My book, "Craving Normal," available on Amazon.
As writer Cynthia Heimel said, “When in doubt, make a fool of yourself. There is a microscopically thin line between being brilliantly creative and acting like the most gigantic idiot on earth. So what the hell, leap.”
To find out what I mean, you can read my book, Craving Normal. Buy it on Amazon.
Now that my book, Craving Normal, is finally published, here comes the real work: promoting my nonfiction story collection. 
In one step, I created an author page on Goodreads.com. One question I answered: What inspired you to write this book?
This isn’t what I wrote, but I now remember sitting down, years ago, with writer Kevin Starr (my mom’s cousin, American historian, California’s State Librarian, and prolific writer). I’d invited him to my home in Tarzana, for my special spaghetti dinner.
I told him my idea: to interview people raised in non-conformist families–kids of punks, hippies, political revolutionaries, artists, etc. Having my own quirky childhood and always feeling like I didn’t fit in, I wondered how other people grew up, what they experienced. Did they rebel? Or did they gravitate to how they were raised? Anyway, I found those questions intriguing.
Kevin didn’t. “Write your own stories.”
And so I began to write those, along with other experiences. My book isn’t only about my childhood, but my lifelong quest to fit in, to find my own place in the world, and how I stumble along the way.
I’m now thinking I need to update my acknowledgement page to include Kevin. I was honored to have his support. He’d write me supportive emails after seeing my essays in LA newspapers and reading my old blog about my life in California. I’d send Kevin a copy of my book, but he passed away two years ago.
For that reason, I wish I put this book out sooner. But, really, it wasn’t ready then. My stories still needed to be crafted and thought through. I knew I didn’t have the right book cover idea.
Photo: One of a few ideas I had for my book cover, to use this painting I created. Maybe for my next book, “How to Become Broke and Influence Nobody.” Considering the hours I spent sunbathing, instead of looking for a job, it just may work.
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“Craving Normal,” is now available to buy in print, here. And the eBook will be available soon. I hope you enjoy my stories, reading my view of life–as kooky as many of my tales may be. To quote my editor, “I enjoyed your crazy stories…” Well, I hope you do too.
Wheeew, this book has been like going through birth and raising a kid. The time it took to get this baby out, it should be driving by now. With that in mind, hop in and take a ride!
If you enjoy my tales, I’d love for you to leave a review on Amazon and/or Goodreads.com.
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Here’s the first cell phone I ever used (top photo), way back in the late ’90s. Found it yesterday. Oddly, upon seeing this teeny techy thing, I got a little nostalgic thinking back to when I used it only for PHONE CALLS. Weird, right? That sounds so quaint now that I’m walking around with a gadget that allows me to text/record and edit mini movies/rant/respond to emails… But when someone calls me on it? I don’t hear it.
Yep, looking at this old device wistfully, I thought about simpler times, before smart phones, back when (cue flashback music): I didn’t accidentally text a male friend “I love you!” meant for my daughter; didn’t get into heated arguments with online strangers; didn’t accidentally reveal to business-related people scantily clad photos of myself; didn’t stick my phone in my pocket, causing my butt wiggle to activate a YouTube video, so that the entire market produce section heard a Louis CK raunchy rant (I looked around for far too long wondering where the rant was coming from. Duh! My pocket!). Yes, long ago I could walk my dog without getting pinged, vibrated and beeped from business contacts… which I once could escape, momentarily.
Still, I would never want to go back to pre cell phone days. I spent far too many hours, when I first moved to LA, stranded with my array of broken cars on nearly every So Cal freeway – the 101, the 405, the 170 – sweaty, dusty and crying out to nobody. Yeah, cell phones are a much better option than screaming toward the smoggy sky. Halloween of 1987, I spent six hours on the 101 freeway, on the fast lane shoulder, as cars – including quite a few police cars – sped by me. Meanwhile, my boyfriend who was expecting me home, was sick worrying. Eventually, some kind soul scooped me up and dropped me off at a pay phone.
