Please visit Morris Kight

Please visit Morris Kight @

Monday, December 15, 2014

Today I turn the age my father was when he died

Today I turn the same age that my father was when he died. I was ten years old at the time and everyone said “he was so young.”

It doesn’t feel so young today. Yet, at the time, he was so young to die with five kids and a traumatized widow. It was a defining moment for me. More so than I realized at the time and I know so because the pain can still screech across my heart like a fork on glass. We were all fragile. We were all so young.

We’re not so young anymore. Too young to die, I like to think. Everyone has defining moments. It’s in our eyes or in the eyes of a stranger waiting for a bus or in all the other eyes in our lives—our mortality. We wear our defining moments front and center for all the world to misunderstand. Or not.
Since my father died, I’ve outlived a number of people. People I have loved have died as well as people who, in my opinion, survived long past their “use by” date. There is no detectable rhyme or reasoning. Out-aging my father seemed unrealistic. I’m too young, it feels odd.

Two days ago, I buried Arnie, my beloved cockatiel of 26 years (my longest relationship). There is no reason in the world that I would have ever let that bird go. There is no rhyme to it either, but there is a little poetry. The daily love and care that I gave and received healed me to a large degree. It was a healing that gave me many new defining moments.

"Visual phone calls” were first described, sometime in the 1980s, as a “thing of the future.” Possible, I thought, but unrealistic to happen in my lifetime. Here we are with camera phones and skype-type services and we even have cameras that go up our butts. This is my future.

With more time than my dad had, more time than some who were far wiser, kinder, and more talented than I, here I am, having more time than all of them and I spend it documenting time for someone else. I document for people who I will never meet, who probably haven’t been born yet, I worry what they will think. I worry if they will know the truth, a truth without conditions. I worry that they care about the time in which we have lived.

With some command of the digital world, I am able to do things that my father could never have fathomed as being necessary, much less possible. As versed as I am in technology, I am still startled when I click the button and it does exactly what it is supposed to do.

There is no rhyme or reason to explain the effects of defining moments.

It is too much effort to examine and evaluate my fate. My fate is not better or worse than anyone else’s fate. At times, I have tested my fate, flaunted it and abused it. I’ll share a little birthday secret with you. Sometimes I feel others judge my fate or they have resented it, and a few other folks have gone so far as to try to manipulate it. But here’s my secret: that too is my fate.

I will not spend this year wondering what anyone else might have done if they had been given more time. That is not my business. What I didn’t understand at ten years old, what I couldn’t see in the defining moments, I still don’t fully understand. Like I said, there is no rhyme or reason. I look for the poetry. I have come to believe in the power of the story and the beauty of words strung together just so.

This is my happy birthday to me.


Thursday, August 7, 2014

Sunday, July 13, 2014

The Ramones Are At My Door

Gather ‘round kids, I’m going to tell you a story about the Ramones, yes that Ramones, the original punk band, and how they showed up at my apartment door one night.

But first, you need to understand who the Ramones were to me and to my compeers and really to anyone with a pair of ears. As an east coast transplant, for me they were the kids next door who done good; they were the boys in the garage who hit it big; they were the nice guys who found a lucky break with a great sound. As far the scene that I was in at the time, some punk bands demanded a whole lot of commitment to feel a part of them, like tattoos, spiked hair and ripped clothes. The Ramones weren’t like that, there was no flash and no pretense. They didn’t portend a cult-sense to appreciate their music. They were every syllable punk rock and roll. And it wasn’t by accident.

We could all agree on the Ramones.

