago, I noticed that she’d given herself blue bang tips.  My first thought was that
this might be A Very Good Look for a clown, so, I decided to go for it.  Since then, I’ve had bright green bangs
(now cringe worthy because they’re front and center on my current passport photograph) and turquoise (which
​faded after a few weeks).  
 
Right now, I have three colors—the dark brown tint, which covers most of my hair, and on the bangs and a bit on each side of my face, magenta and violet. It’s another fun look, so I’m decided to keep it for a while. 
 
This, in spite of the fact that for the last couple of years, going gray has become the in thing to do. 
 
These women include my hairdresser, who ditched the blue, finding that she preferred a more unaffected look because it required less maintenance.  But she’s also more than 10 years younger than me, so it’s really a salt and pepper color.  The mayor of an adjacent town has also gone au natural, commenting on Facebook that “Every strand of silver is somehow one tiny step closer to becoming more me.”  Too, there are celebrities who have purposely made their hair gray, including Kelly Osbourne, Lady Gaga and Hilary Duff.
 
I’m not there yet.
 
Instead, I’m thankful that I can turn my hair any color, or combinations of color, that I want.  Heck, I may even go rainbow.  It might also mean that someday, I’ll opt for that festive yellow-white hue. 
 
But I doubt it.  

Social media keeps me sane, focused and determined.
 
Given that I’m a writer, and on a laptop every day, some folks may be surprised to learn that I used to have zero interest in social media.
 
The fact of the matter is that I was blissfully happy without any of it. 
 
Well into the 1990s, I read newspapers to see what was going on around the world.  For work, I carried around a narrow reporter’s notebook, and did my research at libraries, where I scrounged through reference books, microfiche
and magazines.
 
I didn’t learn how to email until 1998, when I accepted a job where the task was forced on me. I immediately took to it.
 
I loved email.  I no longer needed to send a letter to make contact, or even pick up a phone to communicate. I no longer worried about time differences.  Best of all, I could do interviews this way, which gave my subject time to formulate thoughtful responses to my questions
 
Still, old ways die hard.
 
Maybe that’s why I didn’t join Facebook until more than a decade later.
 
Even then, the site seemed to be a massive time thief; who cared about the cutest kitten, or how to make easy pizza crust?  But during one week in 2009, five folks I knew sent me invites to “friend” them. 
 
I took that as a sign, and took the plunge.  
 
Quickly, I figured out that Facebook was another way to not only do research, but to find new stories and clients.  I was also able to reconnect with folks from my past—a sixth grade classmate who always sat in the back of the room, where he incessantly sketched hot rods; a dear friend who helped me navigate New York City, and relatives I hadn’t seen in decades.
 
Almost as an afterthought, it also became a platform for trading opinions and links with like-minded people. 
 
Yet, I only got on Twitter three years ago. 

There was just one reason to do so: it was a way to promote this writing blog.  It still is, but also, I could “follow” folks whose opinions and expertise are those that I trust and admire. 
 
These persons—John Dean, Maggie Haberman and Michael Avenatti among them—have the background, resources and experience which, every day, are helping me navigate our troubling times. 
 
Their tweets often make me angry and sad, but sometimes, hopeful. That’s all okay, because I also see that millions of others feel the same, and like me, are working hard to effect change.  Just knowing this keeps me sane.
 
Right now, I don’t feel the need to join Instagram or Snapchat, sites that my 20-year-old daughter prefers. 
 
Maybe it’s because there’s enough information on Facebook and Twitter to keep me determined to fight as hard as I can for our country. 
 
Don’t misunderstand me: I’d love to get back to writing posts about puppies and recipes and vacations (and occasionally, I still do).  For now, though, I will keep up with news that, in these astonishing times, is often difficult to comprehend.  I’ll also continue to share and retweet important information, because the bottom line is that it’s my duty as
​an American.    
 
Thanks to social media, my activism has soared. 
 
For this, I am grateful. 

I’ve written a petition to remove Bill Cosby’s star from the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
 
No one can deny that Cosby was a brilliant comic, writer and social activist.
 
