Strung Apart

 

STRUNG APART

Music runs through my veins. My parents were musical. Mom played piano, dad played violin. I started piano at 3. I'd tinkled the keys since I could reach them.

I got good at piano. My parents paid for expensive teachers. At school, I wanted to try another instrument.

I picked violin because my dad played it and it's easier to carry than a piano.

5^th grade. Started violin lessons in school and learned with the, ahem, “orchestra”, while perfecting my posture.

Six weeks in, I got a stiff neck or a cold or something that hurt my neck really badly and I couldn't turn it and I sure couldn't play violin anymore.

That ordeal ended swiftly.

In high school, we had to pick an instrument and I liked The Blue Kangaroo who played bass violin on a cartoon show. I liked blues music and that vibrational deep bass beat a lot.

I played the bass because of The Blue Kangaroo.

Now I don't know who carried his bass violin around for him, but I do know that that was the dumbest decision I'd made thus far in my nascent life.

I liked playing the thing, I'd badumpbompbump in my room at home, but walking with a bass back and forth to school every weekend was what made me hate every flute player evermore.

Sticking it out as long as I could (2 months), I relinquished all but the piano. I played piano in school assemblies and other places, so that was cool enough. Until....

Guitar. Hippie era, you know?

I played guitar because of boys.

Boys? I think so. I think that was the reason. I couldn't break away from string instruments, apparently. There were “coffee shops”. Smoky places, dark and mysterious, where teenagers sat around and guitar was the groove.

Who didn't want to be groovy?

So here's what happened with this third attempt at stringing my life together: I tripped on my guitar in the middle of the first night of owning it. How humiliating.

My mom couldn't have been more mad.

It was in its case, but maybe not out of the way. It was dark. I stumbled to the kitchen at night and tripped over my guitar and smashed it real good in the backside.

“Good money” (never learned what “bad money” might be) had been spent on that guitar and mom wasn't getting me another one. She taped it up and made me take it to lessons and learn to play it that way, broken. The teacher, a nice man, explained to my mother that the sound was affected, even though it technically could still be strummed.

I learned “Downtown”, an easy guitar solo. And Batman. I had to learn the Batman theme song.

But after that, guitar lost it's allure. I liked listening to the boys who played it, but my three strikes with string instruments had strung apart.

Thanks, Dad, for the violin. And the stiff neck.

Thanks, Blue Kangaroo, for the bass and sore back.

Thanks, boys, for the guitar and wooing me with one.

In college, I finally smarted up and picked a smaller case as second instrument to piano. I picked trumpet. No problems with trumpet. I liked it.

But you know what? I listen to flute players and laugh with envy.

Always pick the flute.

Just Another Lori Story

UNQUALIFIED JOY

 unqualified joy

The year 2020 started off differently than any other year. It was supposed to be the year of “unqualified joy”. I don't know what made it thus, other than I said so. I bought a new Moleskine year diary, something I do not usually do, and decided to keep a daily record of the new year of the new decade.

Maybe 2020 resonates numerically with me. It isn't the first time that I've assigned undue attributes to a number. It sounds good. It's repetitive. Twenty twenty represents perspicacious sight. That's a high score for forward looking. But the representation of being well into the 21^st century, having made it through the first decade, made me decide that this was The Year … 2020 would be a turning point for me, a year to remember. Hence, unqualified joy.

Little did I know.... Little did any of us know, even though as I wrote that on January 1, in my lovely-smelling, new leather Moleskine, somewhere in the vast world, a killer virus already invaded and exterminated the joy part for foreign families. They had dreams too. They celebrated a new year too. But they knew already what we wouldn't know for sure for months.... They knew that doom and gloom were dominating their streets and they knew that loved ones were dead or dying. They couldn't tell. It was secreted, the severity.

I knew that what happens there, happens everywhere.

It was only a flashing news item one day on the BBC that showed hazmat-suited Asians who looked like astronauts from a movie, rushing stretchers through the streets. Chinese subtitles ran underneath the pictures. Sheer panic on the few faces I saw alerted me to the fierceness and finality of what flashed before me on TV. Those were body bags. And then it flashed off.

Oddly, no more mention of the virus. Not then. Not in January. Not in America.

