We booked three nights at Port Townsend's Manressa Castle for the 24rth, 25th and 26th. Small room, okay view, hints of haplessly wandering ghosts, overly expensive Christmas dinner (of which we didn't partake), great bar - - we left after spending one night. We didn't have to look at each other and say, "Nah,", we didn't have to say, "We can do better than this," we didn't really say much of anything at all. We woke up on Christmas Day and I said murmured something like, "Let's get out of here and go down to the Tides," and Alan said, "Yeah," and we high-tailed it out of there. We didn't have to recite the reasons why. I knew the reasons why, he knew the reasons why, and we each knew that the other knew, without having said a word about it.

Kapish?
Right.
When you know you know.

Further back. June, 2008. I said to my friend Magge, "Someday I'd really love to live on Bainbridge Island" and Magge said, "Well, why don't you?" and four days later, I bought a townhouse on Bainbridge Island. I don't like to house shop any more than I like to do any other kind of shopping. If it isn't plaid, and doesn't have diamonds, I'll consider it. If I don't have t tie a knot, even better. If I can get somebody else to take a look at the kitchen and to see if there's any decent kind of storage space, whoopee.

Get it?
I'm easy, that way.
When I know I know.

At the party Alan invited me to, the family party held for his birthday, his cousin George's birthday and one other relative whose name (sorry! sorry!) I can't remember, that's when I knew. I knew as simply and surely as a thirsty man knows that water is what is absolutely needed. It was the third time we'd met. He spent just the right amount of time next to me. He spent just the right amount of time away from me. His relationship with his daughter looked loving and respectful on both sides. He touched me just enough. Years ago, oh, many, I'd taught that kind of social touching in workshops at the Bangor Base. He was a natural. I didn't need a second opinion. I didn't need another date. I didn't need a fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eight opinion. Three. One, two, three. Just enough.

Three.
Like the legs of a milk stool.
When you know you know.

On the other hand,I know I shouldn't be doing. Driving, for instance. I know shouldn't be behind the wheel. I'm not good there. When I'm behind the wheel, I DON'T know. One of the gifts I received for Christmas this year (no, not from Alan) was a key-locater so I can even FIND my car-keys. Or: trying to read a map. I shouldn't even OPEN a map. It's ludicrous to try. Everyone who knows me knows this. Because, although "When I know I know," the opposite may also be said of me - - "When I DON'T know, I DON'T know."

Ah, well.

I wanted to write a terrific blog on the WHEN YOU KNOW YOU KNOW theme. I wanted to write it tonight. But Life got in the way and handed me a broken afternoon and then a evening. A fire, a metaphorical fire, but a fire, nonetheless, has broken out regarding my son, and I am torn into pieces inside my chest. I won't be okay for a couple of days and it's no use putting off writing just because certain pieces of me are going to be busted up for awhile; those pieces will just have to heal in their own good time while the rest of me, like Time, marches on. Crap waits for no one, especially during holiday time.Especially big cruddy pieces like these.

Like cow pies.
Like cow pies with steam spewing out.
Like cow pies still wet in the middle and you slip and end up all squished up on your butt in the middle of one.
And you feel like you're ten years old again.
And you want to throw back your head and yell, "Hey, if there's a plug out there, would somebody mind pulling it?"

But nobody you know has that kind of plug and if you knew somebody with one you'd dust yourself off and run like hell because you want to see where this next year takes you. Because there could be angels sitting on the fence posts. Somebody could bring you wildflowers. Maybe you could get married. Probably you could dance some more. Way, way more. Probably you're gonna laugh some more. A lot more. And listen to more Leonard Cohen and more the Reverend Al Green, especially his song,"Belle". And Tony Bennett. And Ray Charles. And eat more bagels. And make more chicken salad. And read more Lorca and Neruda out loud.

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Phenomena is Us

Uh.....unusual, significant, a marvel. Three marvels. See them. Speak to them. Poke 'em in the ribs. Take 'em to lunch, why don't you. I am in the mood to write what I call "gut-busting" metaphors. "These Three Phenoms Will Blow Your Fruitcake!" "These three Phenoms Will Shatter Your Nervous System!" "Gut-Wrenching!" "Heart-Busting!" "Searing!" "Unequivocally Darling!" (Okay, okay, that's enough) - - I just like the picture, that's all. It was taken Sunday, when we were at Aleister's house.

