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Jussie Smollett

3/12/2019

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​I knew.

Right away, and with absolute clarity, I knew that Jussie Smollett invented the story of his assault.
 
Now, after not speaking out in public for a few weeks, the actor, who is both black and openly gay, is back in the news—and in a heap of trouble. 
 
Once a sympathetic victim, Smollett has been charged with multiple felony counts for making up the horrifying story about two men who attacked him in the dead of night. 
 
Unknown thugs, he said, beat him and poured an unknown chemical on him, and also fastened a rope around his neck,
as if to fashion a noose.  In the midst of this, he added, they shouted racist and homophobic slurs. 
 
I recognized the tale as utterly false because of the job I used to do:  producing true crime stories, mostly for
network television. 
 
Over the course of nearly two decades, I researched dozens of stories.  A good part of the work was interviewing the same number of attorneys and FBI agents; I also spoke with witnesses and family members of victims and small-town newspaper reporters (the latter group often provided the most heartbreaking stories, and could recite them in detail).   From all of them, I learned that hard, physical evidence is the key to proving a case beyond a shadow of a doubt.    
 
Along the way, I also acquired a healthy dose of skepticism.
 
Others who called out the Smollett story early on probably didn’t have my experience.  But they had this: the common sense to put the pieces of the narrative together, and to then see that it smelled, and smelled bigly, in spite of the early, sensitive reporting on the assault.
 
For those who don’t know the story, here’s the rundown. 
 
In late January, Smollett, who is 36 years old, reported to Chicago police that he had been attacked at two in the morning after going out for a sandwich. (Empire, the TV show co-starring Smollett, is filmed in Chicago).  The next
day, his family issued a statement of support; less than a week later, the performer gave a concert in West Hollywood, where many members of the LGBTIA community live and work. 
 
In an emotional speech, Smollett told the audience that he had to play the show because he couldn’t let his
attackers win. 
 
By now, a dozen detectives had been assigned to the case—but there were already holes.   
 
A photo of Smollett hours after the attack showed only a scratch under his right eye.  The actor refused Chicago PD’s request to see all of his phone records, citing privacy concerns.  And, it was puzzling that despite numerous cameras operating in the neighborhood when and where the attack occurred, not one showed any sign of an assault.   
 
The big break came two weeks later. 
 
Two Nigerian brothers were picked up and questioned. Their Chicago apartment was also searched.  One was an extra on Empire, and Smollett’s personal trainer.  Arrested on suspicion of assaulting Smollett, they were held for nearly 48 hours before being released with all charges dropped. 
 
The story they told was a very different one than the actor’s.
 
Faced with multiple hate crime charges—which can bring life in prison or even the death penalty—the siblings gave it all up.  
 
They told investigators that Smollett had paid them $3,500 each, by check, to stage the deed.  Weeks earlier, the actor had also given them money to write and mail an anonymous death threat letter addressed to him.  But when that didn’t garner the publicity or the fatter paycheck that Smollett had hoped it would, he came up with the attack idea.  To that end, Smollett even had the two men rehearse the assault.   The scratch, they added, was self-inflicted.  
 
Yet despite the brothers’ narrative; the physical evidence, and the 16 felony charges, Smollett is sticking to his story.
 
In fact, often breaking down in tears, he did so to a national TV audience, and to the entire cast and crew of Empire (shortly afterwards, Smollett was fired from the show).    
 
One can argue that our justice system presumes that one is innocent until proven guilty in a court of law. 
 
Yet.
 
When I put everything together, I can only conclude that Smollett is not only blameworthy, he’s a pretty sick puppy. 
 
That’s because besides lying for his own gain, the performer also diverted resources away from other criminal investigations, and, too, took blatant advantage of the pain of racism tearing so much of this country apart.  One more thing: Smollett is a terrific actor—he can cry on cue—but he’s also not the brightest bulb in the room.  After all, who writes a check to those you have hired to attack you?
 
As of this writing, one of Smollett’s attorneys is saying that the charges are redundant and vindictive.
 
Maybe that’s true.  But if the charges stick, someone who might want to stage a similar hate crime is sure to
think twice.
​ 
By then, I hope that Smollett is in prison, and doing a lot of thinking, too.    
 
What is your opinion of Jussie Smollett? 