Other countries were talking about it. There were whispers, rumors, a few brief reports.

Something wasn't right. Something in the air blew in a different direction than any compass could explain. When I made plans to travel in early March, there remained a missing cog in the wheel of my wandering plans. I sat with it awhile. I often get anticipatory angst when going away for a long time, mostly because the checklist to leave is long and complicated. It combines business and beaches and my best attention to details. I know if an important task isn't resolved, it will bother me.

But I also know to pay attention to my contemplative pondering. No matter how weird (or wonderful), no matter how out there or silly, if I shut out all the distractions and tune in to a place (ineffable and impossible to describe), I already know that there will be a clear discussion within that I will be privy to eavesdrop into, as long as I don't interfere with the message or try to involve any present-moment logic.

Meditation and listening. Listening within. Yes, it can feel schizophrenic. I suppose it sounds that way to some people too, but it's not. It can be powerful.

I pushed through packing. I ticked off my list. Busying myself with the details of travel was enough to occupy my days, but not my dread. When it was all done, I sat and asked the hard questions: Was I sick? No. Would I be safe? Yes. Would I make it back OK without any travel issues? Yes. Then what was the trouble?

Something. Something was wrong, but not necessarily with me. Should I cancel my trip? No. But it was a 3-way trip – long, with 3 destinations and I did decide to shorten it. I don't know why.

That was March 1^st.

By March 13^th, the world was shutting down and I was racing home, confident I would get there, but not confident enough to eat or sleep anywhere; not confident enough to stop, not confident enough to understand at all what was really going on, because most of us had long since stopped believing in our media.

Every person had become a critter. People were to be avoided. No touching, no talking, no getting near anybody. No eating in restaurants, no sleeping in hotels (as if bedbugs weren't bad enough of a scare), no stopping for shopping, no easy or happy travel. Cracker Barrel candy and hash-brown souffle? Sorry. No.

Hurry home. Vending machines or drive-thru are the options. Of course, I felt sick. Or imagined I felt sick, because the stress of what I didn't know and the trip of unfinished business made me ill. Why didn't I listen to myself when I “knew” something was off? Because there was no finite “something” and now here I was rushing home in a mild panic because of no finite “anything”.

I made it home safely. That's the thing to be grateful for. No problems. No car issues. No people. No delicious food. No mail for another month, because I wasn't due back for six weeks. All Joy.

None of it, Unqualified.

just another lori story

A Lorry Story

 A Lorry Story

My name is Lori. A lorry is a truck in England. It's disconcerting to see signs that say "beware of lorries", "watch for the lorry!", etc. 

Once, I asked a physician for a shot in my fanny. (I was trying to be polite.) A "fanny" is a vagina in England. The good doctor and I sorted that one out privately. Point is, to stick around England for any length of time, I had to learn English. And I did. 

I learned not to ask for Bandaids or Kleenex, but plasters and tissues. A motorway does make more sense than a parkway and bloody is good. Or bad. You decide. 

 I stuck around for years. My favorite port to sail from is Falmouth, in Cornwall. There's yet another "English" to learn in Cornwall and the best breakfast I ever had in my life at Trevaylor Inn, but that's another story. The quaint shops, the scent of the sea, some clotted creme and pasties, kept me entranced for hours while our ship was in port. I love it there. Feels like Shakespeare once walked there when no one anywhere was named "Lori".

So imagine me climbing the quaint cobblestone street that Shakespeare very well may have clambered when I heard "Lori" hollered out. I turned, but remembered where I was and knew I'd imagined that. Kept walking. The voice got louder and closer --- "Lori!" Ernesto came running across the street. Gorgeous Ernesto. A crewmate. The best smelling crewmember onboard. I don't know what scent Ernesto wore, but he's inhaled to memory, and I can still smell him. Any time I'd see him on the ship, we'd hug. Ernesto hugged everyone all day. He hugged his way around every ship.

 I once saw him in Spain, hugging his way around the Malaga coastline after siesta. Smells are primal. Ernesto's ancestors may have invented that.