I was engaged in conversation with a friend this morning. We were speaking about Jesus. Poor Jesus. We both agreed we just couldn't "get with" Him. He didn't seem real enough to us, we said. For one thing, He was too good. For another, there was no reference to a sex life. He was supposed to be part man. Well....where WAS that part? All the men WE'D ever known went around horny from age thirteen to ..... gee, does it ever really end? I mean, at least, in the mind? How can you trust a guy who doesn't suffer over the lack of a woman? How do you trust a guy who doesn't at least pay for a ticket once in a while? Is crucifiction really enough? Why? There are worse deaths. There were worse deaths then, there are worse deaths now. If crucifiction were really enough, I'd know how to spell it.


About presents. I like to work the week of Christmas because my patients bring me presents. So far, I've wracked up: a jar of real honest-to-God homemade mince-meat. Three gorgeous pieces of costume jewelry: a pin and a set of matching earrings. I'll wear the pin on New Year's Eve. And this Christmas evening at the Manressa Castle. A plate of homemade cookies. A plate of homemade fudge. And that's just so far today! There'll be more! Am I crass? Do you think I'm crass? No, no, no, no, no, I'm not crass. I'm just saying! I love it. I can't help it. I've always loved presents, ever since I was a little girl and my mother taught me how to open them without anybody seeing the evidence. We both did it. Then there was the year Grandpa got on the stepladder and piled our presents way up high on the tallest piece of furniture in their formal living room and, while trying to get at them with the broom, Mama knocked them all down the back of the tallest piece. Of furniture. And she had to confess. And I was so mad at her I wanted to spit. So we had to tell Grandpa. And it took three men - Grandpa, Daddy and Uncle John to move the tallest piece and drag out the presents. We hung our heads in shame (fake shame) until those presents were placed back under the tree ("where they BELONG"). We did it anyway. We got up at three that night and did it anyway. We opened them. Only Aunt Nettie, sitting in the big grey chair, dressed in grey silk, smoking her Canadian cigarette held in a real black onyx cigarette holder, drinking real liquor (usually forbidden) from a small champagne glass and chuckling quietly,saw. When she died, she willed all her old fur coats to Mama. Mama gave them to me. I still wear one or two.

Mama was a bad girl. Nettie was a bad girl. I am a bad girl, too. And, on the other side of being bad, Mama was a good girl. Nettie was a good girl. I am a good girl, too. That's what's right. That's what's right about this and every other picture. That's what's right about Christmas. That's what's right about The Day of the Dead. That's what's right about Mardi Gras. That's what's right about Veterans' Day and Columbus Day and Thanksgiving. Those Pilgrim's were a stupefyingly uptight bunch of geeks until you got to know their dark side, then they turned into new turkeys altogether. That's what's right about nearly every person you know. And that's what SHOULD be right about Jesus, if only we had all the information. I'm just tired of using my imagination to make Him be human. There is very little that is more miraculous than birth. Except for a man with no lust in his heart. And that ain't no good miracle, I'll tell you that right now. I know, I know, that's just me talkin'. I'm just sayin'. I'm just singin'.

I'm just singin' the Good Old Phenom Blues.

WINTER

I Took Alan to a party and introduced him around as if he were a big stuffed toy, like Jimmy Stewart did with his tall white rabbit Harvey,in the movie "HARVEY", whenever he got drunk. That is, when Jimmy Stewart got drunk, not Harvey. Harvey wasn't really real. (Or was he?) I've never had a big (well, Alan's not exactly big, he's slender, but he's certainly tall) - - toy to show off before. It's fun. And it's interactive.

You get to show the tall toy off and then the person you're showing the toy off to asks (they have to ask SOMETHING) how you met so you get to tell them and that leads to more questions and pretty soon you're just babbling away, happily filling them full of all sorts of information they probably don't really want to know but boy, do they ever know it now. It's good for diets, because, as everybody knows, if you're talking a lot, you're not eating a lot. I didn't eat until I got home. That was our one and only Christmas party and I'd say it was a resounding success.