Pay phones. Remember the ones in a booth? To think we once went into a booth, and closed the door behind us, for privacy. Today we can walk down the street yelling at people, announce to the world we had amazing sex, share exciting news to everyone at our local coffee place. Privacy is so passé… I say as I type my thoughts out into the virtual world. Yeah, I’m a whiny hypocrite. But at least when I eat dinner with you I’ll be whining as I stare at your face and not my cell phone.
I thought of my next book’s title: “How to Become Broke and Influence Nobody.” Yep, last night while making dinner (okay, heating up leftover chili cheese fries), I realized I’ve had so many crappy jobs, all while making absolutely no money, I could fill an entire book.
I’ve been an awful waitress (After spilling a tray of filled beer mugs on customers, they returned another night wearing yellow raincoats), a bad showroom model (I accidentally insulted a designer), a terrible receptionist… a not-so-great aerobics instructor.
Well, here’s an excerpt from my book, Craving Normal.
While working as a movie extra, I got a second job as an aerobics instructor. I figured, why not get paid and get in shape? But I could only bounce my way to a tighter butt and shin splints at minimum wage for so long.
A few months after working at Holiday Spa in Torrance, I called in to let my manager know my car overheated and broke down. Since I was living in Hollywood—nearly an hour drive away from work—I wouldn’t be able to make it that day without a car. That’s the way I figured it, anyway. But my manager “helped me out.” She said, “No problem. Kimmy lives in your area and can pick you up on her way to work.”
I yelped a fake, “Great,” and shuffled off to get ready for Kimmy, a cute blonde aerobics instructor, to pick me up.
Wearing my aerobics outfit—nothing more than a tiny shirt, tights under black French-cut bikini bottoms, big, poufy socks, and white bouncy shoes—I waited on the sidewalk in front of my apartment. Kimmy pulled up to the curb, and I jumped in. Right away, we bonded. Not only were we both out in public wearing little clothing, but after talking, we learned we were both burned out from being bubbly every work day. We agreed we were tired of cheering people on to tighter thighs. “Come on, ladies! One, two, three, four, keep it up—just a little more! Five, six, seven, eight. Keep going. Doing great!”
We drove through the palm tree-lined streets and headed south toward the Torrance Holiday Spa via PCH, parallel to the ocean. It was a stunning summer day. As we passed the sparkling blue water of the Pacific and tanned guys carrying their surfboards, Kimmy said, “Wow, the sky’s so blue. Beautiful day.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, looking toward the beach and the tanned guys, “and . . . so hot.”
We looked at each other. I knew what she was thinking. She knew what I was thinking. The beach was way too tempting. Kimmy stopped at a pay phone and called in to the spa. “You won’t believe our luck. My darn car overheated. Can you believe it?”
Somehow, I don’t think they did.
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While reading former Rolling Stone magazine writer Jancee Dunn’s book, But Enough About Me, she mentioned Scritti Politti playing on her date’s car radio. I put down my book and went to remind myself of Scritti Politti’s songs. Below the video of “Perfect Way,” a guy commented, “Hot Tub Time Machine brought me here.” So that’s why I watched Hot Tub Machine, last night.
Goofy as it is, the movie Hot Tub Time Machine got me thinking about things I did in the past that changed my destiny, resulting in my present day life. Many of those moments were silly. I began thinking: What if I didn’t do (fill in the blank)? Would I be where I am today?
One of my “What ifs” involved John Cusack, in 1987. In Hot Tub Time Machine, John Cusack gets blasted back to 1986.
So, without any explanation, here are some of my sillier what ifs. To find out what they mean you’ll have to read my book Craving Normal and the chapter, “What the Hell Just Happened?”
*What if I never annoyed John Cusack as we sat together in a red booth at Damiano’s Pizza on Fairfax?
*What if my roommate’s boyfriend didn’t eat all my kung pao shrimp?
*What if I never became an aerobics instructor?
*What if I allowed that car thief to move into my Reseda apartment?
Answer: Nothing about my life would be the same.