Anyway, we laughed to see each other. Imagine that. I could be twenty years in Atlanta without running into someone, but in Cornwall, I got called out in the street. I saw heads swivel because Ernesto hollered "Lorry" in their minds. I sniffed his neck, we chatted and hugged goodbye --- OK, it was really a bottomless breathe-in, but I wanted to buy a bra at Marks & Spencer so I could linger in their dressing room with the window that overlooks the ocean and see the saleslady who calls everyone "Love." 

There was a lorry coming from the hill, so we waved goodbye. People were looking at me step across in my swishy dress. It wouldn't be a good idea for this Lori to be mashed in Falmouth by another lorry. I mean, how would they write that? They'd need another English... I was gobsmacked. But Ernesto smells soooooo good.

And I'm not a truck.

Just Another Lori LORRY Story 

My Casting Couch

 

MY CASTING COUCH

Being a casting director meant a front row view to crazy. A cool kind of crazy. An accidental career, it evolved from me being an actress, to landing a principal role on America's Most Wanted as Atlanta's Buckhead Cat Burglar, to the producer and I ice-skating and becoming friends, to her then hiring me to “cast” all Southeastern episodes for Fox TV and America's Most Wanted.

Might I mention that the producer is the only person that I ever had to rush to the emergency room from the ice rink? She fell on the ice and I skated across her outstretched hand with my recently sharpened blades. Ouch. She was an amateur with rental skates, I was a competitive skater with pro skates. We bonded over that nutty experience and her 21 stitches and an adorable midnight doctor. I'd never hurt anyone on the ice before or since. And when a skater falls, it's a good idea not to flail the fingers across the ice, but blood spots left behind do tend to slow down the rowdy skaters, so there's that.

I thought I'd get fired! Instead, we became besties.

I'd already been moonlighting and working for another casting director and had picked up a few assignments, but AMW was my longest and biggest client. They were great to work for. And that allowed me to go out on my own and I flourished.

AMW kind of casting was mostly “real people” casting. They sent me Polaroids (yes “sent”, and “Polaroids”... ha... look it up), and I had to find actors or real people who looked like the thugs or victims. This was the beginning of “reality TV” and evolved from a long writer's strike in the 80s.

Real stars were mostly out. No Sandra Bullock or Pierce Brosnan. Real people. I'd go into restaurant kitchens, flea markets, stores in the mall, anywhere to find my match. It was great fun. People who cooked a meal at Rio Bravo on Tuesday could be filming on a set by Friday and making in one day what they might make in a year. There's good money in stardom. That's why so many people want it.

I got to travel the world. I worked with big stars, little stars, and everything in between. Auditions were a hoot. Nearly everyone fibs a little. Alright, LIES. Mostly about age or height and always about abilities. The guy who said he could ride a horse looked like an ass when I had to ride out to rescue him from the top of a hill. He was screaming and the horse was bucking.

I liked on-camera, in-person auditioning. I miss that. It's not done the same way in the age of technology. When auditioning in person, there's a unique communicative process that does not translate to the current self-tape submissions. It was harder work, that's for sure, involving phones and papers and glossy headshots and now it's zip, zip, done.

It was stunning to audition Miss America one time for a big part. I'll never forget her arm muscles and my break with professionalism to ask her how she got those guns. Answer: 150 pushups every day. (I started the next day. With 2.)

My personal favorite was after 9/11 when Cartoon Network made a short for the kids about what happened. It was filmed inside an active quarry and everyone in the feature dressed like the Flintstones and I just went ahead and cast myself in a special part. (I'd worked with Turner Studios and they trusted my choices.) It sounded like fun and I wanted to see a quarry! They had to make me really dirty and poured rocks and dirt and all kinds of soot all over me. We had a great meal catered deep down in the quarry for dinner. It was a fantastic setting. Then I drove home half-naked in my Wilma Flintstone suede animal hide, filthy dirty, and prayed no police would see me and stop me. I'd had dozens of parts and played many characters. This was a fun one. But I don't do dirty very well.

Many commercial clients rewarded employees with roles in adverts or industrial films. (Commercials or in-house made movies for training purposes.) There was an industrial for Memorial Medical Center in Savannah and besides real actors, they sent doctors and nurses and exemplary staff to audition. An obnoxious lab-coated “doctor” pushed his way to the front of the line, said he was in a hurry and had to get done. “I'm a doctor! I can't wait out here. I'll have to leave in a few minutes.” Hmmmm. I feel that way when I go to a doctor's office. Why do I have to wait?