6 Comments

Saluting Mr. Phoenix

12/21/2018

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Charles Phoenix with his lighted Jell-O Christmas tree.


​Charles Phoenix teaches American history. 
 
But not in the usual sense.  
 
With his horn-rimmed glasses, sparkly Jell-O colored suits and Kodachrome slides, the fashion school graduate and former car salesman has created a unique brand—performance artist, humorist and documentarian.  Phoenix’s lesson plans are also purposefully narrow: he focuses on pop culture of the 1950s and ‘60s, spotlighting kitschy decorating, dining and entertainment.  Phoenix makes these “lectures” accessible on all of the usual social media platforms, where he’s also known as The Ambassador of Americana. 
 
Phoenix’s curriculum also gently lampoons the odd food of those decades, when veggie gelatin molds and potato-chip casseroles ruled the day.    
 
To this end, he creates bizarre-but-tasty-dishes.
 
I’ve made the fried cereal mix (there’s an entire stick of butter), and thought of trying the Frosty the Cheeseball Man dip (using Velveeta and cream cheese, it’s shaped like a snowman).  But Phoenix is perhaps best known for the Cherpumpel—an eye-popping three-layer cake with a different pie (cherry, pumpkin and apple) stuck between each layer.  He has penned eight coffee table books as well, with titles including Addicted to Americana, Fabulous Las Vegas in the ‘50s and God Bless Americana.    
 
However, Phoenix’s fans like him best in person.  
 
I was lucky enough to be given a ticket to one of Phoenix’s shows earlier this month.  So, alongside hundreds of other devotees (many wrapped in blinking Christmas lights), I arrived at the perfect venue, a vintage art deco movie theatre that opened in 1942. 
 
Here, I saw what Phoenix calls “the bread and butter” of his career—a two-hour, Kodachrome slide show, this one titled Retro Holiday Jubilee.  (Other shows, all with slides in the starring role, have included mid-century homages to Hawaii, Route 66 and Disneyland.)
 
Projecting hundreds of bright images on a huge screen, all snapped from a time when millions of Americans had big cameras and carousel slide projectors, Phoenix riffed about each slide with humor and joy.  The audience saw siblings lined up in homemade Halloween costumes; living rooms adorned with cabbage wallpaper and aluminum Christmas trees, and long-gone roadside amusement parks.   
 
Originally, Phoenix intended that the slides—his collection now numbers in the thousands and comes from every state—be presented in a straightforward and serious way.  But the pictures’ inherent kitsch caused so much laughter from early audiences that he restructured the show to make it comedic, often using the catch phrase “I know!”  
 
Phoenix never imagined that he’d make a living out of his obsession for Americana, which started when he was a teenager buying vintage clothes in the Los Angeles suburb of Ontario.  
 
But in 1992, when Phoenix was 30 years old and selling classic cars, he walked into a Pasadena thrift store. 
 
There, he came across a blue shoebox labeled “Trip Across the United States, 1957.”  Packed with Kodachrome slides of an unidentified family’s vacation photos, Phoenix remembers opening the container, putting the first slide up to the light, and seeing what appeared to be a halo. 
 
“I just knew, right away, that this was a whole new world for me to discover,” says Phoenix.  “I put the slide back in the box, went to the cash register, and haven’t looked back since.”   Soon after, he began scouring other thrift stores, flea markets and estate sales to find more of the same.  “They’re everywhere,” he says. “People couldn’t delete photos back then.” 
 
Phoenix is 55 years old now, but isn’t slowing down. 
 
He no longer has to buy slides; he finds boxes of them at his door.  Phoenix’s new book Holiday Jubilee is set for release next year, and he’s on tour through at least January.  So far, the shows are only in California, but a couple of years ago, Phoenix performed in the United Kingdom and New York City.  
 
One show I’d like to see is next month: it’s called Long Beachland, and will feature slides of Long Beach, the city where I grew up, and a stone’s throw from Ontario.  
 
Because the event (in Long Beach, of course) will be at a smaller location than the movie house I went to, there’s an added plus:  Phoenix will serve one of his signature cakes.  It might be the candy cane swirl with Tiffany blue frosting; then again, it could be his whipped cream Christmas volcano cake, or even the famous Cherpumpel. 
 