We couldn't wait for Christmas, so we opened our presents this past weekend, paper flying everywhere. I had only Bainbridge Island to choose from so Alan's presents from me were a little........"Islandy".....and he had Olympia to choose from, so his presents to me were perfect. Perfect. Some were practical, like the beautiful knitted and lined wool gloves and slippers or the furry hat or the gorgeous multi-stone earrings with the turquoise in the center or the terrific book written by Kurt Vonnegut's son titled "Just Like Someone Without Mental Illness Only More So" or the beautiful little turquoise colored lidded pot which now sits on the table next to the turquoise blown glass bowl or the couple of ___________s I won't be mentioning here but they look like they could be fun when we have time and inclination. Well, we seem to have the inclination all the time, so I guess it's Time Itself we don't have. Would anybody out there like to donate us some of their precious time? Somebody out there with too much time, anyone?

We paid a visit to Aleister and his family on Sunday. When we walked through the door, Aleister was bent over a pamphlet-thing, filling in a page or two with check marks and words. "What are you doing, there, Aleister?" I asked. "I'm giving out vaccinations," Aleister said, "it's my Christmas present," he added. "You mean your Christmas present is going to be giving vaccinations to kids in Africa?" I asked, looking at the pamphlet? "Yup," he said, "fifty vaccinations for fifty poor kids." I pulled up a chair across from him. "Aleister," I said, "I think that is a really great Christmas present." He took a moment to lift his head and look me in the eyes. His eyebrows have turned really dark and, at the young age of ten, his voice has gotten quite deep. "Mama Kay," he said, "it is a super duper really great Christmas present," he said. Before we left I asked him what he planned on doing with the money I had given him for Christmas. "Uhhhhh," he said, "maybe give more vaccinations or some goats?" he said. "Oh, ALeister," I said, "how about taking some of the money and giving yourself something?" "Okay," he said. He looked at his Mom. "How much do one of those games I like cost?" he asked his Mom. "Fifty dollars," she said. "Then I'd like to buy one of those games and then give my Mom fifty dollars for her car engine," he said.

There's no stopping him. He's just a dang good kid, that's all. People can get wrecked at any time, of course, we all know it happens, we just don't like to think about it. Something happens and ka-boom. One night a rat crosses your path and your doomed. It's the spirit of the times. One morning you get up at an unlikely early morning hour and it's raining outside and even a priest can't save you. But these events are most unusual. But even more unusual is ALeister, hunched over his pamphlet with pictures of African children,his heart swollen in a mix of love and agony of sweetness of spirit, so deep and amiable that it is as stark in unconsciousness and consciousness as that perfect spot of purity that sways in silent balance between the light and the dark that keeps children mostly safe and adults mostly in awe throughout the greyness of the winter days.

Stop Christmas, I Want to Lie Down

I want to figure out how to make things stop happening to me. Or, better yet, I want to figure out how to stop myself from happening to "things". Days ago, in reading Jim's early Journal, I noticed he had written (in 1965) "One thing is: Kay must not be allowed to ever drive a car." I was indignant when I first read that statement, but later I understood. It's pure and simple and honest and true. Kay must never be allowed to drive a car. Because there is so much else one can do while driving a car and those people out there are doing them!! Not only do you have to keep your hands on the wheel and look back and forth and keep your eyes going forward into the rear view mirror and to the left and right and keep in mind that half of those drivers out there are on the verge of nervous breakdowns and heart failures and have just broken up with their loved ones and have just had appendicitis attacks or have been bitten by dogs or bees or their girlfriends - - but they are also yelling into their cell phones and turning up their Ipods and God knows what else, if only God had been keeping up with all this technical shit which, of course, He/She/It hasn't been because He/She/It hasn't had anything at all to do with any of this shit.

I found another pole to run into. That's three. Two on my very own drive way and one on the Olympia freeway. I backed into it because (denial? River of De-Nile?)---my car has no visibility. And neither do I. If I were a car, I wouldn't. I'd be a tricycle. I was highly successful as a tricyclist. Also, as a wagon-puller. I once had a red wagon that I pulled incessantly. But, folks, I can't even get a piece of toast to brown up to the standards of anybody who likes their toast to come out even, and, no, it's not the toaster, it's me. I'm impatient. I'm impulsive. I'm an instant replay sort of person. Not good for toast.

I was so embarrassed about The Third Pole I paid for the damage myself instead of letting my insurance pay. Why should they have to pay for my mistakes? These are things I do not understand. If the world were full of "me's" we would all be much poorer even than we are now.