My camera guy and I had worked together for years and had developed a sort of silent eyeroll/eyebrow signaling method. This guy wasn't going to make it, but I had to be polite and carry on. No way is this asshole getting the part.

You see, people think casting directors have loads of power. That's not necessarily true. The power we do have is to make sure a particular person is never seen. See how that goes? We can recommend people and yes, casting people have their core talent that get special advantages, but that's another story. These were the days of tape and video tape could be rewound and your auditon “lost”. Being a jerk is never a good idea.

Anyway, we auditioned the guy. Everyone waiting shuffled awkwardly outside and we heard the buzz and we carried on like normal and we were nice and it was done. We said bye. We moved on.

A few minutes later, the guy burst back in the room … I kid you not … and laughed and said, “By the way, I'm not really a doctor, but thanks!” I guess he wanted to demonstrate that he could act. I don't know. But without missing a beat, I said, “No problem, I'm not really a casting director.” I winked at him and waved. He slunk away. We pulled out his headshot and ripped it to pieces and backed up that tape and took him off.

I cast adverts for Anheuser-Busch decades ago, then they opened a huge plant in Cartersville, GA. It was luxurious in there! Unexpected marble everywhere, plush surroundings in the middle of “nowhere”. They wanted to use employees, so I'd come out and audition them on camera. I had to be extra caring, because these were beer guys or executives, not actors. They didn't know what to do and most people are uncomfortable with a camera pointed at them.

Each guy would say his name and what he did, “slate” in film terminology. They mostly ended with “BP&S ma'am” (it's the South and boys are raised to be polite. I wasn't really a ma'am in my 30s).

BPS. BPS. BPS. It was funny to me and my cameraman, but we just smiled and moved on. Finally I asked a guy, what the heck BPS stands for? “Beer, packaging and shipping, ma'am.” Everybody laughed.

But he was the BPS chief of operations and when the auditioning was over, he whispered to me to bring my car to the back of the compound and he would be waiting there for me. I did. I pulled to the fence behind all the buildings and there they were: all the BPS boys lined up with cases and cases of beer and every conceivable Anheuser-Busch branded goodie they had. My car could barely scrape off the pavement from the weight in my trunk.

I went home and unloaded the treasures from a day's work and enjoyed a film starring the Anheuser-Busch clydesdales while crunching beer nuts. Cartersville holds some splendid secrets. And being a casting director is a cool way to uncover secrets.

Just Another Lori Story

A Movie Star Horse Crop

 

A MOVIE STAR HORSE CROP

Locked between my legs vibrated the most thrilling half-ton of hair-trigger muscle I'd ever clung hard to, a horse so fast, so scary and wild with urge, that I had to hang on. I had to.

The sound of those hooves, a staccato by steed, the muscle and enormous power, a thankfully thick mane that I had to grab a hunk of, the sheer force of nature upon which I perched without pause or consideration for the danger between my legs is why I bought that crazy racehorse that day. I fell in love. It was the ride of my life.

And that's how I came to have a horse at Cohutta Lodge in the great beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains of Georgia, just above Ellijay. It was a long time ago, but I remember all of it: Cohutta, the smell of the stables, rawhide, horses, leather, sweat, and puppies, the gorgeous forest and lodge, Joe, the Stableman … and nearby Atlanta as it used to be during my glory days as a casting director and living the leisure life.

I'd drive up to Cohutta and have fancy lunch at the lodge and ride horses every week, sometimes twice a week. Joe and I became friends and he'd often go with me into the mountains or we'd break new horses for trail riding. I liked helping out around the stables. Joe sometimes asked me to bring up the back of a pack of riders. He'd lead the group and I watched for trouble or rode up to hold a horse that scared a rider or catch one that tried to run. It worked well for the horses, and Joe let me have run of the place in return.