Charles Phoenix and wild homemade cake, together. 
 
What a terrific way to start the New Year. 
 
Who are your favorite onstage performers?   

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A Phoenix creation: the Tiffany blue, candy cane swirl cake.
14 Comments

Stormy and Me

4/29/2018

14 Comments

 
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Stephanie Clifford, aka Stormy Daniels
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Me (photo by Marcy Maloy)
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.       
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Lois Gibson and Stephanie Clifford
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A Requiem 

4/8/2017

20 Comments

 
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California on fire. Photo by Matthew Frank.

​I never met him.  
 
I also never had the chance to call or text him, and come to think of it, I also didn’t know anyone who was friends
with him.
 
As a matter of fact, like pretty much everyone else who assumed he’d always be here for us, I didn’t even
know his name. 
 
That was how he wanted it.
 
Yet for me and tens of thousands of other folks around here, his impact was immense.  In fact, in just a few short years, he became a social media phenomenon: out of our San Luis Obispo County coastal community here in California, halfway between Los Angeles and San Francisco and totaling about 250,000 people, he had close to 55,000 Facebook Friends.
 
For us, he was known only as the SLOStringer. 
 
(In journalism parlance, a stringer is an old-timey word for a freelance writer or photographer who contributes reports and photos to news organizations on a regular basis.)
 
Using this pseudonym, and not unlike today’s tornado chasers of the Midwest, he traveled our entire County and sometimes headed to adjacent ones—well over 3,000 square miles—always on his own dime, informing the public of car accidents, fires and other disasters.  Indeed, he was often the first (sometimes, only) reporter on a breaking story, but made a point to never get in the way of first responders.  For this, he earned a great deal of respect from that side of the aisle as well.
 
And something else: almost always, his stories were accompanied by extraordinary videos and photos that were so good, they would have been right at home in the pages of National Geographic magazine. 
 
It was a need that needed filling, because while this is a wondrous place to live, it is also not a place where there
are 24/7 news and traffic reports. 
 
He informed me twice in this way. 
 
A few years back, he responded to a Facebook message about a child care center surrounded by a SWAT team,
which was also on a major street that is part of my husband’s drive home.  The event wasn’t covered by any news outlet, but he knew all about it, writing me back that a homeless man had wandered inside the center, but that all had
ended peacefully. 
 
The other incident was a gnarly traffic accident about a mile or so from my house a few weeks back.  There were lots of sirens; bright lights, and emergency vehicles, but since the incident happened at around nine p.m., I couldn’t find any news reports.  But once again via Facebook, he got back to me the next morning, giving me details and assuring me that although it had been a head-on collision, there were no serious injuries.  
 
Then, in a curious twist of karma, his own life ended a couple of days later, in a fiery nighttime crash.

On a cold rainy highway on Tuesday, March 21, at around four a.m., he was on his way to cover a house fire about 20 minutes away.  For still-unknown reasons, his 2009 Chevy Tahoe veered off to the right shoulder of the road, then careened down a grassy embankment toward a tree.  The car then rolled over, its top crashing into the tree.  Landing hard on its tires, the vehicle immediately caught fire. 
 
The SLOStringer was pronounced dead on the scene.
 
The first article on the crash, which I read with bated breath a few hours later, simply reported the accident, with a photo of the mangled car.  It’s a busy highway, and one that The Teenage Daughter drives on a few days a week, so I did a mighty exhale when I saw that the vehicle was not hers. The next report, only moments later, stated that the car and the license number matched those belonging to the SLOStringer.  The third article, reported soon after, affirmed that the SLOStringer was the lone fatality.
 
Out loud, sitting at my laptop, I said, “Oh, NOOOO!”   
 
It was only then that I learned his name.  
 
He was Matthew Frank, 30 years old and a home grown boy, a graduate of the 2005 class of San Luis Obispo High School. At the time of his death, he was taking business classes at Cuesta College, the awesome community college that my daughter also attends. To close friends, he was a quiet young man who loved tinkering with motorcycles; in fact, it turns out that he owned a bike repair shop right in San Luis Obispo.    
 
Those who just knew Frank by his public persona also now discovered that he was the person who painted over some nasty graffiti on a railroad bridge two years ago. 
 