So I went to the store today. Standing on the curb was a woman, nicely bundled up, holding a sign that read "NEED". I parked my car (I do happen to be a great parallel parker), went up to her and said, "What's going on?" "I need everything," she said. "I've got allergies, I need food, I came here on the train but I got off at the wrong stop, today is clothing day at Helpline House but I don't need clothes, last night was food night and I had a good steak but there won't be steak tonight, there all kinds of foods I just can't eat...." her teeth were all worn down and I'll wager she was quite a few foods I can't eat...." I pulled out a twenty and handed it to her. I gave her a hug. "Oh! You're perfume! You're perfume!" she called out, in protest. I backed off, muttered, "sorry" and kept on walking. I decided I didn't like her very much. I decided I don't have to be a wonderful, heartfelt, angelic giver, just a giver.

This past weekend, at Alan's house near Olympia, the one with the fabulous full frontal view of Mount Rainier rising above Puget Sound, we trimmed his Christmas Tree (a real one - - I put up an iron tree --not true, Robin put up my iron tree and it's beautiful- - maybe I could manage to back my car into my Christmas tree, as well) - - we each put up ornaments from our past. It occurred to me that this tree is a journal of sorts, his two marriages, my two marriages, his child, my children, my life with Jim, his times with his two wives, all the stories, the laughter, the disappointments, the parties, the Christmas dinners, the boxes and platters of cookies, fudge, fruit cake (which I happen to adore), the new robes, the old robes, the children banging their chubby little noses into the lowest ornaments, the children, shaking the boxes, me down there, shaking the boxes, Jim dragging me away from the boxes, the great Christmas music, the crap Christmas music, all those stories from Alan's life and lives and my life and lives and now here we are merging this tree with his precious ornament he made for his daughter Star, the one which is so fragile it keeps breaking year after year and he keeps patiently glueing it back together year after year - and the little perpetually damp pipe-cleaner angel which Jim and I hung near the top of every tree we ever had. Alan's tree has presents beneath it - my tree has none. His tree is the the pig that went to market, my tree is the pig that stayed home. This weekend he will bring his presents here and we'll open them up....I can't remember where or when. We'll be in Port Townsend at the Manressa Castle over Christmas - do we open them there? Or here?

I like our tree that is a Journal. Everybody who has been with each other for at least a few years - - or who is doing it "our way" - has a Journal-Tree - and is fortunate to have such a tree, so that they may tell each other stories, may hold the stories in each other's hearts, adding credence to the 'jimmied up' phrase, "Everybody's Christmas Tree is worth a novel."

The Habit of Being

So this is interesting, this falling in love occurrence. This isn't the so-called psychological "Transitional Object" thing, of which I have had about one thousand or so of, throughout my life, if you include all my pets and teddy bears and pillows shaped like Mr. Peanut as well the odd and not-so-odd men, women and children I have invested in throughout my life - - this is the Actual Love Thing, even if I am blogging about it for known and unknown eyes to see. I realize most people don't do this, but some people do, and I am one of them; I'm sure it would make most people nuts, but those are the people who stay well away from me, so they're okay and I'm okay. Sounds like a title of a book. I can tell this isn't purely infatuation because this doesn't always feel magnificent. Infatuation isn't real. That's why it feels so utterly terrific. I've been through infatuation once or twice and my imagination tells me it must feel like I've heard heroin feels - - profoundly, absolutely, fantastically, monumentally WOW. THIS feels good and swell and comfortable and sizzly and yahooey and a bunch of other words I don't intend to write down here. This feels interesting; fascinating, even. and it feels downright wonderful,often. It feels serious and significant. But it doesn't feel entirely blissful.

It just feels great.
But not all the time.
Sometimes it feels more than great.
And sometimes it feels comfortable and even normal.

We met on Match.com. I liked whatever it was he said. I liked his age. I liked his height. I liked his look. And, when I met him, I liked him. I liked his voice. I liked whatever it was he said, although for the life of me, I can't remember what it was. I can't remember what I said, either. He was late, I remember that. But he called. The second time we met I liked him even more - but I still can't remember what either one of us spoke about. He wanted a song, and I sang him a song. My eyes never left his, I remember that. Why do I blush when I write that line? Why do I continue to blush when I write this next line...nor did his eyes ever leave mine? The third time we met was at a birthday party in Seattle for him, his older cousin George.... and a nephew? I think it was a nephew,I'm not sure. I watched him with his thirty year old daughter. I watched him with his cousin, with his nieces, with each person with whom he engaged. I watched him like a hawk. I wore red cowboy boots and a skirt. And a top. He wore...a whitish shirt. And faded jeans. Blue jeans. He didn't eat much. Nor did he drink much. He spoke well and easily. Every once in awhile he touched my waist. Those little light touches men do. I liked that. Clearly, he knew how to be in a social situation with a woman at a party. that's a great skill for a man to have.