My favorite thing to do was the exhilarating run up the open grass meadow straight to the lodge where people would be seated out on the open deck having cocktails or lunch. The horses loved running that wide swath of hill too, but regular riders were not allowed to do it, because no telling who could or could not keep control of a breakout horse that wanted to run. When going out on my own, I picked “animated” animals to take into the mountains. Yes, I got thrown a couple of times, never in front of the lodge, thankfully. It's humiliating to hike it back through the woods, but a good bruiser of a lesson.

Then one day, a horse was tied up at the top of the long pebble driveway to the stalls when I got there, away from the other horses. At almost 17 hands, Liker (pronounced “liquor”) was huge. Kicking around and angry, I went to calm her, but Joe hollered up not to bother with her, that she was wild and he put her there because kids were coming.

I reached out a tentative hand anyway. The horse intrigued me. Danger usually does. She relaxed right away and I went closer. Joe ran up the road with a rope. “Watch out, she might kick you. She was a race horse and definitely isn't a fan of being tied up, but I can't take time to deal with her now.”

“I want to ride her,” I said.

“No way. She's wild, I tell you. Seriously, Lori, she's a really skittish fast horse and I don't know....”

“Really, Joe. Let's go. Come with me. I'll help you get the kids out for the trail ride and let's go! Look, she's fine.” I started stroking her long mane and talking to her. The horse responded gently, her big eyes following my every move. She bowed her head and tilted a knee, both signs of acceptance.

“Wow,” Joe said, “maybe you can ride her. I've not seen her let anyone get this close. If you can get a saddle on her, sure, why not?”

Liker. I Like Her. Liker for short. A thoroughbred. Four years old. She'd won a few races, nothing important. She was pretty. Very pretty. And too spooky for regular riders because she was massive and double-quick, could stop short, and had too many compulsive actions that scared people and other horses.

Joe and I got the riders going and then we went out, just the two of us. Initially, I had no trouble with Liker. I really liked her! It's weird, sometimes, being on horses that are that high off the ground, but if they have a good gait, smooth withers, a nice temperament, and a luxurious mane in case of emergency – ha! - I can forget that I might be 2 stories off the hard ground. If a huge horse is clippity-clop unsteady, then it's worse. It hurts after awhile.

And then there's this: the faster you go, the easier the ride.

I learnt that by accident the first time a horse took off with me and I was screaming at the top of my lungs. I tell you as that horse flew through the woods, there came a second when I caught myself realizing that I was still ON the horse and it felt kind of smooth. Trotting isn't so smooth. Running is very smooth! I sat back and let it happen and I liked it.

It's like flying. Galloping on horseback. All that bouncity-bounce stuff stops and you just sail through wind riding a giant breathing machine that warms with a run. It's glorious. Most people would be very afraid to do that, because they don't know that once the full-out-gallop breaks forth, it's actually a more comfortable ride and pretty nice. I didn't know. I do now!

Anyway, I bought Liker and it was a grand love affair. She'd lean her heaviness against my shoulders when I'd dig into her frogs with a hoof pick to clean around her shoes. It's as though that tickled her or something. If anyone else tried to get her to lift a leg, Liker did, right into them as high as she could. Nobody understood the temperament or why we got along so nicely, but we did. Plus it was funny to watch other people approach her to pet a nice horse. She'd capably scare them away.

But there was nothing to beat that first day out with Joe and that first dash-run around that sharp corner at the edge of a cliff, and every time I went out after that, I looked forward to that needlelike bend and grabbed a hunk of mane just in case. Liker got predictable, but I was never sure how she'd be when we were headed home to fresh hay and sweet beets.

I could hear Joe hollering behind me when we'd take off. Liker had weird ghosts too, especially about small ponds or streams of water and any snakes. Sometimes I had to get off to walk her over the tiniest bit of water. It was hilarious. A snake would make her rear up and wig her out for awhile. She didn't like the occasional black bear, who was more afraid of us than we were of him, but still, there were a few tense standoffs and sinister stares. Assorted other little creatures, and then, red foxes. Those little things would dart out of tall grass across the path in front of us and nothing scared my horse more than a red fox on the run. She would have certainly failed fox-hunt school. And I barely avoided whiplash or back injuries by Liker's frenetic avoidance stride, a pace jarring, her eyes and ears on high alert. The fox tail would fade fast, but the horse took time to settle. Red foxes ruined a few rides.

