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I was in LA on Wednesday and Thursday for meetings, and once again I stayed at the home of the infinitely faboo [ profile] explosivo, for whom I am regularly grateful beyond words.

The day of the big meeting I was up quite early, which as you know is not my forté. About 7:15am I staggered half-asleep into the shower without closing the bathroom window shutters, so when I got out of the shower and looked out the window, I was standing bare-ass naked in front of...

Dakota Fanning. Who was walking her dog in front of [ profile] explosivo's house. The dog had chosen that moment to stop for a wee tinkle. Dakota seemed completely oblivious to my magnificent breasts, a reaction which is frankly all too common, but in this case it was a relief. So began the day.

The meeting went fine. I'll say no more for now. Discretion is my middle name. Well, one of the many middle names. We met at a pretty colorful place on the PCH called Patrick's Roadhouse. I'd been a smidge nervous, and afterwards I was ready to decompress a bit...and the ocean was right there, after all. I drove over to Will Rogers state beach, stripped naked in the back of the Camry and pulled on my swimsuit. (I live in California. There's always a swimsuit in the car.) Grabbed the iPod, threw a towel down on the sand and soaked in the sun. It was an incredibly beautiful day.

I was going to relax in the sun awhile, and just leave it at that. But as I was getting ready to go, I thought--no, this was a big day, and big days demand more. "I'll just get my feet wet," I said to myself. "You know, like 'get your feet wet'. It's a metaphor." Down I went to the water's edge. I took a deep breath and walked in. Baby steps. The water was colder than I expected, but it was fine. I waded in up to my knees, a big grin on my face, and breathed a sigh of relief. Easy! Nothing to it! I'm so very clever!

Ten seconds later a riptide had pulled me about 800 feet out to sea. A white flash of panic. I fought hard against the tide, frantic, but not too frantic to feel embarrassed at my imminent death, or to have a momentary flash of what horrible things would be done to my movie if I drowned, or if everyone would think I was pulling a Norman Maine. I swam as hard as I could but it was useless, I just kept getting further and further out, black waves crashing over my head, Santa Monica slipping away in the seafoam distance. I have to think, have to keep a clear head, I kept telling myself. What do you do? Finally I remembered something--what was it, Baywatch?--about not fighting it, floating until it lets you go, then swimming parallel and back to the shore? And here we are. There's another one I owe you, Hasselhoff.

I stumbled weakly back to shore, a little sick to my stomach, feeling simultaneously stupid, lucky, and darkly amused. "'It's a metaphor'", I muttered snidely. "Sure as hell is."


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August 2009

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