In the 1990s, I was living in the foothills of Hollywood. It was a decent place, nothing fancy but clean and safe, certainly for Hollywood standards. There was a pool, so many of the tenants knew each other and we were all pretty friendly. A new girl moved in, down the hall and on the same floor as me. She was odd, for sure, loud, needy, and a bit whiney. She had “a caretaker,” was how the apartment building manager described the guy who was always with her. He seemed like he was just some guy who made sure that she didn’t fall off her bar stool when he wasn’t falling off his own. Even though I wouldn’t testify to this in court, there was definitely some kind of “substance” involved. We’ll call her “Cathy” because no one else did and that wasn’t her name. I don’t remember the caretaker’s name. What I remember most about him was the first time that I met him when they had just moved in and were new to Los Angeles. It was on the roof of the apartment building during the LA riots in 1992 as we all watched the city ablaze. Hollywood Boulevard looked like Kuwait and the news copters overhead were almost deafening. There were no cops to be seen anywhere. Cathy’s caretaker, scrawny wet-noodle of a guy, puffed up and started talking shit about how he could hold his own, “Let them try to get in here, I’ll stop ‘em at the front door. Blow some heads off…” Not the sound mind you want to be around in an already tense situation. His bloviating ignited some other testosterone-carrier to mouth off about what he was holding, and then the next guy started—and before you know it, they were all giving an inventory of their ammo and arms. The whole conversation had me on edge, being as we were all stuck so close together. Scrawny caretaker guy won the pissing contest by claiming that he had three 450 magnums and a machine gun with a couple of magazines. It could’ve been all talk, but someone on that roof was telling the truth.

Cathy and the Noodle weren't real social. They didn’t mingle well with others. I always assumed that they preferred the company of their substance. They were loud and then they’d turn it down, and then they’d be loud again. I heard rumors that Cathy was an old friend of the Ramones, she grew up with them or something like that in Queens. She was in some kind of car accident with one or more of them and she got quite messed up and they took care of her. They helped her out. Every so often, she’d disappear for a month or more at a time. One day the caretaker was taken away on a gurney and we never saw him again. One time, she was gone for a couple of weeks and left her apartment door wide open with the radio blasting. It was a couple of days before anyone went in there. I poked around, was too curious not to but I didn’t touch anything. The place was in much better shape than I had imagined. She had nice framed photos of herself (not looking at all like she did at the time) with different people, family maybe friends and some might’ve been members of the Ramones, but I couldn’t be sure. No one in the photos had their signature hair styles or fashion sense and I know that they didn’t always look like that themselves. So, they might’ve been old friends and taking care of Cathy.

Eventually, Cathy got a dog. And that dog was going to get lonely, so she got another dog.  During a brief elevator trip we shared, Cathy was taking her dogs out for a walk and told me how they were going to help her get her act together. I mumbled “good for you, good for them” or something equally inane.

I never saw her with the dogs again. The dogs didn’t go away. The two cute little white Pekingese pups were holed up in her apartment. She’d lock them in her bathroom when she was out.

Cathy’s bathroom window faced my bedroom window with the pool courtyard below which echoed sound. Specifically, it echoed the sounds of the two forgotten pups in Cathy’s bathroom. The dogs yelped and cried and this went on for weeks. I talked to the apartment manager about it and she talked to Cathy. I left notes for Cathy about her unhappy puppies. I called the animal control bureau. They wouldn’t do anything unless someone actually saw abuse.

August 6, 1996, I was about six months into a year-long migraine headache when Cathy was out for the entire day and evening and the doggies were locked up in their bathroom. I was confined to my quarters with a cool towel over my eyes. It was me and it was them. And then it was me versus them. Around midnight, it was them versus me with the dogs winning. I don’t know exactly what they were winning but it felt like they could run off with my sanity as soon as that bathroom door opened. If it ever opened again and they’d shut the hell up. Oh, damn you Cathy and your problems. You’re nothing but another damn self-centered drug addict. I have problems too. “Shit,” I’d curse Cathy, “the woman is a mess and she breeds her problems into everyone else’s life and blah blah blah.”

It was church quiet in the building except for the two yelping Pekinese pups. I was wide awake and miserable as no medication could provide relief, with or without the Pekinese. It was no surprise when at 3:00 AM I could hear Cathy coming into the building on the first floor and rumble her way up the elevator and down the hall. She was cursing, there was talking, and some falls. I got up, put on a robe, and opened my apartment door and stood in the doorway and waited. Suddenly, I was Mrs. Kravitz from Bewitched. When did this happen to me? I had no time to think it through I needed to straighten out Cathy about dog care.