Because the bridge is owned by Union Pacific, the city didn’t have the authority to cover the four-letter word that faced traffic.  So, Frank simply got some gray paint and took matters into his own hands.  And since he was allowed access, his fans now learned that he had also helped feed and comfort the pets of many families who had been forced to evacuate their homes during the Chimney Fire, a horrific inferno that lasted for weeks last summer.
 
There were other acts of kindness toward the firefighters he loved.
 
One fire chief recalled his crews fighting a nighttime blaze for hours.  Everyone, said this chief, was completely spent when they returned to their station.  As they were wearily rolling hoses and getting ready for the next call, Frank showed up with breakfast burritos.       
 
Like my baby girl is to me, Matthew Frank was also an only child. 
 
As most Girl Clown Dancing readers know, I lost her first father to suicide.  I might have taken my own life soon after if I hadn’t had a small child who needed me.  But if my daughter were to pass before me, it would absolutely bring me to my knees.  I’d get up, but it would take a good long while.  I also know, with absolute certainty, that the hole in my heart would be utterly irreparable.  
 
Yet, as Matthew Frank’s mother Jacquelyn said, “He loved the community service he did, and he died doing what
​he loved.”
 
This affection was returned in spades at Frank’s memorial, attended by hundreds of people and dozens of fire engines and tow trucks parked outside the venue.  The church service also included a firefighters’  “last alarm” bell-ringing ceremony, and a flyover by the County Sheriff’s Aero Squadron—a group that Frank hoped to join one day.
 
Perhaps one firefighter said it best.  
 
“I’m a little nervous now,” he said, “because God has got one hell of a cameraman.”
 
Sleep well, Matthew Frank. 
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Matthew Frank, aka SLOStringer.
20 Comments

Wrestling Makes the Bucket List

4/18/2015

23 Comments

 
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When it comes to giddy love and silly escapades, answered prayers and crazy dreams, I think I’ve had a pretty decent ride. 

And while I wouldn’t exactly label a lot of the things I’ve done items to ever brag about, much less put on anyone’s life inventory, some of my adventures have absolutely fit the definition of a bucket list. That is, experiences or achievements that a person hopes to accomplish before dying, or “kicking the bucket.”       

Indeed, I’ve been lucky enough to gaze at the slow motion movement of the Yangtze River in China, and to chant at the foot of Mount Fuji in Japan, which is as absolutely magnificent in person as I had thought it might be.  I’ve wandered down a sunny, snow-capped mountain in the Swiss Alps alongside cattle wearing clanging cowbells around their necks, and meandered through ancient churches in Georgia, a few hours from the Black Sea.  Still better, a lot of these overseas trips were for work, so they weren’t even on my dime. 

On the domestic front, I graduated from college, which my first generation American parents could never have hoped for for themselves, and then moved to New York City where I lived in the East Village when it was cheap and definitely not trendy.  Better yet—despite a few fumbles—I was able to made my living there writing for magazines.  Back in Hollywood, I helped solve true crimes as a researcher and producer for a few network television shows.  (Oh, and then there’s that movie I wrote.  Shameless plug: if so inclined, check it out at www.botsomovie.com and then LIKE us on Facebook).  I also married and brought a baby home, although not in that order. And of course, thanks to Ringling Brothers Clown College, I got to buffoon my way across the United States as a professional circus clown.

As of last month, I now have a completely unexpected life event to add to my list.

For the first time ever, I went to a wrestling match. 

To be clear, this is not what one would see in a high school or college gym, where participants writhe and sweat on mats, and can get hurt, really hurt, sometimes permanently.  What I’m talking about is more of a wrestling show, and come to think of it, not completely unlike the clown bits seen in a circus.

In fact, the first wrestlers of this genre were all about a wink and a smile. 

That was in the 1940s and ‘50s, now referred to as The Golden Age of Wrestling.  There was Dick the Bruiser, Bobo Brazil and Killer Kowalski, but by most accounts, the undisputed king was Gorgeous George, nee George Raymond Wagner, born in Nebraska in 1915.   In the ring, George boasted a unique and much exaggerated ultra-effeminate persona, a character that he only began to create after an okay career as an amateur wrestler.

In fact, George’s “gorgeous” career didn’t really take off until he met a savvy Los Angeles promoter who understood the power of clowning. 