Now, Bill Cosby is also a convicted sex offender.  This new identity happened in a Pennsylvania courtroom two
months ago, when the once powerful entertainer was convicted of aggravated indecent assault against a former
Temple University employee named Andrea Constand. 
 
After the verdict came down, Cosby didn’t apologize.  Instead, he shouted expletives at the prosecutor.
 
Constand wasn’t Cosby’s only victim.  In fact, off-camera, the celebrity icon had long led a double life—drugging and then sexually attacking women for most of his career. Many were minors, and many were raped.  So far, more than 60 courageous women have come forward.
  
But who knew?  For most of us, Bill Cosby was the happily married father and funnyman who first caught our attention on the TV show I, Spy, playing globe-trotting espionage agent Scotty.  Over the next two decades, Cosby had other high-profile gigs—including shilling for Jell-O Pudding Pops; producing Fat Albert and the Cosby Kids cartoons, and writing for PBS’s The Electric Company.  He was also a passionate activist for education, especially literacy.  
 
Then came Bill Cosby’s greatest success. The Cosby Show was a mid-‘80s comedy that starred Cosby as sweater loving obstetrician/gynecologist Cliff Huxtable, who was also America’s Favorite Dad.  Looking back, could it be that the part Cosby created for himself was his own inside joke?
 
Indeed, Cosby’s role away from the studio—that of a serial rapist—was on full throttle.  
 
Barbara Bowman was an aspiring actress in 1985.  Bill Cosby had taken the naïve teenager under his wing, but rather than helping her with her career, assaulted her multiple times.  The last incident saw Cosby trying to unclip his belt buckle while Bowman furiously attempted to wrestle from his grasp.  Angered, he sent her home to Denver.  Bowman’s agent did nothing, and a lawyer accused Bowman of making it all up.  That feeling of futility kept Bowman from going to the police, but she did talk to the press, and kept talking, beginning in 2004. 
 
Yet it wasn’t until a decade later that the rumors went viral.  The turning point came in the summer of 2015, when a New York magazine cover featured 35 women who accused Cosby of sexual assault. 
 
Around this time, colleges started rescinding the degrees and memberships they had given Cosby over the years.  But it wasn’t until the guilty verdict that the biggest guns did the same. These institutions included Yale University; the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, and The John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts (which announced that Cosby’s reprehensible criminal actions completely overshadowed his remarkable career).
 
This is all terrific news.  And, I expect that after Cosby’s sentencing in the fall—which could land the 81-year-old up to 30 years in prison—more organizations will do the same.
 
Still, I felt an overwhelming desire to do something myself.
 
I spent a lot of years living and working in Hollywood, so it hit me: even now, Bill Cosby has a star on the Walk of Fame.  Embedded in the sidewalks of 15 blocks of Hollywood Boulevard and three blocks of Vine Street, the more than 2,600 stars are public monuments to achievement in the entertainment industry.  Those who live in the area might find the walk a bit hokey, but an astounding 10 million tourists visit it every year.  Many are families with young children.
 
Of course, some of the entertainers here are far from perfect.  Clark Gable may or may not have been involved in a fatal hit-and-run car accident; Charles Chaplin loved teenage girls (and married them), and Humphrey Bogart cheated on Lauren Bacall with his hairdresser. 
 
But Bill Cosby’s crimes—unchecked for so long, and involving so many victims—go way, way beyond the pale. 
 
Perhaps after seeing this petition, the Hollywood Chamber of Commerce (which manages the walk) will decide that it’s time to change its rule that even when there are rumors of misconduct, no one’s star can ever be removed.
 
But, the charges against Bill Cosby have now been proven in a court of law. 
 
The time has come to Do the Right Thing.   
 
I hope you’ll sign my petition.  Then, I hope you’ll pass it on. 
 
https://www.change.org/p/the-hollywood-chamber-of-commerce-remove-bill-cosby-star-now-from-the-hollywood-walk-of-fame
  

​When I make my spaghetti, all is right with the world.
 
I started refining the dish decades ago, after my mother wrote it down on a now stained and much used index card. 
 
But like most folks who are comfortable in an apron, her recipe was more of a suggestion than an instruction.  So, I’ve experimented and finessed with the ingredients and assemblage for a long time, which also means that the sauce is a little different every time.
 