I'm not going to go on and on about this. I think I've done well saying this much. Every relationship creates its own habit of being. You laugh, you cry, you eat this, not that, rarely that, never that, you go to these markets, not those, you read these newspapers, invite these people over, hike here, not there, wake up and talk and cuddle for awhile or jump right up and get the day going, tolerate the clutter or don't, brush your teeth three times a day or two, get a pet or not, decide what's to be tolerated and what's not tolerable, decide what's appropriate and what's not, decide whether it's okay to feel badly or whether it's not okay to feel badly and on and on and on. Whether it's okay to give advice(personally, I hate it), decide whether it's okay to go to sleep while you're both watching your beloved's favorite movie. And more. And more-plus-more. By the way, while I'm on the advice thing, I just have to say that the worst piece of advice ever given has got to be "cheer up". And Ol' Man River, He Just Keeps Rollin' Along.

What I Could Tell You If I Told You

I could tell you that Aleister's voice matches his eyebrows. I could tell you that on Monday it took me three hours to get from Gorst to Bremerton's Mariott Hotel, where I checked in, ate MnMs for dinner and felt like Julia Childs personally rolled each one of those colored little pill-like things for me. I could tell you that yesterday I took 2,000 miligrams of prescription Ibuprofen in one fell swoop and felt nothing at all except pissed. I could tell you that I participated in a poetry reading created by Susan Sweetwater and, once again, heard her own terrific poetry and once more was honored to see her terrific encaustics. I could tell you that Alan met my wonderfully dear Dietz's, Susan Sweetwater, my best friend Christine and her husband Michael, my oldest daughter Kelly and my grandson Morgan, my grandson Aleister and his beloved mom Angela, my friend Robin and my dear friend Jennifer and her husband Michael. I could tell you I'm beginning a writer's class in January. Small. Free. I could tell that, less than twelve hours before a Thanksgiving to which I'd invited twenty people, including Kelly and Morgan, who were flying in from Sacramento, we hadn't had power here for three days, we made it. We did it. I mean, we didn't splice any wires together or anything, the power people put the power back together again, but we managed to cook the turkey and even the guests who still didn't have electricity managed to bring something delicious and we were all so glad to just BE together. I could tell you that I think I'm at least ten pounds fatter than I was before. I could tell you that I spent the night of the poetry reading at the Dietzs and Mel Dietz makes a FINE bed. I could tell you that Alan and I are trading weekends, he's here one weekend, I'm at his house near Olympia the next. He has a water view and a straight on view of Mount Rainier and who wants to give that up, and I;m thirty minutes away from Seattle (Bainbridgonian's call it "the City") and who wants to give THAT up?) so I'm crunching patients (no wrestling holds allowed but plenty of finely honed stacking goin' on).....and that I'm learning about bagels. There are bagels and there are bagels.

"On Island", as they say, there are apparently no bagels. There are packages that SAY they contain bagels, but they do not. Not REAL ones. Fake ones. Tough ones. Artificial ones. Too this. Too that. Not enough this. Or that. Ach, God! Nyah! Nyah! Are these bagels ever awful! I SPIT on these bagels! Spflit! Spflit! Olympia, now, Olympia has good bagels. Not as good as New York, not as good as Jersey (oh, my God, Jersey! Jersey!) but....good enough. Quite good enough, in some instances. My poor toaster, which I was given at my baby shower in 1965, was not a good enough toaster to toast ANY bagel, tasty or non-tasty. So I bought a second toaster, a toaster large enough for....well, apparently large enough for one bager. One. Singular. bagel. Which I took back (I DETEST returning things,) took myself to Macys (I HATE driving to Silverdale,) and bought a big ol' large-enough-for-TWO-WHOLE-DAMN-YOUR-HIDE-DON'T-LOOK-NOW-BESSIE-THE-CAVALRY-IS-COMING-INDUSTRIAL-SIZED-BAGEL-TOASTER-MACHINE. Now, ain't I the one?

Who has the best bagel toaster NOW, huh? Huh? HUH?