I was working on a movie in Atlanta with a well-known film director one afternoon, and we were sitting around between scenes outside Neiman-Marcus in Lenox Mall and chatting about horses and Cohutta. Moved by my description, he invited himself to come out for a ride after we wrapped that day and I called ahead and set it up with Joe.

A few of us went out and took a nice trail ride and a posh picnic about an hour out that Joe had put together. Liker got a little testy when we left the stables with the added attention and the director gifted me his horse crop once we got going. He leaned over and handed it to me and said, “Here, use this. Just show it to her. You can keep it.” It was lovely! A handmade braided beauty, the crop had a comfort feel in the hand, a luxurious touch, and Liker never needed anything but a view of that whip to come to attention. She wasn't used to this many horses or men on “her” mountain. We settled into an easy ride and dinner was served with a side of sarcasm about the movie set and the Atlanta populace.

This was the second time I worked with this director (we'd also made a movie on Tybee Island) and I'd visited his ranch and when he's out on a horse, he's an entirely different man than you would imagine. Funny. Introspective. A bit daring and I like that. That, and I've never seen any man handle horses the way he does. The original “Horse Whisperer” and Liker responded to his bids. She never did that for anyone else except me. She didn't even listen to Joe.

We rode past dark and Joe led us back to the stables through the lush forest on a different starlit path. The spontaneous evening, enjoyable and refreshing for our small crew.

It wasn't until I got home that I thought about the crop. Oh no! I didn't remember using it on the ride back in and couldn't find it. It wasn't in my car or with my riding tack. It vanished and I didn't remember when or where. It had sentimental impact for me. It was a treasured gift, a souvenir of an important ride. It was gone.

I called Joe the next day and told him about it, asking him to look for it when out on the trails. But it was the beginning of fall and leaves were starting to carpet the dirt trails and “finding” anything, let alone a small leather riding crop that would blend into the brush was probably impossible.

When I went back a few days later, the determination to find that crop was fierce. Crazy, to be honest. The mountains are vast. The territory wild. No telling where it would be and the leaves were thick underfoot, slippery in some places and Liker wasn't happy.

Begging Joe to go with me, he agreed to retrace our trip from the week before. My body popped in the saddle and I had to grab hunks of mane hair a few times. Leaves rattled underneath, the scenery was gorgeous, but early autumn in the woods has an eerie appeal. Unknown rushes of wind and rustling underneath make riding sketchy, running inadvisable, and here we were looking for this very small thing way below us. I knew the odds were nil.

By the time we got to the picnic place, a rustic built open shed, I'd relinquished my obsession. I was tired. Joe was tired. The horses were tired. It was getting dark and the effort was silly. We sat on a log and had a drink and agreed to go back. Someone had left a mess there and that made us mad, so we went about cleaning it up, cans, bottles, a pizza box, etc.

The last thing I picked up was the pizza box. And there it was. The Crop. Right under our noses, right under that box. Just waiting. I screamed. Joe laughed. It must have fallen off Liker when we were there with the film guys. Such a funny thing.

Neither of us could believe we'd found what we went looking for in the vast Cohutta mountains. But we did. Intention is everything, especially when sprinkled with dogged determination and lots of dumb luck. We saw a red fox on the way back and Liker bolted and I showed her the braided crop and she settled down.

The only item I have left from those days is The Crop. I cherish it. I recently tossed my tack and boots and old stuff. None of it fits the same anyway.

There are Holy Moments in my life, moments where a stark separation of before and after will always be marked. All my moments at Cohutta are Holy that way. The venerable lodge and stables burned down, everything disappeared. Today they are building subdivisions there.

Liker died. Atlanta became a bloated monstrosity of a place. Everything changes. There was that first day I saw Liker, the day with the puppies everywhere, all the storied rides and adventures with Joe and others, and the joyful day when we found a lost crop. These were the happy days of my life and my gratitude gallops. It's more comfortable to go fast.

Just Another Lori Story

LORI ON ICE

 I went skating today and after warming up a bit, decided I would like to try a little footwork, something fast, maybe fancy footwork. Imagining my moves, I charted a path, noticing safe harbors in case I needed to rest. Then I felt afraid. Oh no, that's not acceptable, I thought....can't have fear here on the ice...."you know the rules, if you're afraid, you have to do it." 