Like many housewives of the 1950s on a budget, my mother’s recipe was both simple and cheap. 
 
The basic ingredients were a pound or so of hamburger, celery and an onion; tomato sauce and tomato paste, and some  green bell pepper (but only if there was some left over in the frig).  Water was added, along with a bit of cut up pepperoni, table salt and pepper, and dried spices (I knew nothing about fresh herbs until I was an adult). 
 
The sauce was spooned over whatever spaghetti noodles—pasta was a word no one had ever heard of—on sale.  And
given the times, it was topped with the only parmesan cheese any of us knew about, powdered and in a green
cardboard container.   
 
​It was delicious.
 
My jollying up begins with the meat.  I use ground chuck because it has a sweeter profile than plain hamburger meat, as well as more fat. I also buy three quarters of a pound of not-in-casing Italian sausage because that’s what The Hubster likes.  But sometimes I’ll substitute pepperoni, cut in thin nickel shapes, just as my mom liked to do.  However, I add more than she did, up to one heaping cup.
 
My mom only used one pot, which is where I make my initial big turn.
 
I do brown the chuck and sausage with a tiny bit of olive oil (if using pepperoni, that’s added later) in her Dutch oven. But once that’s going, I heat a large frying pan with more olive oil.  Setting the burner to medium, I’ll sauté one large chopped yellow onion, an entire chopped green bell pepper, three coarsely chopped stalks of celery, and 10 sliced, fresh mushrooms, all sprinkled with a bit of kosher salt.  I won’t completely cook this, so the flame goes off after five minutes.   

At this time, preheat the oven at 375 degrees, because another ingredient will go into the Dutch oven soon.   
 
Once the meat has cooked, the veggie mix and its juices are poured in. Then I’ll add a 15 ounce can of good tomato sauce and a six ounce can of tomato paste (I like Contadina).  Next I’ll fill the empty tomato sauce can with water, then put that water in the pot.  I’ll do this two more times, then add one small can of chopped black olives and if using pepperoni, that as well.  Stir completely while bringing the mixture to a slow boil. 
 
The oven should be up to temperature by now, so it’s time for roasted garlic.
 
Take one large garlic bulb and with a serrated knife, cut off the top, and even a little of the sides, to ensure that all of the cloves are showing a bit.  Place the bulb top up in tin foil with a bay leaf and a bit of olive oil, wrap well and put in the oven for 40 minutes or so.    
 
Once the sauce comes to a boil, turn the heat down so it’s barely bubbling.  Now is also the time to add fresh herbs: two heaping tablespoons each of chopped basil and oregano, and a little kosher salt.  Let it cook for about 45 minutes, then take the garlic bulb out to cool. 
 
Next, I add an ingredient that sounds odd, but works—a heaping tablespoon of honey.  It won’t make the sauce sweet, but does takes away any taste of acidity.  Squeezing the cooked garlic cloves into the pot also happens now.
 
Keep simmering for a few hours, making sure to stir and add water as needed.  It’s a good time for more salt to taste, too.  I’m also grating some fresh parmesan cheese about now. 
 
Once the sauce has bubbled for two and half hours, make your pasta. The Hubster and I like thin spaghetti cooked al dente.  My mom always poured cold water over the done pasta, but I won’t do this step because the sauce sticks much better without it.    
 
Five minutes before serving, I turn the burner off the pot and let it sit.  Then I put sauce and pasta together in a family style bowl.  But I always place the pot of sauce on the table, too, because some folks like extra.  The parmesan cheese sits next to both.
 
This sauce isn’t nearly as cost effective as my mom’s.  But it can be made for about $15—with plenty left over for another meal or a few lunches.  In fact, this recipe tastes even better the second and third time around. 
 
Someday, I hope my daughter will want to learn how to make my spaghetti.  
 
I can’t know how it will taste.
 
But I do know that a lot of room for improvisation—as it was for my mom and me—will be encouraged.     

I’m one degree of separation from Stormy Daniels.
 
How can this be?  
 