Little did I know my goofy antics with John Cusack in that red booth at Damiano’s Pizza changed what I would do that following week, which brought me where I am today. That pizza booth was my destiny-changing time machine, catapulting me to the future.
King Cotton, doing Roscoe’s wrap from John Cusack’s movie “Tapeheads,” then set my future into an entirely different direction.
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*An Imaginary letter I wrote to our Tree Audio client (we design and hand-build tube recording consoles), Pete Townshend of The Who, about My Generation.
Dear Pete Townshend,
As I made and soldered the cables for your Tree Audio recording equipment we just sent off to you, I thought about how I spent my early teen years listening to “My Generation” until I wore down the grooves in my album, while sulking, thinking about how misunderstood I was, how The Who really understood me and my generation, all of us raised in the shadow of the Flower Children with our own issues. Unlike the Woodstock crowd, the media didn’t care much about what my peers and I did or what we thought, didn’t follow our every movement, or put down our every waking moment in documentary film–only stopped to warn us that the free love-era had come to a scary halt with AIDS.
You got me, I thought. Then I realized The Who song was written for YOUR generation, my parents’ generation.
Whatever.
My generation, your generation, my kid’s generation… I think we can all relate to being misunderstood. So thanks for getting my anger. Every time you smashed your guitar, I knew you felt what I felt. Or I liked to think so.
Thanks,
Michele,
Your Tree Audio cable maker
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I’m at my computer, fingers flying on the keyboard. It’s a good writing day. I’m in the zone–the writing zone.
What’s that? Oh crap! I hear a light tap at my door. I stiffen, sit up-right, tip-toe away from my window and plan to wait out the knocker until they walk away. 
But wait! What if it’s someone important? I don’t know, like someone wanting to give me a big check or maybe it’s UPS delivering a really late birthday present. 
Or it could be someone coming to tell me my roof is on fire. I don’t know. So, damn it, I open the door.
Argh. Just as I feared. A sales guy. Yeah, I’m interested in solar, but I’ll do my own research. Plus, I’m in a great writing groove. I’m in the zone. Doesn’t this guy know about the zone?
Me: Well, I’m in the middle of writing. Just give me a card, literature, or a website (Dude, I want you to go away and now). Okay?
Solar sales guy: Okay, I’ll walk around the neighborhood and come back.
Me: (As I’m closing the door). Sure, fine. (I realize he said he’ll come back) No! No! (holding up my pen and waving it at him). Not today. I’m writing.
He backs away, like: Okay, crazy lady with the pen. Just don’t hurt me.
And now for an educational “How to Deal with Door Sales” video:
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Some days I wondered if I was cut out for movies, considering background work was hardly challenging. Though, for me, it often seemed to be. One of those questionable moments happened while working on a television movie of the week called When the Bough Breaks, starring Ted Danson. During a scene filmed in a Studio City bar called Residuals, the director yelled to me, “Hey, you. What’s your name?”
“Michele.”
“Okay, Melissa.”
Actor Richard Masur was sitting at the bar, and in a slow, calm manner, corrected the director. “Her name is Michele, not Melissa.”
“Whatever!” The director continued pointing at me. “I want you to play a cocktail waitress.”
Someone handed me a tray of highball glasses filled with amber-colored drinks and ice.
“Okay,” the director continued. “Ted is going to storm out in a rage, and while he’s leaving, he’ll bump into you.”
I nodded and didn’t move until I heard, “Background! And action!”
Ted Danson stormed my way. Trying to be helpful, I threw a bit of my shoulder in as he swiped me, causing the entire tray of drinks I held to tip and spill all over the front of his shirt.
Dripping wet, Ted apologized to me—not once, but twice. “Oh wow, I’m sorry. So sorry,” he said, patting me on the back.
But why? It was my fault. My shoulder move caused the accident.
I didn’t say a thing because the director wasn’t pleased. I knew he wouldn’t yell at Ted Danson, but I was sure he would yell at a lowly extra named Melissa.
That damned Melissa. What a klutz!
***
Turns out, Ted Danson is truly a good guy. In retrospect, considering Ted’s drink-handling skills, he must’ve pitied me.