Sucking up chilled air, I resolved to do half the rink and not commit to more unless it felt smooth. Just enough to face down the fear. 

 A few turns, a fast swizzle, a 3 turn, improv, just keep it going. Stepping back against the boards, I braced and set and turned to crank the music.

Then I saw him. My old coach, Mike. He popped up ahead of me, in the middle distance, directly in my eyeline, looking right at me. Wow. I hadn't seen Mike in years and there he was, plain as day, smiling at me and waving me over. I stared and squinted and stayed calm while listening within. 

His mouth moved. I heard him. Mike reminded me about my knees and not to look down at my feet, to stay focused on him, looking ahead, and watch my arms and not to over rotate like I always used to do. "You can do this, Lori, c'mon, you're taking all the right steps... Let's Go." 

He didn't look away. Still stunned to see him, I took it as a sure sign that I could skate right to him, no stumbles, no fear, no breaking focus. It's Mike. He's smiling. And GO! 

I never broke my gaze and I knew it was going to be perfect as I pushed from the boards. I skated right to him. All the way, not too fast, but firm and certainly sure I'd make it and surprisingly fancy-footed with the widest grin of gruntled amusement to go with the glide across. 

When I got to the end, he winked and beamed a resolute smile. Mike nodded, his eyes crinkled with pride. It was perfect. And unbelievably weird and mystical to see my coach again. Mike died 25 years ago. 

I've often thought about him and remember most of what he taught me. But this was the first time he popped up like that, as clear as the ice sheet l skated across that forever binds us together. 

I looked over to be sure. Mike was still there. Still smiling. Still nodding. 

just another lori story

MONTE CARLO

 

Monte Carlo

When you walk into the Casino at Monte Carlo, there is a golden statue to rub for good luck. There is also a swollen table minimum to walk beyond that luxury lobby point and that's why only the rich people are allowed to pass through.

“Proper attire” is required. Read: Americans better brush up on becoming dress. No, you can't wear shorts. Or flip-flops, sports shoes, logo T-shirts, and for goodness sake, leave the ballcap for the ballpark. It's not only Americans who can't dress nicely anymore, but they are the ones most discussed with disgust.

Citizens of Monaco are banned from the casino. They are banned from gambling due to moral reasons. The Princely family did not want Monegasque citizens to gamble away their money and since Monaco is an independent state, gambling laws do not have to conform to those in France.

Outside the casino, conspicuously parked, are the most expensive and gorgeous cars in the world. Cars you've never seen or heard of, cars you've dreamed of, cars you wouldn't believe exist. Exquisite examples of the coolest cars. Vintage and brand new lined in a row along the front curb. A race car from the Grand Prix always takes a spot. You're bound to hear that car roar around the sharp corner coming from behind the right side of the Casino as it ascends the hilltop where the casino is perched. Even a Rolls Royce would have a challenge to be parked out front in that row of about a dozen stunner cars. It would have to be a very special Rolls. Can you imagine a Rolls Royce as mediocre? Occasionally, a celebrity gets to park an ordinary car among the extraordinary, since the presence of fame outflanks every vehicle.

Fancy outfitted valets take all the other cars and park them out of sight or underground so the famous or fabulous out front can be seen after being heard. It's a spectacle. Just sitting on a bench in the center park square and watching the flow from the casino is a worthwhile show. And it's free.

Not much is free in Monte Carlo. The atmosphere all around the small country is crisp and expensive. Smells like money. Fancy everything. The smallest details in public spaces are spruced up in refined ways to be better, more comfortable, surprising, and luxurious. The wrought iron curly-cues on benches, the fancy chandelier streetlights, the expensive art and architecture, statues worthy of museums, and gardens so lush and lushly scented that they take your breath away. It's magical, Monte Carlo. The Principality is literally breathtaking everywhere you look, beyond exquisite approaching the harbor from the Mediterranean, but outside of the Palace and surrounding area, which overlooks the famed Jacque Cousteau observatory, it's the Casino that holds the mystique of opulence. It's the Casino that hoovers in the world's riches and supports the small country. There are no property, personal, or income taxes in Monaco.