Yup. It ain't him.

Me.

Little ol' how-do-you-do-, I-wuz-born-in Silverdale-Washington, ME.

I COULD TELL YOU.

Last night we watched my favorite movie THE GODFATHER, which Alan had never seen. Which Alan had never seen. Which (did I say this before?) Alan had never seen. And there was one place where Michael Corleone, played by Robert DeNiro,(okay, sp) turned and said -- "No", only it came out sounding something like Alan's "no" - kind of like --"nya"--something like that - and we both caught it - and today Alan called and said he just sent Deniro some kind of legal-suit-form for stealing his "nya".....and I laughed.

I could tell you.

People tell me I look happier. Steadier. Realer. Calmer. My psychiatric supervisor has yanked me (okay, weaned me) off antidepressants I've been on since Jim died. I am most interested in all this. I AM happy, but I have NO idea what the hell it is people are talking about. What was I doing, walking around looking unhappy, unsteady, unreal and frenzied? Could no one have told me? I look ten pounds fatter, is what I look. Food will do that for you. Or maybe it's the bagel machine, I don't know.

Or maybe it's laughter.

I could tell you more but I'm tired and I need to go to bed.

Thanksgiving was fun. I made an apple pie with homemade pie crust. Homemade pie crust. Homemade pie crust. The kind I used to make all the time. The kind I will never make again. You hear me? Never make again. Alan's daughter, Star, is a star quality baker. I'll bet she has no trouble whatsoever making pie crust. She shoulda been here. I wouldn't have spent two hours throwing cold water on the pie dough, which lay there on my little kitchen island, looking as if it were having itself a little nervous breakdown.

Keep Hoping, and if you've lost all hope, try hopping.
Sayanara,
me

Better To Be A Baker

So yesterday I was talking to a woman in a local shop. She was describing a certain type of man to me, a kind of spooky, haunted, slightly red-neck-but-sexy guy--vague, a little ethereal, maybe smart, buried feelings,and....strange....and with strange friends....but she couldn't manage to describe the particular type of strangness....and my mind went to the film PARIS, TEXAS, and, more specifically, to the part Harry Dean Stanton played in that film, so I asked her...."Did you see the film, Paris Texas?" And she nodded Yes, and I went on, "Do you recall the man Harry Dean Stanton played?" and she half smiled and nodded her head Yes, and I asked, "Is he strange in that kind of way?" and the woman's smile became broader and she said, "I worked on two films with Harry Dean Stanton. I still have a silver bracelet he gave me. No, the man I'm talking about isn't nearly as strange as Harry Dean Stanton." So I said the usual Silverdale-Girl-From-The-Farm-Thing, which is, "YOU WORKED WITH HARRY DEAN STANTON?" and she said "Yes, that was right after I worked on BLOOD SIMPLE with the Frome Brothers," and I thought subtly sophisticated thoughts like: Wow. Golly. Gee Whiz. Holy Shit. I was afraid to ask her anything more for fear she might tell me she'd worked with Meryl Streep or Helen Mirren or somebody I really REALLY admired. Because too much admiration in one day is not good for a person.

And then I thought: hold it, kid. You KNOW you know that people are people. You KNOW you know that because you have lived among people for sixty-five years and worked intimately with people for twenty-six people. You have even worked with actors so famous that people in the waiting screamed when they saw them enter. SCREAMED. Not because they were scary, but because they were famous. Only, you knew them so well they were.....well, just people. "Just people". What a terrible thing to say. Whadda concept. And then I thought: fame must be shit. It just must be shit. Better to be a baker or a crane operator or a bank teller and not have to work with a persona, not have to jump developmental miles, not have to pretend to be more than you are, more mature than you are or more intelligent than you are or more "with it" than you are or more ANYTHING than you are......than to be famous. To live with that kind of shadow every day must be hell.

And then I thought: being anonymous is best. It's best, and you know it. It's best, you can count on it. It's best, you can put your money on it. And then I looked at the woman and said, "Hey, I'd like to see that bracelet sometime. Is it real silver?" And she smiled for the third time and said, "You know, actors are crazy people. We had to hold up the set for two whole days for Stanton. But the silver bracelet? Yeah, it's what's real." And I smiled back and said, "Well, wow."

"One more success like that and I'll sell my body to a medical institute."
-Groucho Marx in The Coconuts