He convinced George to grow his curly hair long and dye it platinum blond, with the piece de resistance of those locks the gold-plated bobby pins that George named “Georgie Pins.”  Much like Elvis and his scarves decades later, George would enter the ring and then, slowly and with a flair all his own, remove several of the pins, which he lovingly tossed to his fans. 

George was also the first wrestler to use entrance music, strolling into the show to the noble sounds of Pomp and Circumstance, all the while wearing elegant, custom designed robes and capes with sequins.  All of this over-the-top tomfoolery also made George one of television’s first stars, right alongside Milton Berle, Lucille Ball and Bob Hope (who personally donated hundreds of robes to George’s collection).  In fact, at his height, George was earning more than $100,000 per year, which back then also made him the highest paid athlete in the world.  (You can see George in all of his flamboyant splendor with this clip, at www.youtube.com/watch?v=tYq_FVXdg84) 

The far more modest event I attended—called Shamrock Slam—took place at night in a tired hotel banquet room near a small regional airport.  The 200 or spectators were mostly made up of young working class males, many in duck billed caps, along with a surprising number of children, including a redhead with a pixie cut who wore a dominatrix ensemble.  I can’t imagine that any of them have ever attended a film festival, dined at a four-star restaurant or made a pledge to National Public Radio, but what do I know?  

The performers themselves were a dozen or so wrestlers who are all part of a league here in California called Vendetta Pro Wrestling (find out more, no surprise here, at www.vendettaprowrestling.com).  Sanctioned by the National Wrestling Alliance, better known as the NWA, this group of men and women kept my daughter and I thoroughly entertained for nearly three hours with their slapping, stomping and yelling, which were pretty much all well-executed bogus moves (all the while knowing that everyone knew they were faking).  The costumes—legions of rhinestones, faux fur and loud colors, so much like the circus costumes I used to wear—were pretty fun, too.

The festivities began with a match starring a tall long-haired man sporting a neatly trimmed beard, and wearing what appeared to be a gently used, church choir robe.

He was also a clutching a large black Bible and called himself The Apostle.  Ever so carefully putting down the Holy Book and then removing the ethereal outer garment, his glittery gold wrestling shorts revealed two large appliqued crucifixes, one for each well-muscled calf. Other characters of the night included a preppie wrestler with a white cardigan draped around his shoulders who pretended to daintily sip tea, complete with extended pinkie finger; identical ponytailed twins each unfurling huge Canadian flags, and a plump but athletic woman with garish, heavy black and blue makeup and matching pigtails.  

But I had come for Ricky Ruffin.   

Ricky, who was shirtless but wore a snazzy lavender suit with matching print vest, has been gently nagging me to come see a show for more than a year now.    During intermission, he circled the perimeter of the banquet room, graciously posing for photos with several groups of children and adults.  It was clear that the audience knew him and adored him.  And when Ricky finally trotted into the ring, prancing and dancing and smiling to Motown music, and then effortlessly flipped his opponent on his back, over and over again onto the floor, the fans went wild.  (For the record, a Vendetta wrestler trains to take these kind of poundings by letting the brunt of the fall spread over his entire back, as well as stretching out his arms overhead just as he hits the ground.)                                                                                                        Of course, I know Ricky as 27-year-old Roy Bean.

Bean is a man whose daytime job seems to have nothing at all to do with his wrestling persona: he has worked for more than four years with autistic and other developmentally delayed kids and young adults.  I’ve seen Bean in action in this arena as well, and here, too, children absolutely adore him.  Roy loves both of his jobs, and works hard at both of them.

When Shamrock Slam ended, Ricky/Roy, as well as several other wrestling buddies, came out, still in costume, to greet us.  They wanted to know, truly wanted to know, if we enjoyed the show.  Politely, they asked us to come again, and they wished us a safe drive home.

Going to a wrestling show was not something I ever thought I would experience, or for that matter, even want to experience.

But I’m so glad I did, and besides, it’s one more check mark off that list. 

Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Ruffin and Mr. Bean.  Here’s to lives that, for all of us, need to have than a few out-of-the-box adventures; be well lived, and filled with laughter.    

What sort of unexpected experiences have you had?  Please tell me about them!
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23 Comments

    Hilary Roberts Grant

    Journalist, editor, filmmaker, foodie--and a clown! 
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