Cathy barreled down the hall, bouncing off the walls, and I stood in the doorway with my arms folded over my robe. When Cathy was in front of my door, I called her name. She wasn’t alone. Cathy stopped, looked at me with her tear-stained donut glazed eyes and jello’d knees. Hey ho, Cathy was with the Ramones. I swear as I am breathing, the five of them stood there, two of them holding up Cathy.  I immediately recognized Joey and Johnny, I’m not sure if the other two were C.J., and Marky or one of them might’ve been Dee Dee. Mrs. Kravitz adjusted her tone (which, as a friend pointed out, only made me all the more like Mrs. Kravitz). I said something along the lines of, “you got to do something about your dogs, they’ve been barking and crying all night.” Feigning selflessness, I added, “It’s not good for them.” Cathy stumbled and mumbled, “Help me, they’re trying to kill me.” It was clearly drunk bitch babble. The four gentlemen and they truly were gentlemen, apologized profusely. They promised that it’d be taken care of and the dogs would not bother me again. I thanked them. Yes, after more than 12 straight hours of yapping Pekinese, I thanked them.

Yes, I wanted to shout after them that once upon a time I had been cool. I wanted them to know that I wasn’t always Mrs. Kravits and that if it wasn’t for the gawdforsaken migraine that I might have been at their show that night.

It turned out that was the night of their last gig. They must’ve just come back from the Palace (a few blocks away). I know one biographer has stated that after the show, without many words, they each left the theater on their own and went their separate ways. Not exactly, first they had to take care of some lose ends at Cathy’s.

There was no end-of-the-tour rowdy party that night, as one might imagine. Cathy’s apartment was quiet. I heard them leave, not together. They were soft footed and soft spoken and, it seemed to nosy neighbor Mrs. Kravitz, they left one at a time, on their own. I don’t know what happened to Cathy and which one of the Ramones she grieves the most.

I never heard the dogs yelp again. Cathy still had the dogs, maybe she stopped locking them in the bathroom.

I’ve witnessed fame drag people down like a tidal wave, destroying exactly what made them famous. I saw the Ramones on the other side of that tidal wave and they stood up like good people on a journey.

They have responsibility for making a generation ‘wanna be sedated’ while causing major adrenaline rushes. They made a lot of people very happy. Their music will survive and can drown out any yapping dogs.
Happy journey guys! Bark bark.

A respectful nod to Charlie Haden, who also died this week. Unfortunately, Charlie never showed up at my door.

Sunday, September 22, 2013

Love the moon. Don't know if that's my noctural instincts kicking into demand mode or if it is a simple love of the moon. I wanted to pay particular tribute to this beautiful harvest moon. The camera cooperated nicely and then I found this lovely poem (by Lucille Clifton) which has nothing to do with the moon and yet they go so well together. Here's to another harvest and another turn of the moon.

Sunday, November 18, 2012

Barn-burning equal rights amendment rally? Next!

Age IV


“It is a pity that, as one gradually gains experience, one loses one’s youth.”
-Vincent Van Gogh (1853-1890)

          I’m sorry to begin with an apology, and I’m sorry to do this but I have to weigh in and weigh in heavy on the “are you too old to be of any good” type of question that was recently posed to House minority leader Nancy Pelosi. I didn’t like Pelosi’s response much more than I liked the question. The question, verbatim, was: “Some of your colleagues privately say that your decision to stay on prohibits the party from having a younger leadership and hurts the party in the long term. What's your response?"
At the risk of trying to sound like I am much younger than I really am, I must say: “WTF. WTF. WTF?”  
        Pelosi’s knee-jerk, off-the-cuff, without-her-press-agent at her elbow response was: "Age discrimination!"

Literally and figuratively, Pelosi was backed by almost two dozen female colleagues all of whom look like 

they get their share of AARP mailers. All the women shouted, "Boo!"
Okay, that part I get. Pelosi tried to dismiss the un-dismissible with “Next!” and the women behind her applauded. This might have turned into an early seventies style barn-burning equal rights amendment rally revisit. But not likely with Pelosi in the driver’s seat.
“No, excuse me,” the reporter pushed ahead and supported the legitimacy of the question by reminding the speaker that she and two other members of the house were “all over 70. Is your decision to stay on prohibiting younger members from moving forward?”
Before I set out to answer WTF, I decided to find out who owned this inquiring mind. 