I know about that advancing roar from a race car, because I came to the Casino in a race car one day. Lucky to be the guest of someone with money to burn, we were directed to wait while they moved a “lesser” car away and we parked third from the left out front. My mouth dropped open at the sight of Casino Square. It did look just like in the movies, but the elegance and colors and crowds of people pop more vividly in person, in a way that titillated all my senses to tilt off meter. I sat still and looked in awe while my host stepped out to throngs of admirers and a bunch formed to take pictures. Fame is funny. People want to be near it, as if by association, it makes them more noteworthy. I'd been working with a film crew, casting, we'd just finished a scene at the Monaco Grand Prix, and one of the starring actors “borrowed” this car and borrowed me, and here we were one afternoon to make a splash. The Casino counted on his cash.

I stepped out to walk out of frame from the camera hounds and after a few minutes, we finally broke free and went inside. Proof of identity is required to check citizenship and there is an entry fee, which was waved for us. The fawning stops inside the Casino, since there are many rich and famous people, mostly sequestered in private rooms or games, but still, there's a difference between public and private and the surroundings demand privacy, like most casinos. After that, it's just an ordinary, albeit opulent Casino, brilliantly hued, laden with gold, everywhere. Gold walls, gold statues, gold accents, gold, gold, gold. A treasure chest of possibility. It's quiet compared to most casinos. It's not loaded with noisy slot machines. Slots aren't for high rollers. This is Baccarat and Blackjack. This is James Bond style betting. Roulette, Poker, private games, secrets. This is “shaken, not stirred” gambling, millions of Euros moving around every minute of every day. This is Big Money.

I don't know anything about Baccarat, so I watched and learned. My escort knew what he was doing. He won. I won at Roulette, but not much, and decided to keep the chip as souvenir rather than cash it in. Clever that they emboss “Monte Carlo” on chips that are more like coins. Craps was exciting and fast, expensive and elegant. Everyone around the table, dressed to the nines. I dared one field bet and then won bigger on a hard 8 bet, but mostly watched the fast action and badinage between the more astute gamblers. I recognized two celebrities who were the most fun at the table, regaling all the others with their stories and jokes. Our table had the noise, the buzz, the loud laughter that bubbles and warms inside big wins.

I watched a famous singer across the floor win a big hand at Black Jack and she sang a tune out loud right there and to glorious applause from the floor when she finished. Then she stood up and took a big bow with a flair that only the famous and fabulous get away with. More applause and laughter echoed through the celebrated gaming house. Moments like that broke up the din of spins and clanging chips and secret hand movement signals across tables. Monte Carlo Casino, a distinctly different gaming house, a den of affluent pleasure and bonhomie.

There is a Buzz in there. A bombinating vacuum. The sights and sounds of wealth vibrate differently. It's perceptible. It may be the world's premier casino. Although there's bigger, I don't think there's prettier. Macau, San Juan, Las Vegas, even Oklahoma have bigger and opulent gaming places, but Monte Carlo comes with fantasy and history, legend and aura.

After a couple hours, we left to walk around, get a bite to eat and mill through the throngs of tourists from all over the world. We were stopped a lot. People wanted pictures and there were stares, pointing fingers, and not so hushed whispers wherever we went. My friend is quite used to this, but it's a spectacle that felt foreign to me. He would laugh and after a nice nod or two to unafraid fans, would whisk me away by the arm onward to the next place. At one point, we ducked into a darkened gambling place that serves as a spot for regular people to place bets. It looked more like a video arcade from the 1980s, but there was real gambling plus cooled air and a pause for privacy while we played around for fifteen minutes. I played Roulette and won. It felt like luck.

The hotel across the square is equally luxurious, also world famous. The food and service, impeccable and unequaled. We stopped in for an indulgent late lunch. Very French, always with astonishing extras, little touches of elegant. The shops nearby are world class. We window shopped around the sumptuous stores, then at Graff's jewelers on the corner, the world's most renowned jeweler, then went inside because I had to try on a significant natural yellow diamond and see it up close. Short the 3.7 million Euros to purchase it, I settled for a fancy ice cream cone from next door, with sprinkles. That cone cost $17. It is Monte Carlo, after all.

Just Another Lori Story