I live in a sleepy beach town hundreds of miles from Los Angeles.  I’m not involved with triple XXX rated
films, and I absolutely don’t compete in fancy pants horse shows.  (Until about eight weeks ago, Daniels had
managed to seamlessly blend these two disparate lives—the former in California, the latter in Texas—together.)  
 
Also, I’d never heard of Daniels’ uber-confident attorney Michael Avenatti, who’s as comfortable in a television
studio as in a courtroom.  And, he does a lot more than represent celebrities: last year, Avenatti was a lead attorney
in a high-profile lawsuit against Kimberly-Clark, and scored a whopping $454 million verdict for his clients.  
  
But I am friends with Lois Gibson.
 
For those not up on news of the day, Gibson is a seasoned forensic artist whose work is so remarkable that she has been listed for years in Guinness World Records as The World’s Most Successful Forensic Artist.  Indeed, Gibson’s drawings have helped catch more than 1,250 perps—and counting.
 
Unlike cop sketchers of yesteryear, who instructed shell-shocked victims to pick out chins, noses and other facial features from a book, then superimposed those characteristics onto a blank face, Gibson goes deeper.  
 
With her portable easel and a bright light shining above that stand, Gibson takes about an hour to complete one sketch, working with charcoals, pastels and chalk.  She also uses the same kind of durable paper that sidewalk artists prefer because it holds a lot of color, and can handle a lot of erasure marks, all without fading. 
 
But Gibson’s methods are mostly different because of her interview style.
 
Somehow, she is able to gently draw victims out, getting them to relive their horrific experiences in a safe place.  Maybe it’s because Gibson, too, has been a crime victim (in her 20s, she was assaulted by a stranger), so understands how to communicate with those she interviews. 
 
“I know how to unblock memories,” Gibson once told me.  “You’ve got to be really nice and happy and make the victim laugh.  I’m really good at that.  I make them feel better.  I tell them to relax.  It’s hypnosis without labeling it that.”  In addition, Gibson is hyper-aware of unspoken boundaries—it’s why she puts her easel between herself and the victim, and also makes sure she sits at least an arm’s distance away.
   
Last month, Gibson sketched the face of the man whom Stormy Daniels said threatened her in Las Vegas seven years ago.  The chilling incident occurred in broad daylight; Daniels’ baby daughter was strapped in her car seat a few feet away.  The reward to catch the thug stands at $131,000, and may go up.  
 
I knew nothing about Gibson and Daniels working together until Michael Avenatti posted a photo on Twitter.  In the picture, Gibson is at her easel, the light above the drawing, and Daniels (who Gibson calls Stephanie Clifford, Daniels’ legal name) is facing her. 
 
I sat up straight, then did a double-take in front of my laptop. 
 
“Wait, wait, WAIT,”  I said out loud. “That’s Lois.  I know her.  She’s my friend—and she’s with Stormy Daniels.” 
 
We met about 20 years ago, when I had another life in Southern California. 
 
I was a producer for the TV show Unsolved Mysteries, and one of my jobs was finding stories.  Facebook and Twitter didn’t exist and Google was just a few years old.  So I got leads by combing through reams of letters from viewers; nurturing my cop and reporter contacts, and reading true crime stories.  One day, I saw an article about Gibson, and cold called her. 
 
We worked for months on a segment, then became friends.  We even vacationed together on the Gulf Coast near Galveston, Gibson with her teenage daughter and me with my four-year-old. She did a pencil portrait of my daughter then, and I framed it.    
 
I’m hoping that Gibson’s sketch will be the lynchpin that nabs the man who threatened Daniels. 
 
Numbers don’t lie, and given Gibson’s astonishing record, I predict an arrest sooner than later.  For those wondering why Gibson hasn’t publicly talked about the drawing, she recently posted that expressing political views on social media is not conducive to her mental health, and as a forensic artist, “I guard my mental health.”  
 
But Gibson is passionate when it comes to promoting her profession.  To this end, she has done many other television interviews about her work, and also teaches a college level course for those interested in embarking on the same career.  
Gibson believes, as I do, that she has been given a special gift to catch, and help put away, the monsters of the world. 
 
I am honored to call her my friend.