     Holy copper wiring it was none other than not-a-chip-off-the-block Luke Russert, prince of nepotism, son of legendary and respected journalist Tim Russert. He’s a freken’ baby and I’m surprised he has a learners-permit to get himself to the press room. W[ever]TF happened to news and what was once thought to be media integrity happened a long time ago. Yet this level of idiocy, from both sides of the dais, and intimidation, from both sides of the dais, requires a little further discussion.
By the way, note to son-of-journalist: Have a lead question that is pertinent to lead announcement, e.g., when Pelosi announces that she is going to stay on the job don’t ask about her leaving the job. Having a prepared question is not the same as asking a tough question. 
     The fall-out and follow-up conversation was about the validity of the question. My short answer is: no (see note to son-of-journalist above). It was not a valid or pertinent question, not in that particular room. If Mister Russert was to stand outside of the chamber and ask every single member of Congress if they think a younger, more inexperienced body politic is better, more effective and more functional and, well, let’s just say it—hip, then we’d have a valid question. And, of course, if the question was posed by anyone other than a privileged, 27 year old, entitled, whippersnapper . . . well, then the question would not have been posed.
I didn’t find any discussions on the validity of experience through age, how “earned” is more respected and valued than “inherited,” and no one, to my knowledge, mentioned the value of not reinventing the wheel every time we need to change a tire. 
Boy Russert did not ask a valid question. To simply shout “age discrimination” at a reporter is not a valid answer (or solution). Pelosi made matters worse when she swiped away the pompous cub-in-the-lion’s-den reporter with “Next.”  She almost lent credibility to the idea that 70 might be “too old,” as if anything labeled “too old” by a 27 year old should be deemed credible. Pelosi needed to give the profession of reporter its due respect while seizing a teaching opportunity, had she remembered that women’s liberation re-educated the world before storming through doors. She could have embraced the all-so powerful “feminine” in feminism and very gently, very womanly, put the boy in his place. Instead, Pelosi reminded us that we have yet to break through any ceilings—glass or otherwise. She demonstrated a reactive-female with a short-fuse. I’m sorry, I don’t like stereotyping women anymore than the next sister-in-arms does, but I call it when I see it and Pelosi showed it.
If I didn’t need my reading glasses, I might be able to read between the lines of Junior Russert’s query. If I could, I might conclude that he’d like to see the likes of MTV VJ Kennedy at the helm of policy making. Even though a more unpleasant personality has not scratched my chalk board, perhaps it is Kennedy’s (and her generations) convenient and ill-conceived libertarian empty talk that Russert looks up to (since Kennedy, at 40, is technically older than Russert). But he didn’t say that and I’m projecting all that Kennedy stuff on to Russert. So who the hell does he think is capable of running the country if not a few older people with a couple of not-as-old people and so on? Did he think through his pre-prepared question?
Pelosi is about as much of a feminist as my chalk board is, but she is still a product of a feminist movement. We were never supposed to like everyone we just wanted to guarantee equal opportunity. Boy, did she miss a golden opportunity last week to pave a smoother path for people of age.
At times like these, my only wish is to retreat—I want to remove myself from all further thought on nonsense, move far, far away, to another galaxy perhaps, live off the land (as in rock-soup and mud-pies) and never deal with another stupid human again. But that’s not likely to happen and stupid people proliferate every day. I don’t have scientific proof of that but my many years of experience on this planet tell me that there is no shortage of stupid people. I'm not prohibiting any young leadership from making its mark in the world. 
I want to stand in the way of stupid people with microphones.

Saturday, October 13, 2012

Not Much of a Bathing Beauty


People shop for a bathing suit with more care than they do a husband or wife. 
The rules are the same.  Look for something you’ll feel comfortable wearing
 and allow for room to grow.    –Erma Bombeck (1927–1996)

            I’ve never been much of a bathing beauty.


I’m not shy, I’m modest. One thing that has not changed over the years is that it has never been easy for me to get comfortable going out in public wearing what really equates to fancy spandex underwear.  I failed miserably as a Beach Bunny and as a Surfer Chick
            Don’t get me wrong, I’ve done plenty of UVB damage.


In one of my yesteryears when I was hanging out at the Jersey Shore with some kids from the Honduras, I spent so much time in the sun that I got phlebitis. My legs swelled up like huge water balloons. Richard Nixon had phlebitis—but Nixon was like a hundred years old and I was just a stupid teenager.  These Honduran kids had skin like hot chocolate and I stood out like a marshmallow. By the end of the day, I was a red-hot mess unable to sleep, pee, or walk.  I cried all night, praying for something that I didn’t necessarily believe in: mercy. Relief eventually arrived in the form of a Valium and a shot of something warm and tingly. 

Today I regularly check my skin for signs of mercy from my misguided, and yet not regretted, youth.  

When I saw this Erma Bombeck quote I was struck by the similarity to one of my own “theories” in life.  Hey, put enough candles on the birthday cake and you too will have an abundance of theories to keep you warm at night. 

My theory, based solely on observation and conversation, is that some of us (if you’re reading this you are already “one of us”) will take better care of our cars than we take care of our bodies. Think about it. Or maybe it’s just an L.A. thing and I have lost all perspective of the rest of the world.

 For instance, I have a respected friend who is able to keep two cars running, insured, and up-to-date and yet his teeth are literally breaking down. He was lax on the necessary upkeep on the ever important pie hole, trap,yap, blower, word hole, whatever you call it—it’s damn important. My friend is looking at about two to three months of serious work and close to a 40K tug on his bank account. Though oddly, he told me that he’s been saving for this inevitability for quite some time.  If there was a way to calculate, I’d like to know how much he would’ve spent over the past couple of decades (just in dollars, not counting anxiety attacks) to do the necessary upkeep on the 'grill of his ride.’  Just a thought.

As an urban woman I am reminded on a daily basis the pure frailty and challenge of surviving much less having a full set of pearly whites. We are in scary times. Healthcare is a commodity, not a right.  If you really want to be smart, to be politically active, to be on the correct side of left—you need to make every effort not to become a subject of the very system that will eventually consume you and everyone you hold dear. Turn healing over to the machine that sees you as nothing more than a number followed by a series of numbers and the ever important bottom line number and your personhood will not matter.  You will no longer have a voice in the discussion about the quality of your life.

You’re a person not a number. If you’re anything at all like me, and I’m thinking if you’ve read this far we might have something in common, you’ll be mightily pissed off when you get treated like a number.  You’ll want to shout, “I’m an individual, I have unique needs and likes and dislikes. . . “ and on and on you’ll rant, but the number’s keepers do not hear you. Our best option in these tenuous times is prevention. Make our best efforts to prevent a crisis in health, automobile, relations, and anything else that spins your world. Times have changed since Benjamin Franklin’s days—an ounce of prevention could now be worth a lifetime’s fortune.

When I hung out at the Jersey Shore, long before Snooki and that gang were born, we didn’t know about sun protection and such stuff.  The closest we got to sun protection was making out under the boardwalk.  I don’t know if anyone makes out under the boardwalk anymore. Our world has become so polarized it seems everyone sits in their own corner with their own view.  We even have good SPF’s versus bad SPF’s.  

I don’t advocate a puritanical life of total temperance, room temperature weak tea and confections in the shade. I’m talking about exercising common sense, free will, and being pro-active with our health. Use the information that has come our way and knock that Snooki on the side of her over-tanned over-teased head with some good sense.  She won’t listen.  I know that because I wouldn’t have listened either.

In certain circles I also hear talk of excitement, adventure, risk, and to love with abandon. That’s all good too. But people are fickle and life can make us cynical so to counterbalance the thinking-about-life game, we mustn’t forget Richard Nixon, phlebitis, and all the other consequences that might await us.

My sun damage is already done and perhaps the dye has been cast on the future health of my epidermis.  That’s okay, I like hats. I like knowing that if my skin turns hard and blotchy I will have earned it the old fashioned way—by youthful indiscretion.  Put enough candles on the birthday cake and you too will have earned perspectives that are unique to the consequences of your youth of sex, drugs, rock, athletics, studying too hard, driving too fast, drinking too much too often, or sitting alone and never taking a risk.  

If Erma Bombeck was sitting here with me right now, I’d assure her that today I look for the same qualities in a bathing suit that I need in a man.  I look for flexibility with my flaws.